‘Yes, I was. It’s about this bloody fellow Leiss and his ghastly girl. They hung on to the bitter end of the party, of course. I’ve never seen anybody drink more or show it less, I’ll say that for them. Well, the last car was leaving – except his bit of wreckage – and it was about two o’clock. I thought I’d give them the hint. I collected his revolting overcoat and went to hunt them out. I couldn’t find them at first, but I finally ran them down in my study, here, where they had settled in with a bottle of my champagne. They were on the sofa with their backs to the door and didn’t hear me come in. They were pretty well bogged down in an advanced necking party. He was talking. I heard the end of the sentence.’ Bimbo stopped and frowned at his cigarette. ‘Of course, it may not mean a damn’ thing.’ He looked at Alleyn who said nothing.

‘Well, for what it’s worth,’ Bimbo went on. ‘He said: “And that disposes of Mr Harold Cartell: for keeps.” And she said something like: “When do you think they’ll find it?” and he said: “In the morning, probably. Not windy are you? For Christ’s sake, keep your head: we’re in the clear.”’

CHAPTER 6

Interlude

With this piece of reportage, spurious or not as the case might prove to be, it appeared that Bimbo had reached saturation point as a useful witness. He had nothing more to offer. After noticing that a good deal of unopened mail lay on the desk, including several bills and a letter from a solicitor, addressed to Benedict Arthur Dodds, Alleyn secured Bimbo’s uneasy offer to sign a statement and took his leave.

‘Please don’t move,’ Alleyn said politely, ‘I can find my way out.’ Before Bimbo could put himself in motion, Alleyn had gone out and shut the study door behind him.

In the hall, not altogether to his surprise, he found Desirée. She was, if anything, a little wilder in her general appearance and Alleyn wondered, if this was to be attributed to another tot of brandy. But, in all other respects she seemed to be more or less herself.

‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. There’s a sort of crise.’

‘What sort?’

‘It may not be a crise at all, but I thought I’d better tell you. I really feel a bit awkward about it. I seem to have made a clanger, showing you P.P.’s funny letter. It wasn’t meant for me.’

‘Who was it meant for?’

‘He wouldn’t say. He’s just rung up in a frightful taking-on, asking me to throw it on the fire and forget about it. He went on at great length, talking about his grand ancestors and I don’t know what else.’

‘You didn’t tell him I’d seen the letter?’

Desirée looked fixedly at him. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t but I felt like a housemaid who’s broken a cup. Poor P.P. What can it all be about? He is so fussed, you can’t imagine.’