Inspector Fox came in and went quietly to the far end of the room where he sat in a shadowed corner and appeared to consult his own note-book.

‘Well,’ Alleyn said, ‘what’s it all about?’

‘You’ll probably think it’s about nothing,’ Martyn began, ‘and if you do I shall be sorry I’ve bothered you with it. But I thought—just in case—’

‘You were perfectly right. Believe me, we are “conditioned”, if that’s the beastly word, to blind alleys. Let’s have it.’

‘On my first morning in this theatre,’ Martyn said. ‘which was the day before yesterday…no, if it’s past midnight, the day before that.’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Yes. On that morning I went to Mr Bennington’s room to fetch Miss Hamilton’s cigarette-case. He was rather strange in his manner but at first I thought that was because—I thought he’d noticed my likeness to Mr Poole. He couldn’t find the case and in hunting through the pockets of a jacket, a letter dropped to the floor. I picked it up and he drew my attention to it in the oddest sort of way. I’d describe his manner almost as triumphant. He said something about autographs. I think he asked me if I collected autographs or autographed letters. He pointed to the envelope which I still had in my hand and said there was somebody who’d give a hell of a lot for that one. Those, I’m almost sure, were his exact words.’

‘Did you look at the letter?’

‘Yes, I did, because of what he said. It was addressed to him and it had a foreign stamp on it. The writing was very bold and it seemed to me foreign looking. I put it on the shelf face downwards and he drew my attention to it again by stabbing at it with his finger. The name of the sender was written on the back.’

‘Do you remember it?’

‘Yes, I do, because of his insistence.’

‘Good girl,’ said Alleyn quietly.

‘It was “Otto Brod” and the address was a theatre in Prague. I’m afraid I don’t remember the name of the theatre or the street. I ought to remember the theatre. It was a French name, Théâtre de—something. Why can’t I remember!’

‘You haven’t done badly. Was there something in the envelope?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t anything fat. One sheet of paper I should think.’

‘And his manner was triumphant?’

‘I thought so. He was just rather odd about it. He’d been drinking—brandy I thought—the tumbler was on the dressing-shelf and he made as if to put the flask behind his looking-glass.’

‘Did you think he was at all the worse for wear?’

‘I wondered if it accounted for his queer behaviour.’

‘Can you tell me anything else he said? The whole conversation if you remember it.’