III

‘Of course,’ Fox said, as they turned into Commander Syce’s drive, ‘it will have been a copy. The Colonel’d never hand over the original.’

‘No. My guess is: he locked the original in the bottom drawer on the left-hand side of his desk.’

‘Ah! Now!’ Fox said, with relish. ‘That might well be.’

‘In which case one of his own family or one of the Lacklanders or any other interested person has pinched it and it’s probably gone up in smoke like its sister-ship. On the other hand, the bottom drawer may have been empty and the original typescript in Cartarette’s bank. It doesn’t very much matter, Fox. The publisher was evidently given a pretty sound idea of the alternative version by its author. He could always be called. We may not have to bring the actual text in evidence. I hope we won’t.’

‘What d’you reckon is the dowager’s real motive in coming so remarkably clean all of a sudden?’

Alleyn said crossly: ‘I’ve had my bellyful of motives. Take your choice, Brer Fox.’

‘Of course,’ Fox said, ‘she’s a very sharp old lady. She must have guessed we’d find out anyway.’

Alleyn muttered obscurely: ‘The mixture as before. And here we go with a particularly odious little interview. Look out for squalls, Brer Fox. Gosh! See who’s here!’

It was Nurse Kettle. She had emerged from the front door, escorted by Commander Syce who carried a napkin in his hand. She was about to enter her car and this process was accelerated by Commander Syce who quite obviously drew her attention to the approaching police car and then, limping to her own, opened the door and waited with some evidence of trepidation for her to get in. She did so without glancing at him and started her engine.

‘She’s told him,’ Alleyn said crossly, ‘that we’ve rumbled the ‘bago.’

‘Acting, no doubt,’ Fox rejoined stiffly, ‘from the kindest of motives.’

‘No doubt.’ Alleyn lifted his hat as Nurse Kettle, having engaged her bottom gear with some precipitance, shot past them like a leaping eland. She was extremely red in the face.

Syce waited for them.

Fox pulled up and they both got out. Alleyn slung the golf bag over his shoulder as he addressed himself to Syce.

‘May we speak to you indoors somewhere?’ Alleyn asked.

Without a word Syce led the way into his living-room where a grim little meal, half-consumed, was laid out on a small table in close proximity to a very dark whisky and water.

The improvised bed was still in commission. A dressing-gown was folded neatly across the foot.

‘Sit down?’ Syce jerked out but, as he evidently was not going to do so himself, neither Alleyn nor Fox followed his suggestion.

‘What’s up now?’ he demanded.

Alleyn said: ‘I’ve come to ask you a number of questions all of which you will find grossly impertinent. They concern the last occasion when you were in Singapore. The time we discussed this morning, you remember, when you told us you introduced the present Mrs Cartarette to her husband?’