The car pulled up. With that unmistakable air of being about their business, the four men got out and walked up the steps. A knives-to-grind returning from a profitable day in Chelsea paused at Pleasaunce Court corner and addressed himself to a newsboy.

“Wot’s up in vere?” asked the knives-to-grind.

“Wot’s up in where?”

“In vere. In vem Mensions.”

The newsboy looked. “Coo! P’lice.”

“P’lice!” said the knives-to-grind contemptuously. “I believe you! ’Ere! Know ’oo that is? That’s ’Endsome Ell-een.”

“Cripey, you’re right, mate! Fency me missin’ ’im! I’ve doubled me sales on ’Endsome Ell-een many an evenin’. Coo, there’s ’is cemera-bloke. That’s a cemera orl right in that box. And t’uvver bloke’ll be ’is fingerprint expert.”

“It’s a cise for the Yawd,” said the knives-to-grind.

“Ar. Murder,” agreed the newsboy.

“Not necessairilly.”

“Garn! Wot’s the cemera for if it’s not murder? Taking photers of the liftman?Not necessairilly!’Ere wite on! I’ll git orf a Stendard on the old bloke in the ’all.”

The newsboy ran up the steps crying in a respectful manner, “Stendard, sir, Stendard?” The knives-to-grind thoughtfully salvaged a cigarette butt from the kerb and put it in his waistcoat pocket. A second car drew up and four constables got out and entered the flats.

The newsboy reappeared and with an unconvincing show of nonchalance returned to his post.

“Well,” asked his friend, “ ’ow abaht it?”

“Been an eccident.”

“What sorta eccident?”

“Old bloke ’ad is eye jabbed aht in the lift.”

“Garn!”

“Yeah,” said the newsboy, assuming a slightly hard-boiled transatlantic manner. “And it’s just too bad abaht ’im. ’E’s a gorner.”

“Dead?”

“Stiff.”

“Cor!”

“Eccident!” said the newsboy with ineffable scorn. “

“Eccident! Oh yeah?”

“Wiv cops and cemeras floatin’ in by dozins,” agreed his friend. “Oh, yeah? Not ’alf. I don’t fink.”

And taking up the shafts of his grindstone he trundled down Pleasaunce Court, pausing at the corner to raise the mournful cry of his trade.

“Knives to grind? Knives to grind?”

His voice floated up in the evening air. Alleyn heard it as he rang the Lampreys’ doorbell.

“Any old knives to grind?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Alleyn Meets the Lampreys

FOX HAD LAVISHED the most delicate attention on the skewer. It was tied down to a strip of cardboard and lay in a long box. Alleyn held the box under the lamp. The plated ring at the broad end of the skewer caught the light and glinted. The blade did not glint. It had had time to dry a little.

“Disgusting,” said Alleyn. He laid down the box. “Yours, Bailey. The blade has obviously been lifted by the point.”

“That’s me,” said Dr. Kantripp. “I thought it better to avoid the ring as much as possible, though of course in drawing it out—”

“Of course,” said Dr. Curtis.

“Well, you’d better try the ring and top of the shaft, Bailey,” said Alleyn.

“It’s a whale of a great skewer,” said Dr. Curtis.

“Yes. An old one. People use them nowadays for paperknives.”

“They got this one from the kitchen,” said Fox.