Number thirteen was the last house but one. Lights shone behind drab curtains on both floors. The front door was open, and Nightingale stepped from the pavement over its threshold, bending his head to avoid the lintel. Nodding to the detective who rose from his seat on the bottom stair, he paused. From behind a slightly open door on his left issued the reasonable twang of Sergeant Beddoes’ voice. It flashed through Nightingale’s mind that Beddoes must have made an exceptionally sarcastic and immovable school prefect. He tapped on the door in a rhythm that was a sign between them; and after a couple of seconds, Beddoes came out.

“Didn’t ask you in,” he began quickly in a low voice, closing the door, “because she’s rather upset just now. Mrs. Minelli, downstairs tenant. She made the call.”

“Don’t apologise,” said Nightingale. “When did you arrive?”

“Half past seven.”

“Where’s the division—”

“Three youths breaking into tobacconist’s, assault behind the Green Man, and a bad crash in the City Road, so he said would you please excuse him for the moment as I was here already and he’s terribly undermanned, and he’d love to see you any time at the office.”

Nightingale smiled. “All right. Shall we go up?”

The stairs were covered with cracked linoleum, and creaked as they climbed. Nightingale trod warily.

“Do you know,” he said, without looking round, “I left as soon as I had the call, and I came straight here. Eighty-three per cent of the lights were against us, I worked it out.”

“Busy just now for slipping them,” observed Beddoes. “Good lecture?”

“Well—sordid but intriguing. He’d just finished when they rang. I’m glad you were available to come in advance—if their guess proves right—”

Nightingale paused for a moment. He had said, without thinking what he was saying, that he was pleased. It was true, but he hadn’t meant to give voice to the feeling; since the real reason for it was that working with anyone less coolly irreverent than Beddoes made him feel that he was going to break out in a rash.

“Who’s in this room?” he asked. “The photographer?”

“And Cobb and Telfer.”

Nightingale pushed open the door and went in.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, stopping.

“East, West, home’s best,” said Beddoes. “Well, you can see—”

“I can’t see a thing by this soupy light. Undrape the lamp.”

Making a resigned face, Beddoes unpinned a piece of brown cloth which had been shading the glass bowl of gaslight.

“That’s better,” said Nightingale, “functionally. Aesthetically, a good deal worse.”

As he spoke he moved across to the bed and looked down at it. “Has the doctor been here?” he asked.

“The division’s.”

“How long dead?”

“Seven or eight hours, perhaps. No violence. Bed wasn’t disturbed.”