“Yes, sir. He came in a minute ago and went up to his room—No. 51. Anything wrong, sir?” asked the night porter gazing at Alleyn’s filthy shirt-front.

“Nothing in the wide world. I shall follow his example.”

He left the man gaping and ran upstairs. No. 51 was on the second landing. Alleyn tapped at the door. There was no answer, so he walked in and turned up the light.

Gordon Palmer sat on the edge of his bed. He was still dressed. In his hand was a tumbler.

“Drinking in the dark?” asked Alleyn.

Gordon opened his mouth once or twice but failed to speak.

“Really,” said Alleyn, “you are altogether too much of a fool. Do you want to get yourself locked up?”

“You get to hell out of this.”

“I shall certainly go as quickly as I can. You reek of whisky, and you look revolting. Now listen to me. As you’ve heard already, I’m an officer of Scotland Yard. I shall be taking over certain matters in connection with this case. One of my duties will be to write to your father. Precisely what I put in my letter depends on our subsequent conversation. It’s much too late and we’re too busy to talk to you now. So I shall lock you in your room and leave you to think out a reasonable attitude. There’s a fifty-foot drop from your window to the pavement. Good morning.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Six a.m. First Act Curtain

ALLEYN LONGED FOR his bed. He was dirty and tired, and a dull lugging pain reminded him that he was supposed to be taking things easily after a big operation. He went into his room, washed, and changed quickly into grey flannels and a sweater. Then he went downstairs.

The night porter gazed reproachfully and suspiciously at him.

“Are you going out again, sir?”

“Oh yes, rather. It’s my night to howl.”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“You’ll hear all about it,” said Alleyn, “very shortly. There’s something to keep out the cold.”

Back at the theatre he found Wade and Cass closeted with Mr. Geoffrey Weston. There was an enormous tear in Cass’s tunic and a grimy smudge across his face. He sat at the desk taking notes. Evidently his uncomfortable predicament had upset his digestion for he rumbled lamentably and at each uncontrollable gurgitation he assumed an air of huffy grandeur. Wade appeared to be irritable and Weston stolid. The office looked inexpressibly squalid and smelt beastly.

“I thought I’d better come back and report,” said Alleyn. “I’ve locked up your darling little imp for what’s left of the night, Mr. Weston.”

“So he did go back to the pub,” grunted Weston disinterestedly. “I told you he would, you know.”

“That’s right, Mr. Weston,” said Wade.

“I suppose the P.C. I met in the lane told you what I was up to,” said Alleyn.