‘The police attach little importance to it. But there is, after all, a record of the group in the Mithraeum.’

He dropped Kenneth’s print on the bed.

The Baron stooped over it.

The room was quiet. The windows were shut and the great composite voice of Rome was not obtrusive. A flight of swallows flashed past almost too rapidly for recognition.

‘Yes,’ said the Baron. He straightened up and looked at Alleyn. ‘It is a clear picture,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

The Baron sat down with his back to the windows. He drank a little of his cold brandy-punch. ‘This is an excellent concoction,’ he said. ‘I am enjoying it.’

‘Good. I wonder if you would do me a favour.’

‘A favour? But certainly, if it is possible.’

‘I have a copy of a letter. It’s written in a language that I don’t know. I think it may be in Dutch. Will you look at it for me?’

‘Of course.’

Alleyn gave it to him. ‘You will see,’ he said, ‘that the original was written—typed, actually—on the letter-paper of your publishing firm—of Adriaan and Welker. Will you read it?’

There was a long silence and then the Baron said, ‘You ask me here to drink with you. You show me—these things. Why do you behave in this way? Perhaps you have a microphone concealed in the room and a tape-recorder, as in some ridiculous crime film?’

‘No. I am not acting for the police. My job here is finished. No doubt I should have taken this letter to them but they will find the original when they search Mailer’s rooms. I doubt if they will take very much interest in it, but of course I have not read it and may be wrong. They know very well that he was a blackmailer. I have seen that your wife’s name appears in the letter. I am behaving reprehensibly in this matter, I dare say, but I don’t think you have any reason to throw your brandy-punch in my face, Baron. It was offered in what may fairly be called good faith.’

The Baron moved slightly. The light from the window crossed his face and in a moment the white Apollo, the glancing Mercury, the faintly smiling Husband of the Villa Giulia seemed in turn to look through his mask. ‘I must believe you,’ he said. ‘What else can I do?’

‘If you like you can go away leaving me to deal with—for example—Kenneth Dorne and his photography.’

‘Whatever I do,’ said the Baron, ‘it is clear that I put myself in your hands. I have no choice, I think.’