Banks wrote down the telephone number and assured Jenny that he would pass it on to Thelma Pitt.

"Are we going to meet again soon?" she asked.

"Of course. I've got a lot on with this Thelma Pitt business at the moment, though, and there are no real developments on our case. I'll give you a call."

"The brush-off!" Jenny cried melodramatically.

"Don't be stupid," he laughed. "See you soon. And you never know," he added, "you might even get invited to dinner." Then he hung up before Jenny could respond.

The next job was to get Mr. Lewis Micklethwaite in. Banks pulled the local directory out of his rattling desk drawer and reached for the phone again.

III

Micklethwaite was reluctant to drop in at Eastvale police station after work. He was also unwilling to have Banks call on him at home. In fact, Micklethwaite wanted to avoid all contact with the local constabulary, and when he finally did come to the office under threat of arrest, Banks immediately knew why.

"If it isn't my old pal Larry Moxton," Banks said, offering the man a cigarette.

"I don't know what you mean. My name's Micklethwaite."

But there was no mistaking him-the receding hairline, dark beady eyes, black beard, swarthy skin, fleshy lips-it was Moxton all right.

"Come on, Larry," Banks urged him. "You remember me, surely?"

"I've told you," Micklethwaite repeated, squirming in his chair. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Banks sighed. "Larry Moxton, ex-accountant. I put you away about ten years ago in London, remember, when you swindled that divorcee out of her savings? What was it-prime Florida real estate? Or was it gilt-edged securities?"

"It was a bloody frame-up, that's what it was," Moxton burst out. "It wasn't my fault my bloody partner took off with the funds."

Banks stroked his chin. "Bit of bad luck, that, Larry, I agree. We never did find him, did we? Probably sunning himself in Spain now. Still, that's the way it goes."

Moxton glared at him. "What do you want this time? I'm straight. Have been ever since I came out and moved up north. And the new name's legit, so don't waste your time on that."

It was hard to believe that such a surly, sneaky man had enough charm to cheat intelligent women out of their money, but that had been Moxton's speciality. For some reason, inexplicable to Banks, women found him hard to resist.

"Thelma Pitt, Larry. I want to know about Thelma Pitt."

"What about her?"

"You do know her, don't you?"

"So what if I do?"

"What are you after, Larry? A rich widow this time?"

"You've no right to make accusations like that. I've served my time-for a crime I didn't commit-and it's no bloody business of yours who I spend my time with."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Hey, what is this?" Moxton demanded, grasping the flimsy desk and half rising. "Nothing's happened to her, has it?"

"Never mind that. And sit down. When did you last see her?"

"I want to know. I've got a right to know."

"Sit down! You've got a right to know nothing, Larry. Now answer my questions. You wouldn't want me to lose my temper like last time, would you? When did you see her last?"

Moxton, like many others, had learned from experience that it was no use arguing with Banks, that he had the patience and persistence of a cat after a bird. He might not actually hit you, but you'd go away thinking it would have been easier if he had.

"Monday night," he answered sullenly. "I saw her on Monday night."

"Where?"

"Eastvale Golf Club."

"You a member, Larry?"

" 'Course I am. I told you, I'm a respectable businessman. I am a CA, you know."

"You're an effing C, too, as far as I'm concerned, Larry. But that's beside the point, isn't it? How long have you been a member?"

"Two years."

"Two years." And to think that Ottershaw had told him it was an exclusive place-no riff-raff. "I don't know what the world's coming to, Larry, I really don't," Banks said.

Moxton glowered at him. "Get to the point, Inspector," he snapped, looking at his watch. "I've got things to do."

"I'll bet you have. All right, so you know Thelma Pitt. What's your relationship with her?"

"None of your business."

"Good friends, business partners, lovers?"

"So we go out together, have a bit of fun. What's it to you? What's happened to her?"

He did seem genuinely concerned about the woman's welfare, but Banks considered it unethical to tell him that Thelma Pitt had been robbed and raped. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him herself.

"What time did you leave her on Monday?" Banks pressed on.

"I didn't. She left me. It was earlier than usual-about a quarter to ten. I don't know why. She was upset. I suppose you could say we argued."

"Could I? What about?"

"None of your… Oh," he sighed and turned up his hands, "why not? She wanted to be alone, that's all. I wanted her to come with me as usual."

"Where did the two of you usually go?"

"To my place."

"Did you spend the night there?"

"Sometimes, yes."

"Why didn't you go there last Monday?"

"I told you. She wouldn't. Said she had a headache. You know women."

"But you pressed her to stay at the club?"

"Of course I did. I was enjoying her company."

"Even though she didn't feel very well?"

"It didn't look like anything to me. I think it was just an excuse. She seemed fine physically, just a bit upset about something."

"Any idea what?"

"No. She wasn't very communicative. She just stormed off."

"After you'd tried very hard to persuade her to stay and to accompany you to your house? Is that right?"

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing. I'm just trying to establish the facts, that's all."

"Well, yes. Naturally, I wanted her to stay with me.

I'm a man, like any other. I enjoy the company of attractive women."

"So Thelma Pitt isn't the only one?"

"We're not engaged to be married or anything, if that's what you're getting at. Come on, I've had enough of this pussyfooting around. What's it all about?"

"Know anyone else at the Golf Club?"

"One or two. It is a social place for professional men, you know."

"Maurice Ottershaw?"

A look of fear flashed in Moxton's eyes. It didn't last long, but Banks saw it.

"Maurice Ottershaw?" he repeated. "I know him. I mean, we've had a few drinks together. I wouldn't really say I know him. What is it you're getting at?"

"I'll tell you, Larry," Banks said, leaning forward on the desk and holding Moxton's eyes with his. "I think you've been fingering jobs for someone, that's what I think. You know when your rich friends at the club are likely to be away, and you tip someone off. But it went wrong with Thelma Pitt, didn't it? You couldn't keep her away from home long enough."

Moxton looked really frightened now. "What's happened to her? You've got to tell me. She isn't hurt, is she?"

"Why would she be?"

"After what you said… I thought…"

"Don't worry about it."

"You can't prove anything, you know."

"I know," Banks admitted. "But I also know you did it."

"Look, I wouldn't shit on my own doorstep, would I?"

"A creep like you would shit anywhere, Moxton. We're going to be watching you, keeping an eye on you.

You won't be able to crap anywhere without being watched, understand?"

"That's intimidation, harassment!" Moxton yelled, jumping to his feet in exasperation.

"Oh, piss off," Banks said, and pointed to the door.