I ferried the cars in the morning, going from London to Cambridge and Epsom and back to the hire firm, and no one followed me anywhere, as far as I could see.

When I'd departed, Malcolm had been full of rampaging indignation over the non-availability of first-class seats on any flight going to Paris the following day for the Arc de Triomphe.

"Go economy," I said, "it's only half an hour."

It appeared that there were no economy seats either. I left him frowning but returned to find peace. He had chartered a private jet. He told me that snippet later, because he was currently engaged with Norman West who had called to give a progress report.

The detective still seemed alarmingly frail but the grey on-the- point-of-death look had abated to fawn. The dustbin clothes had been replaced by an ordinary dark suit, and the greasy hair, washed, was revealed as almost white and neatly brushed. I shook his hand: damp, as before.

"Feeling better, Mr West?" I asked.

"Thank you, yes."

"Tell my son what you've just said," Malcolm commanded. "Give him the bad news."

West gave me a small apologetic smile and then looked down at the notepad on his knee.

"Mrs Vivien Pembroke can't remember what she did on the Friday," he said. "And she spent Tuesday alone at home sorting through piles of old magazines."

"What's bad news about that?" I asked.

"Don't be obtuse," Malcolm said impatiently. "She hasn't an alibi. None of the whole damn bunch has an alibi."

"Have you checked them all?" I said, surprised. "You surely haven't had time."

"I haven't," he agreed.

"Figure of speech." Malcolm waved a hand. "Go on telling him, Mr West."

"I called on Mrs Berenice Pembroke." West sighed expressively. "She found me unwelcome."

Malcolm chuckled sourly. "Tongue like a rhinoceros-hide whip."

West made a small squirming movement as if still feeling the lash, but said merely, with restraint, "She was completely uncooperative."

"Was Thomas there, when you called?" I asked.

"No, sir, he wasn't. Mrs Pembroke said he was at work. I later telephoned his office, to the number you gave me, hoping he could tell me where both his wife and himself had been at the relevant times, and a young lady there said that Mr Pembroke left the firm several weeks ago, and she knew nothing of his present whereabouts."

"Well," I said, stumped. "I didn't know."

"I telephoned Mrs Pembroke again to ask where her husband worked now, and she told me toer… drop dead."

Thomas, I thought, had worked for the same firm of biscuit makers from the day he'd finished a course in book-keeping and accountancy. Berenice referred disparagingly to his occupation as store keeping but Thomas said he was a quantity surveyor whose job it was to estimate the raw materials needed for each large contract, and cost them, and pass the information to the management. Thomas's promotions within the firm had been minor, such as from second assistant to first assistant, and at forty he could see, I supposed, that he would never be boardroom material. How bleak, I thought, to have to face his mid-life limitations with Berenice cramming them down his throat at every turn. Poor old Thomas…

"Mrs Joyce Pembroke," West said, "is the only one who is definite about her movements. On each relevant day, she was playing bridge. She didn't like me snooping, as she called it, and she wouldn't say who she was playing bridge with as she didn't want those people bothered."

"You can leave Mrs Joyce Pembroke out," I said.

"Huh?" Malcolm said.

"You know perfectly well," I told him, "that Joyce wouldn't kill you. If you'd had any doubts, you wouldn't have gone off in a car with her yesterday."

"All right, all right," he said, grumbling. "Cross Joyce off."

I nodded to West, and he put a line through Joyce.

"Yesterday I called on Mrs Alicia Pembroke and then later on Mrs Ursula Pembroke." West's face showed no joy over the encounters. "Mrs Alicia Pembroke told me to mind my own business, and Mrs Ursula Pembroke had been crying and wouldn't speak to me." He lifted his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "I couldn't persuade either of them of the advantage of establishing alibis."

"Did you get any impression," I asked, "that the police had been there before you, asking the same questions?"

"None at all."

"I told you," Malcolm said. "They didn't believe I was attacked. They thought I'd just staged the whole thing."

"Even so…"

"They checked everyone out over Moira, as you no doubt remember, and came up with a load of clean slates. They're just not bothering to do it again."

"Do you happen to have their telephone number with you?"

"Yes I do," he said, bringing a diary out of an inner pocket and flicking over the pages. "But they won't tell you anything. It's like talking to a steel door."

I dialled the number all the same and asked for the superintendent.

"In what connection, sir?"

"About the attempted murder of Mr Malcolm Pembroke a week ago yesterday."

"One moment, sir."

Time passed, and a different voice came on the line, plain and impersonal. "Can I help you, sir?" "About the attempted murder of Mr Malcolm Pembroke."

"Who are you, sir?"

"His son."

"Er… which one?"

"Ian."

There was a brief rustling of paper.

"Could you tell me your birth date, as proof of identity?"

Surprised, I gave it. Then the voice said, "Do you wish to give information, sir?"

"I wanted to find out how the investigation was going."

"It isn't our custom to discuss that."

"But…"

"But I can tell you, sir, that investigations into the alleged attack are being conducted with thoroughness!"

"Alleged!" I said.

"That's right, sir. We can find no evidence at all that there was another party involved!"

"I don't believe it."

With slightly exaggerated patience but also a first flicker of sympathy, he said, "I can tell you, sir, that there was no evidence of Mr Pembroke being dragged from the garden to the garage, which he alleged must have happened. No marks on the path. No scrapes on the heels of Mr Pembroke's shoes, which we examined at the time. There were no fingerprints except his own on the door handles of the car, no fingerprints except his anywhere. He showed no signs of carbon monoxide poisoning, which he explained was because he had delayed calling us. We examined the scene thoroughly the following morning, after Mr Pembroke had left home, and we found nothing at all to indicate the presence of an assailant. You can be sure we are not closing the case, but we are not at this time able to find grounds for suspicion of any other person."

"He was nearly killed," I said blankly.

"Yes, sir, well I'm sorry, sir, but that's how things stand." He paused briefly. "I can understand your disbelief, sir. It can't be easy for you." He sounded quite human, offering comfort.

"Thank you at least for talking to me," I said. "Right, sir. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," I said slowly, but he had already gone.

"Now what's the matter?" Malcolm asked, watching my face.

I repeated what I'd just heard.

"Impossible!" Malcolm said explosively.

"No."

"What then?"

"Clever."