Better hang on, Dixon thought, and the information, which Mrs Welch had obviously gone to get, about where Bertrand could be reached was just what he wanted for the Callaghan girl. He'd be able to ring her up and tell her, too. Yes, hang on at all costs.

One of the costs was immediately presented in the form of a well-remembered voice baying directly into his ear 'This is Bertrand Welch', so directly, indeed, that Dixon could have fancied that Bertrand was actually in the room with him and had by some sorcery substituted for the receiver those rosy, bearded lips.

'Evening Post here,' he managed to quaver through his snout.

'And what can I do for you, sir?'

Dixon recovered slightly. 'Er… we'd like to do a little paragraph about you for our, for our Saturday page,' he said, beginning to plan. 'That's if you've no objection.'

'Objection? Objection? What objection could a humble painter have to a little harmless publicity? At least, I take it it's harmless?'

Dixon got out a laugh, the Dickensian 'Ho ho ho' which was all his mouth could manage. 'Oh, quite harmless, I assure you, sir. We have a few facts about you already, naturally. But we would just like to know what you're engaged on at the moment, you see.'

'Of course, of course, most reasonable. Well, I've got two or three things in hand just now. There's a rather splendid nude, actually, though I don't know whether your readers would want to know about that, would they?'

'Oh, very much so, Mr Welch, I assure you, as long as we tell them in the proper way. I take it there'd be no objection to calling it "an undraped female figure", would there, sir? I imagine it is a female?'

Bertrand laughed like a leading hound announcing the end of a check. 'Oh, she's female all right, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. And "bottom" is the exact word.'

Dixon joined in this with his own laughter. What a story for Beesley and Atkinson this was going to make. 'Anything about what I believe's called the treatment, sir?' he asked when he might have been supposed to be calm again.

'Pretty bold, you know. Fairly modern, but not too much so. These modern chaps jigger up the detail so much, and we don't want that, do wam?'

'Indeed we don't, sir, as you say. I suppose this would be an oil painting, sir?'

'Oh God, yes; no expense spared. She's about eight feet by six, by the way, or will be when she's framed. A real smasher.'

'Any particular title for it, sir?'

'Well, yes, I thought of calling her Amateur Model. The girl who sat for it's certainly an amateur of a sort, and she acts as a model, at least while she's being painted, so there you are. I shouldn't put in that little explanation of the title if I were you.'

'Wouldn't dream of it,' Dixon said in something like his ordinary voice; his mouth had tightened involuntarily during the last few seconds and had temporarily abandoned its O. What a lad this Bertrand was, eh? He remembered the insinuations about the week-end with the Callaghan girl that Bertrand had made at their first meeting. God, if it ever came to a fight, he'd…

'What did you say?' Bertrand asked, a little tinge of suspicion in his tone.

'I was talking to someone in the office here, Mr Welch,' Dixon said, through the O this time. 'I've got all that, sir, thank you. Now what about the other things you're working on?'

'Well, there's a self-portrait, an outdoor one against a brick wall. More wall than Welch, as a matter of fact. The real idea is the pallor and sort of crumpledness of the clothing against the great, red, smooth wall. A painter's picture, more or less.'

'Ah, just so, sir; thank you. Anything else?'

'There's a little one of three workmen looking at a newspaper in a pub, but that's hardly started yet.'

'I see; well, that'll do us nicely, Mr Welch,' Dixon said. Now was the moment for a daring switch. 'The young lady said something about an exhibition, sir; would that be right?'

'Yes, I am having a little show locally in the autumn; but what young lady is this?'

Dixon laughed silently with relief through his O. 'A Miss Callaghan, sir,' he said. 'I gather you know her.'

'Yes, I know her,' Bertrand said in a slightly hardened voice. 'Why, where does she fit into this?'

'Why, I thought you must know,' Dixon said with feigned surprise. 'This was really her idea. She knows one of our staff here, and I gather she put the notion of this little paragraph, like, to him, you see, sir.'

'Really? Well, it's the first I've heard of any of it. Are you quite sure?'

Dixon gave a quite professional laugh. 'Oh, we don't make mistakes about things like that, sir; more than our position's worth, if you take my meaning, Mr Welch.'

'Yes, I suppose it is, but it all sounds most…'

'Well, I should check with her then, sir, if you're in any doubt. As a matter of fact, when your Miss Callaghan was on the blower to Atkinson…'

'Who's this Atkinson character? I've never heard of him.'

'Our Mr Atkinson in the London office, sir. She was on to him just now, sir, and asked us to ask you to ring her, if we could get hold of you. Seems she couldn't get through to your house, or something. Something pretty urgent seems to have come up, and she'd like you to ring her up this afternoon, before five-thirty, if you would.'

'All right, I'll do that, then. What's your name, by the way, in case I…?'

'Beesley, sir,' Dixon said without hesitation. 'Alfred R. Beesley.'

'Right, thank you, Mr Beesley.' (That's the tone, Dixon thought to himself.) 'Oh, by the way, when will the paragraph be appearing?'

'Ah, there you have me, sir. One just can't tell, I'm afraid. But it'll certainly be within the next four weeks. We like to have the material by us in plenty of time, just on the off-chance, you see, Mr Welch.'

'Quite so, quite so. Well, have you got everything you want?'

'Yes, thank you very much indeed, sir.'

'No no, thanks to you, old boy,' Bertrand said, with a welcome return to his earlier comradeliness. 'Very fine body of men, the gentlemen of the Press.'

'Nice of you to say so, sir,' Dixon said, making his Edith Sitwell face into the phone. 'Well, good-bye and thanks, Mr Welch. Much obliged to you.'

'So long, Beesley, old boy.'

Dixon sat back, mopped his face, though he'd have liked to mop his entire frame, and lit a cigarette. Panic had made him fearfully rash, but not, he thought, irretrievably so. The key to the situation lay in dismantling the hoax at once, before Bertrand could get round to blowing it up himself. The Callaghan girl must be carefully coached in the following story: Some unknown calling himself Atkinson had rung her up that morning and, posing as a journalist, discussed Bertrand. He'd talked vaguely about the Evening Post, obtained the Welches' phone number, and rung off. When Bertrand came through on the phone, she must greet him at once with the Atkinson story, saying it had all sounded very fishy to her and that the voice of 'Atkinson' had reminded her strongly of whichever of their London acquaintances was most likely, or least unlikely, to play a meaningless practical joke on the pair of them. Without being suspiciously emphatic, she must make it clear that 'Atkinson' had phoned her from a London number, that is, not by a trunk line. Provided she held to her story, both she and Dixon were completely safe, even if Bertrand was already ringing the Post in quest of 'Beesley'. The danger obviously was that she wouldn't come in with the conspiracy. There were solid grounds, however, for thinking that she would: her gratitude at his offer of help, his success in his mission against heavy odds, her demeanour over the sheet and table affair, finally, if necessary, his extreme vulnerability if the truth got out. If Bertrand were still suspicious, he might worm the story out of her by emotional pressure, but why should he be suspicious? He could hardly think that she'd go to the lengths of suborning some unknown provincial in order to get hold of some information about the Summer Ball, which in fact was almost exactly what she had done.