The manager was biting down hard on the nail of his left index finger, and Morse pressed home his obvious advantage.

‘Let me give you a bit of advice. You’re not a crook-you’r not in the same league as most of the murderous morons I deal with every day. And, even if you were, I wouldn’t need a posse of police to go around protecting me. You know why, lad?” Morse broke off for a few seconds, before focusing his eyes with almost manic ferocity upon the youngish man seated opposite him. Then he shook his head almost sorrowfully. ‘No, you don’t know why, do you? So let me tell you. It’s because the archangels look after me, lad-always have done. And most especially when I’m pursuing my present calling as the protector of Law and eternal Justice!’ Morse managed to give each of these mighty personages a capital letter; and pompous as he sounded, he also sounded very frightening.

Certainly, this was the impact upon the manager, for he appeared now to have little faith that he would be likely to emerge victorious from any conflict with the archangelic trio. He walked to the door, and sounded suddenly resigned as he asked “Racquel” to fetch two double Scotches; whilst, for a rather frightened Morse, the prospect of finding himself dead or dying in a Soho side-street was gradually receding.

The manager’s story was brief.

The club was registered in the name of Soho Enterprises Limited, although he had never himself met anyone (or so he thought) directly from this syndicate. Business was transacted through a soberly dressed intermediary-a Mr Schwenck- who periodically visited the bar to look around, and who collected takings and paid all salaries. About three weeks or so ago (he couldn’t remember exactly), Mr Schwenck had announced that a certain Mr William would very soon be calling; that the said Mr William would make his requests known, and that no questions were to be asked. In fact, the bearded Mr William had requested very little, spurning equally the offers of hospitality from the bar and from the bra-less hostesses. He had taken away a projector and two reels of pornographic film, and announced that he would be back the following morning. And he had been, bringing with him a small blue card (given to the manager) and a cassette of some piano music (given to the girl behind the bar). Thereafter he had stood quietly at the bar, reading a paperback and drinking half a glass of lime-juice. Another man (so the manager had been informed) would probably be coming in that morning; and at some point this newcomer would be directed to the office where he was to be given the blue card, plus an address. That was all.

The young man appeared not overtly dishonest (albeit distinctly uncomfortable) as he told his little tale; and Morse found himself believing him.

‘How much in it for you?’ he asked,

‘Nothing. I’m only-’

‘Couple of hundred?’

‘I told you-’

‘Five hundred?’

‘What? Just for-?’

‘Forget it, lad! What was on the card?’

‘Nothing really. It was just one of those cards that-that let you into places.’

‘Which place?’

‘I-I don’t remember.’

‘You didn’t write it down?’

‘No. I remembered it.’

‘You’ve got a good memory?’

‘Good enough.’

‘But you just said you can’t remember.’

‘I can’t. It was a good while ago now.’

‘When exactly was it?’

‘I can’t-’

‘Friday? Friday 11th July?’

‘Could have been.’

‘Did you get your projector and stuff back all right?’

‘Course I did.’

‘The next day?’

‘Yes-er-I think it was the next day.’

For the first time Morse felt convinced that the man was lying. But why (Morse asked himself) should the man have lied to him on that particular point?

‘About that address. Was it a number in Cambridge Way by any chance?’

Morse noted the dart of recognition in the manager’s eyes, and was about to repeat his question when the telephone rang. The manager pounced on the receiver, clamping it closely to his right ear.

‘Yes’ (Morse could hear nothing of the caller’s voice) ‘yes’ (a quick, involuntary look across at Morse) ‘yes’ (unease, quite certainly, in the manager’s eyes) ‘all right’ (sudden relief in the manager’s face?).

Morse’s hand flashed across the table and snatched the receiver, but he heard only the dull, quiet purr of the dialling tone.

‘Only the wife, Inspector. She wants me to take five pounds of potatoes home. Run out, she says. You know how these women are.’

Something had happened, Morse knew that. The young manager had got a shot of confidence from somewhere, and Morse began to wonder whether his patrons, Michael, Raphael and Gabriel, might not, after all, be called upon to fight his cause. He heard the door open quietly behind him-but not to admit the roundly bosomed Racquel with a further double Scotch. In the doorway stood a diminutive Chinaman of about thirty years of age, his brown arms under the white, short-sleeved shirt as sleek and sinewy as the limbs of a Derby favourite in the Epsom paddock. It seemed to Morse a little humiliating to be cowed into instant submission by such a hominid; but Morse was. He rose to his feet, averted his gaze – the twin slits of horizontal hostility in the Chinaman’s face, thanked the manager civilly for his co-operation, rueing the fact that he was himself now far too decrepit even to enlist in the kung-fu classes advertised weekly in the Oxford Times. But the Chinaman guided him gently back to his chair; and it was more than half an hour (a period, however, of unmolested confinement before Morse was allowed to leave the Topless Bar, whence he emerged into the upper world just after 1 p.m., deeply and gratefully inhaling the foul fumes of the cars that circled Piccadilly Circus, and crossing carefully to its west side, where he had a wait of only two minutes outside the Cafe” Royal before a taxi pulled up in front of him.

‘Where to, guv?’

Morse told him, infinitely preferring “guv” to “mate”.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In which Morse views a luxury block of flats in central London, catching an enigmatic glimpse of one of its tenants and looking longer upon our second corpse.

Morse had been sitting for over half an hour, pondering these and other things, when the extraordinary thought crossed his mind that he was in the middle of a park in the middle of opening hours with a pub only fifty yards away on the corner of the square. Yet somehow he sensed that events were gathering pace, and he walked past the Duke of Cambridge, went up the steps of Number 29, and rang the bell once more. This tune he was in luck, for after a couple of minutes the great black door was opened.

‘Yis, guv?”

He was a mournful-looking man in his mid-sixties, sweating slightly, wearing a beige-coloured working overall, carrying a caretakker’s long-handled floor-mop, and fiddling with the controls of a stringed, National Health hearing-aid.

Morse explained who he was and, upon producing his identification, was reluctantly admitted across the threshold, man (announcing himself as Hoskins- pronounced ‘oskins) informed Morse that he had been the porter in the flats for over a year now: 8.45 a.m. to 4.30 p.m., Tuesdays to Fridays, his job consisting mainly of keeping an eye on the porperties and doing a bit of general cleaning during working hours. ‘Nice little job, guv.’

‘Still some flats for sale, I see?’

‘No-not nah. Both of ‘em sold. Should ‘a’ taken the notice darn, really-still, it’s good for business, I s’pose.’

‘Both of them sold?’

‘Yis, guv. One of ‘em’s a gent from Oxford-bought it a coupla months back, ‘e did.’

‘And the other one?’