“Mariah Cox. So, getting down to it, Mr. Santos, you went to a party given by a couple named Rexroth last Saturday night, is that true?”

He nodded. “And you’re wondering, of course, how that’s connected to Stacy. She was to meet me there. I wanted to pick her up-wherever she was. You see, I didn’t know where the devil she was during the week. She’d never tell me-”

“You didn’t know she lived in Chesham?”

“No. She told me nothing.”

“When she was found, when Stacy Storm was found, she was wearing a dress bought at the Yves Saint Laurent shop on Sloane Street. And Jimmy Choo shoes, also Sloane Street. Did you buy her gifts like that?”

“Not gifts like that, but those very ones. That costume, those shoes. It was actually my idea. I wanted her to feel no woman in the room could touch her. Stacy was rather… I don’t know…”

Jury waited, but Santos still didn’t know.

“She was to meet you at the Rexroths’, was she? How did she come to be at the Black Cat?”

“Christ!” The dogs both looked up, disturbed, first glancing at Santos, then at the two strangers, as if they, the dogs, were making up their minds about them. They resettled themselves when Simon Santos spoke in a quieter tone. “Do you think I haven’t asked myself that a hundred times? I’ve no idea.”

“No idea?”

He shook his head. “The Black Cat must’ve been part of her other life…” He shrugged. Then he sat forward, rolling the whiskey glass in his hands, forearms on knees. “I could never quite take her measure. There was something I didn’t get about her. What I thought was that there was somebody else, some other man. Which she denied.”

“What time did you leave the Rexroths’ party?”

“About ten, I think. When she didn’t come and still didn’t, I had no reason to stick around.”

“You came back to London? To here?”

Santos looked a mite surprised Jury would even wonder about this. “Yes, of course.”

“I only meant you might have stopped off someplace, to have a drink, get a bite to eat, somewhere along the way.”

Santos shook his head, looked at the dogs, sleeping soundly, looked up at Jury, puzzled. “I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

Wiggins half-smiled. “Are you, sir? About what?”

“Well, for God’s sake, I’m a bloody suspect!”

Dogs awake again, looking worried.

Looking at the anxious dogs, he sat back and lowered his voice a little. “A suspect without an alibi. To answer your question: No, I didn’t stop off to eat or for any other reason. I came directly home, had a nightcap, and went upstairs to bed. No telephone calls, nothing. Just me alone.”

The way he said it, without self-pity, held an awful poignance.

Jury said, “Is it correct to assume Stacy meant a lot to you? Your meetings… well, they were more than a casual arrangement.”

Santos glanced up at the portrait, then looked away. He nodded. “Much more. At least on my part. Stacy-as I said, Stacy was difficult to read. She was extremely kind, and I might have misinterpreted the kindness as love.” He paused, then said, “Mariah Cox, Stacy’s other self, what was she like?”

Jury told Simon Santos about Mariah’s rather circumscribed life, lacking glamour, lacking Saint Laurent, lacking those bejeweled shoes that lined the walls of Jimmy Choo. But he left out Bobby Devlin.

Then he rose, nodded to Wiggins. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Santos. We’d appreciate it if you’d stay in London for a time.”

Simon Santos had risen too as Jury said this and stood, hands in pockets, looking uncertain and rather bereft. He was directly beneath the portrait over the fireplace, and Jury could see the resemblance.

Santos followed his glance and turned to look back at the portrait. “My mother, Isabelle. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”

That needed no confirmation. “I see the resemblance between you,” said Jury. But one not nearly so strong as the resemblance between the woman in the portrait and Mariah Cox.

This must have been Simon Santos’s obsession.

Jury thought of Lu Aguilar; he knew about obsession.

“What do you think, sir? Here’s what I can’t understand: a man like that, got everything going for him and a ton of money besides. Must have women lined up on his doorstep. So why does a man like that go and hire an escort, a tart? Doesn’t make sense.”

She wasn’t a tart, Jury wanted to say yet knew he had no business saying. “You saw the photo of Stacy.”

“Yes-”

“You don’t see the resemblance to Isabelle Santos? Stacy Storm was solace.”

They were standing by the car in Pont Street. “You want me to drop you in Islington? Then I’ll take the car in.”

Jury shook his head. “I’m taking a cab. I want to go to the City.”

“It’s near seven. What for?”

“The Old Wine Shades.” Jury pulled the Rexroths’ guest list out of his pocket, smiling.

Wiggins snuffled up a laugh. “Harry Johnson.”

“Right. I can hardly wait to hear him on this.” Jury held up the list.

“Do you think you’ll ever get him in the frame?”

“Oh, I’ll get him, never you worry. In the frame and in the end.”

Wiggins had the car door open. “Let’s hope it’s not.”

“What?”

“The end.”

They said good night, and Jury hailed a cab.

19

Dickens, as history had it, drank here. But more important (at least to Jury right now), so did Harry Johnson; this was his favorite place. He was sitting in his usual bar chair, drinking some bloodred vintage and talking to Trevor, barman of the Old Wine Shades.

“Hello, Harry,” said Jury, sliding into the chair beside him. “How’ve you been keeping?” As if he cared.

“Well, for Lord’s sake, it’s the Filth. I haven’t seen you in a whole couple of weeks.” Harry had drawn out his silver cigarette case and was now lighting up.

What Jury had drawn out was the Rexroth guest list. He assumed a patently insincere smile and tapped the folded pages against Harry’s arm.

“Ah! You finally got a warrant, did you? High time, as it saves you looting my house illegally. But go ahead and search away.” Harry’s smile put in its own claim for a patent on insincerity.

That Jury had never been able to get a warrant because there was no probable cause-nada, nil, nothing, zip-really stuck in his craw. Harry had done that murder in Surrey, and Jury meant to prove it.

But at the moment he had this list of names. “Where were you last Saturday night, Harry?”

“In Chesham. At a party. As you know or you wouldn’t be asking. It’s your case, isn’t it?” Harry tried on the smile again, then a woeful look, just as insincere: “I’m sorry about the wretched girl-”

No, he wasn’t. He couldn’t care less.

“-lying in the cold outside of the Black Cat in nothing but Yves Saint Laurent.”

“How do you know that, Harry? That detail wasn’t in the paper.”

Harry looked at Jury with the sort of indulgence one reserved for little children. “Are you dim just one night a week and is this the night? The Rexroths, of course. The Rexroths were in a frenzy of excitement. They would have steeped themselves in the details. Not much happens in Chesham. I called them when I read about it.”

“How do you know the Rexroths?”

Harry sighed. “Is this what tonight’s conversation will be? A lot of ‘how do you know’ questions? I know Timothy, or Tip, as he’s called, because he comes in here for lunch.”

“Where did you go after you left the party?”

“Home. Would you care for a glass of wine? It’s a Cote de Nuits.” He pointed to the bottle that Trevor had rested in a wine bucket and that Harry now pulled out in invitation.

“How long were you at the Rexroths’?”

Harry thought. “Got there around nine, left around ten. I didn’t stay long because I had to allow enough time for meeting up with and murdering your victim.”

Jury managed to suppress his desire to throw Harry off his bar chair. It wasn’t easy.