Both women looked at him uncertainly. He gave them both a fool’s grin. What did you expect? I’m an idiot. Polly, he knew, would be happy to subscribe to this, but Alice might feel it a bit insulting.

Alice Dalyrimple, who certainly would mind, shrugged and said, “Suit yerself.” She rearranged her décolletage-would that neckline sink any farther? Could that cleavage be yet more pronounced? Yes to both. Sitting forward with her small hands on her knees, she looked grimly at this mustard-suited woman who was now taking her sherry from the porter. But suddenly and impishly, she returned to her original cuteness level and gave Polly (who jumped) a swat on the knee. “Oh, I get it! Ain’t you two a riot?”

Melrose and Polly, dumb to her meaning, only looked at each other.

Then Alice leaned toward Colonel Neame, laughed as if bubbles were coming out of her nose, and said, “Come on now, sweetie, make it a foursome!” Then, “O’ course, it’ll cost ya!” The laugh was almost silvery, for there was money in it.

The three managed to get into the dining room without further incident (or making it a foursome). Dinner had an impromptu feel: a patched-together quality, insofar as Boring’s could ever seem patched together.

Young Higgins, Boring’s oldest waiter, would never permit it. If Miss Dalyrimple had floated scarves about him, Young Higgins would remain as resolutely unflinching as any of the Palace Guards.

“We have escargots tonight, my lord.” At Alice’s wrinkled nose, he put in, “Snails.”

It was a relief to find Young Higgins was as much of a class artist as he himself. Melrose smiled. “I’ll have them.” Remembering his manners, he said, “Oh, sorry, Polly. What’ll you have?”

“Soup,” she said curtly.

“Me, I don’t think I want a starter,” said Alice. “Watching my weight.” She twinkled. “So just bring me another one of these, love!” She held out her gin glass, which Higgins took with a sniff.

“Madam.”

They all ordered the roast beef.

Enough of this, thought Melrose; let’s get down to it. “Polly, here, is a mystery writer,” he said, leaning over the table toward Alice.

Alice was impressed. “That book the Colonel was talkin’ about, you wrote it? I never!”

Melrose said, leaning even closer into Alice’s disturbing neckline, “Polly’s really good at murders.”

“Oh, Jesus Christmas! Are you going to write about us?”

Young Higgins was slipping soup and escargots before Polly and Melrose and a fresh gin before Alice, then going soundlessly off. It gave Polly a few seconds to take in the “us.”

Alice said, “You know, us escorts.”

“I might,” she said, sotto voce. “That’s what I’m thinking of doing; that’s why I’m in London: research. How lucky to meet you.”

Spearing a radish from the small plate of complimentary crudités that looked hard as enamel, Alice said, also sotto voce, “Well, if you ask me, this crazy person’s nothing but a sex maniac.”

An interesting conclusion, thought Melrose. “Why do you say that? It would appear sex mania is what he’s against. Although, to think it’s sex at all is making an assumption.”

“That’s so true,” Alice said, leaning toward Polly. “People think the wrong ideas about escort services. They think they’re just about sex.”

They are, thought Melrose. For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

“But aren’t they about sex?” asked a braver Polly as Young Higgins appeared with their entrées.

Alice said in a sharpish way, “They most as-sur-ed-ly are not. Just look at the three of us, we’re ‘aving a meal, ain’t we? Whatever comes later, that’s up to you two. Oh, what nice-looking beef! D’ya ’ave any tomato sauce, dear?”

Young Higgins was not used to being called “dear,” nor did the icy look he gave Miss Dalyrimple suggest he was inclined to get used to it. Or perhaps what called forth that stony expression was, rather, the request for tomato sauce. He set down the other two plates and turned to the wine cooler.

Melrose and Polly paid no attention to the Pinot Noir being poured because they were back there a beat, with the “whatever comes later” remark. To keep from laughing, Melrose snatched up his glass and gulped. The wine came out his nose. He coughed.

Polly recovered. “Why do you call this killer a sex maniac?” “Prob‘ly he can’t-you know-perform. Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s one of Valentine’s, or one of the others. DeeDee-Deirdre Small, the one got herself murdered-didn’t agree, though. Said he’d probably turn out to be her steady.” Alice giggled and quickly stopped, probably recalling what had happened to Deirdre Small.

Pay dirt! Pay dirt! He could have kissed Alice Dalyrimple, except she’d have him under the table in two seconds flat. “You knew this Deirdre Small?”

“O’ course I knew her. She was with Smart Set, too, don’t forget. Nice girl was DeeDee. It’s such a shame.” She carried on carving up more beef, sans tomato ketchup.

“You knew her well?” said Melrose.

“Oh, yeah. Pretty well. We went to the cinema sometimes, stuff like that.”

“Had you seen her recently?” Polly asked.

“A week ago, maybe.” Alice picked up her empty glass. “Just before she got murdered.” She set down the glass. “She was worried about something…”

“About what?” said Melrose.

“Well, she never said, did she?” Alice looked blankly over the dining room.

Polly asked, “Do you think it could have been one of her… clients, then, that did this? Maybe somebody got jealous of her other men?”

Alice frowned. “You mean you think it coulda been personal?” “Couldn’t it have? I mean, it doesn’t have to be some maniac just killing off escorts.”

“It’d be hard to think DeeDee’d get on the wrong side of anybody, she’s so nice. I don’t know all the ones she dated… Didn’t police arrest her date for that night?”

Melrose said, “From what I read, they only questioned him.”

“If it was Nick, police can forget about it. DeeDee always said he was dull as dishwater. A whiner, too. Whined about his wife, whined about his work. Not much get-up-and-go, you know? ‘My Nick’s not exactly got a steel spine; more like spaghetti,’ she used to say.” She paused. “When I said DeeDee was worried about something… well, it was something she thought maybe she should see police about…” Again her voice trailed away.

Melrose was all ears. “And she didn’t give you any hint at all as to what it was?”

Alice shook her head, played with her fork, looked disquieted. To Melrose she said, “You seem awful interested in the murders.”

“Not him,” said Polly quickly. “Me. Did you ever talk to police? I mean, did you tell them about DeeDee?”

“No. I don’t much like police.”

Then Alice said, “I knew that other one, too, that got her picture in the paper. Calls herself Adele Astaire? Escorts are kinda, I guess you’d say, clubby. I guess we feel we’ve got to stick together. People make it sound like we’re working the curb in Shepherd Market or under London Bridge.” She giggled up some wine. “But it ain’t like that, that’s chalk and cheese, those two jobs.”

Melrose was even more dumbfounded. “You know Adele Astaire?”

Alice’s nod was tentative, as if she weren’t sure she wanted to get into this.

Polly said, “So you didn’t tell police you knew either of these women?”

She screwed up her face. “Why would I? I say let them sort it. Besides, I don’t know anything, really.”

“But tell us,” Polly went on. “What you do know about this Adele?”

“Not much to tell, is there? We was in school together. Adele-what was her real name?-was a cheeky kid. Still was, I bet. Always wanted to be a dancer, she did. I think maybe that’s why she went on the job, thinking she’d get herself the money she’d need to study. I doubt she did, but I dunno. Haven’t seen her in years.” Alice pushed her plate back and now blew out her cheeks as if she’d just run the mile. “What’s the pud?”