“At the Yard.”

“Darling, how expensive! Yarborough! A toll call. Never mind. When are you coming to London? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, there is. If you’re going to a show, can you engineer a round trip to their flats afterwards?”

“Rather! As a matter of fact I’d thought of doing that. Darling—”

“Shut up. Listen carefully now.”

“At Harrods? Must it be pink, my sweet?”

“Now don’t you be too clever. Miss Angela would cast you off for ever if you mooed at her like that. Pay attention. When you are there I want you to observe certain things.”

“All right, darling, I was only being facetious. Let me know the worst.”

“I will. This is what I want you to look for—” Alleyn talked on. Fox listened solemnly. Nigel, over in Chester Terrace, blew kisses into the receiver and smiled apologetically at Janey Jenkins and Maurice Pringle.

CHAPTER XX

Fools Step In

“It annoys Angela beyond endurance if I hold modern conversations with her on the telephone,” said Nigel hanging up the receiver on a final oath from Alleyn.

“If that was a sample, I’m not surprised,” said Janey Jenkins. “I absolutely forbid Maurice to call me his sweet. Don’t I, Blot?”

“Yes,” said Maurice unresponsively. He got up and moved restlessly about the room, fetching up at the window where he stood and stared out into the street, biting his finger.

“What is your Angela’s other name?” asked Janey.

“North. She’s darkish with a big mouth and thin.”

“When are you going to be married?”

“In April. When are you?”

Janey looked at Maurice’s back. “It’s not settled yet.”

“I’d better do something about getting seats for a show,” said Nigel. “Where shall we go? It’s such fun your coming here like this. We must make it a proper party. Have you seen ‘Fools Step In’ at the Palace?”

“No. We’d love to, but look here, we’re not dressed for a party.”

“Oh. No, you’re not, are you? Wait a moment. Let’s make it a real gala. I’ll change now and then we’ll take a taxi and go to your flat and then to Pringle’s. We’ll have a drink here first. Pringle, would you make drinks while I change? The things are all in that cupboard there. It’s only half-past five. I’ll have a quick bath — won’t be ten minutes. Do you mind? Will it amuse you? Not my bath, but everything else?”

“Of course it will,” said Janey.

Maurice swung around from the window and faced Nigel.

“Look here,” he said, “aren’t you rather rash to rush into parties with people that are suspected of murder?”

“Don’t, Maurice!” whispered Janey.

“My good ass,” said Nigel, “you embarrass me. You may of course be a homicidal maniac, but personally I imagine Alleyn had definitely ruled you out.”

“I suppose he’s told you to say that. You seem to be very thick with him.”

“Maurice, please!”

“My dear Jane, it’s not impossible.”

“No,” said Nigel calmly, “of course it’s not. Alleyn is by way of being my friend. I think your suspicions are perfectly reasonable, Pringle.”

“Oh, God, you are a little gentleman. I suppose you think I’m bloody unpleasant.”

“As a matter of fact I do, at the moment, but you’ll be better when you’ve had a cocktail. Get to work, there’s a good chap. And you might ring up the Palace for seats.”

“Look here, I’m damned sorry. I’m not myself. My nerves are all to hell. Janey, tell him I’m not entirely bogus. I can’t be if you say so.”

Janey went to him and held him firmly by one ear.

“Not entirely bogus,” she told Nigel.

“That’s all right then,” said Nigel hurriedly. “Look after yourselves.”

As he bathed he thought carefully about his instructions. In effect Alleyn had told him to cultivate these two with a view to spying on them. Nigel winced. Stated baldly it sounded unpleasant. He had had this sort of thing out with Alleyn on former occasions. The Chief Inspector had told him roundly that his scruples had merely pointed to a wish to have the ha’pence without the kicks, to follow round with the police, write special articles from first-hand experience, and turn squeamish when it came to taking a hand. Alleyn was right of course. If Maurice and Janey were innocent he would help to prove it. If they were guilty — But Nigel was quite sure neither Janey nor Maurice, for all his peculiar behaviour, was guilty of Cara Quayne’s death. He dressed hurriedly and went out into the little hall to get his overcoat. He dived into the cupboard. It was built in to the drawing room wall and the partition was thin. He heard Janey Jenkins’ voice, muffled and flat but distinct:

“But why can’t you tell me? I know quite well there’s something. Maurice, this can’t go on.”

“What do you mean? Are you going to turn me down? I don’t blame you.”

“You know I won’t turn you down. But why can’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you. I trust you to stick to what we’ve said.”

“About yesterday afternoon—?”

“Sst!”

“Maurice, is it anything to do with — with your cigarettes? You’re smoking one of them now, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake don’t start nagging.”

“But—”

“When this is over I’ll give it up.”

“ ‘When.’ ‘When.’ It’s always ‘when.’ ”

“Will you shut up, Jane! I tell you I can’t stand it.”

“Ssh! He’ll hear you.”

Silence. Nigel stole out and back to his bedroom. In three minutes he rejoined them in the drawing room. Maurice had mixed their drinks, and Janey had turned on the radio. With an effort Nigel managed to sustain his role of cheerful host. Maurice suddenly became more friendly, mixed a second cocktail and began to talk loudly of modern novelists. It appeared that he was himself engaged on a first novel. Nigel was not surprised to learn that it was to be a satire on the upper middle classes. At six o’clock they took a taxi to Janey’s studio flat in Yeoman’s Row, and while she changed Maurice made more cocktails. Janey, it seemed, was at the Slade. Nigel found the studio very cold though they had put a match to the gas-heater. Shouting at them from the curtained-off recess that served as bedroom Janey explained that she meant to seek warmer quarters. Even the kitchenette-bathroom was cold, she said. She did her cooking over a gas-ring, and you couldn’t warm yourself at a bath-geyser. Some of her drawings were pinned up on the walls. She used an austere and wiry line, defined everything with uncompromising boundaries, and went in extensively for simplified form. The drawings had quality. Nigel wandered round the studio and into the kitchenette. Everything was very tidy, and rather like Janey herself.

“What are you doing?” called Janey. “You’re both very silent.”

“I’m looking at your bathkitchery,” said Nigel. “You haven’t got nearly enough saucepans.”

“I only have breakfast here. There’s a restaurant down below. One of ye olde brasse potte kind — all orange curtain and nut salads. Yes,” said Janey emerging in evening dress, “I must leave this place. The problem is, where to go.”

“Come to Chester Terrace and be neighbours. Angela and I are going to take a bigger flat in my building. It’s rather nice. You could have mine.”

“Your Angela might hate me at first sight.”

“Not she. Are we ready?”

“Yes. Come on, Blot.”

“I’m finishing my drink,” said Maurice. ”You’re right, Jane, this is an appalling place. I should go mad here. Come on.”

“We should have gone to you first,” said Janey. “He is in Lower Sloane Street, Mr. Bathgate. How silly! Maurice, why didn’t we go to you first?”

“You can drop me there now. I don’t think I’ll join the party.”

“Maurice! Why ever not?”

“I’m hopelessly inadequate,” he muttered. He looked childishly obstinate, staring straight in front of him and smiling sardonically. Nigel could have kicked him.