“I expect he’s changed. After all — twenty years!”

“He hasn’t changed all that much in looks and I can’t believe he’s changed at all in temperament.”

“And you’ve no notion what became of him when he got out?”

“None. Portuguese East, perhaps. Or South America. Or a change of name. Ultimately, by fair means or foul, a British passport.”

“And finally whatever he does in the City?”

“Imports coffee perhaps,” sniffed Mr. Whipplestone.

“His English is non-committal?”

“Oh, yes. No accent, unless you count a lisp, which I suppose is a hangover. Let me give you a drink.”

“Not another, thank you, Sam. I must keep my wits about me, such as they are.” He hesitated for a moment and then said: “There’s one thing I think perhaps you should know. It’s about the Chubbs. But before I go any further I’m going to ask you, very seriously indeed, to give an undertaking not to let what I tell you make any difference — any difference at all — to your normal manner with the Chubbs. If you’d rather not make a blind commitment like this, then I’ll keep my big mouth shut and no bones broken.”

Mr. Whipplestone said quietly: “Is it to their discredit?”

“No,” Alleyn said slowly, “not directly. Not specifically. No.”

“I have been trained in discretion.”

“I know.”

“You may depend upon me.”

“I’m sure I can,” Alleyn said, and told Mr. Whipplestone about the girl in the photograph. For quite a long time after Alleyn had finished he made no reply, and then he took a turn about the room and said, more to himself than to Alleyn: “That is a dreadful thing. I am very sorry. My poor Chubbs.” And after another pause: “Of course, you see this as a motive.”

“A possible one. No more than that.”

“Yes. Thank you for telling me. It will make no difference.”

“Good. And now I mustn’t keep you up any longer. It’s almost midnight. I’ll just give Fox a shout.”

Fox came through loud, clear and patient on the radio.

“Dead on cue, Mr. Alleyn,” he said. “Nothing till now but I think they’re breaking up. A light in a staircase window. Keep with me.”

“Right you are,” said Alleyn, and waited. He said to Mr. Whipplestone: “The party’s over. We’ll have Sheridan-Gomez and Chubb back in a minute.”

“Hullo,” said Fox.

“Yes?”

“Here they come. The Cockburn-Montforts. Far side of the street from me. Not talking. Chubb, this side, walking fast. Hold on. Wait for it, Mr. Alleyn.”

“All right.”

Alleyn could hear the advancing and retreating steps.

“There he goes,” Fox said. “He’ll be with you in a minute, and now here comes Mr. Sheridan, on his own. Far side of the street. The C.-M.’s have turned their corner. I caught a bit of one remark. From her. She said: ‘I was a fool. I knew at the time,’ and he seemed to shut her up. That’s all. Over and — hold on. Hold on, Mr. Alleyn.”

“What?”

“The door into the Sanskrit premises. Opening a crack. No light beyond, but it’s opening all right. They’re being watched off.”

“Keep with it, Fox. Give me a shout if there’s anything more. Otherwise, I’ll join you in a few minutes. Over and out.”

Alleyn waited with Mr. Whipplestone for about three minutes before they heard Chubb’s rapid step, followed by the sound of his key in the lock.

“Do you want to see him?” Mr. Whipplestone murmured. Alleyn shook his head. They heard the chain rattle. Chubb paused for a moment in the hall and then went upstairs.

Another minute and the area gate clicked. Mr. Sheridan could be heard to descend and enter.

“There he goes,” said Mr. Whipplestone, “and there he’ll be, rather like a bomb in my basement. I can’t say I relish the thought.”

“Nor should I, particularly. If it’s any consolation, I don’t imagine he’ll be there for long.”

“No?”

“Well, I hope not. Before I leave you I’m going to try, if I may, to get on to Gibson. We’ll have a round-the-clock watch on Gomez-cum-Sheridan until further notice.”

He roused Gibson, with apologies, from his beauty sleep and told him what he’d done, what he proposed to do, and what he would like Gibson to do for him.

“And now,” he said to Mr. Whipplestone, “I’ll get back to my patient old Fox. Goodnight. And thank you. Keep the scrapbook handy, if you will.”

“Of course. I’ll let you out.”

He did so, being, Alleyn noticed, careful to make no noise with the chain and to shut the door softly behind him.

As he walked down Capricorn Mews, which he did firmly and openly, Alleyn saw that there were a few more cars parked in it and that most of the little houses and the flats were dark, now, including the flat over the pottery. When he reached the car and slipped into the passenger’s seat, Fox said: “The door was on the chink for about ten seconds and then he shut it. You could just make it out. Light catching the brass knocker. Nothing in it, I daresay. But it looked a bit funny. Do we call off the obbo, then?”

“You’d better hear this bit first.”

And he told Fox about the scrapbook and Mr. Sheridan’s past.

“Get away!” Fox said cosily. “Fancy that now! So we’ve got a couple of right villains in the club. Him and Sanskrit. It’s getting interesting, Mr. Alleyn, isn’t it?”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself, Br’er Fox. For my part I—” He broke off. “Look at this!” he whispered.

The street door of the Sanskrits’ flat had opened and through it came, unmistakably, the elephantine bulk of Sanskrit himself, wearing a longish overcoat and a soft hat.

“Now what’s he think he’s doing!” breathed Mr. Fox.

The door was locked, the figure turned outwards, and for a moment the great bladder-like face caught the light. Then he came along the Mews, walking lightly as fat people so often do, and disappeared down Capricorn Place.

“That’s where the C.-M.’s hang out,” said Fox.

“It’s also the way to Palace Park Gardens, where the Boomer hangs out. How long is it since you tailed your man, Fox?”

“Well—”

“We’re off on a refresher course. Come on.”

VIII

Keeping Obbo

Fox drove slowly across the opening into Capricorn Place.

“There he goes. Not into the C.-M.’s, though, I’m sure,” said Alleyn. “Their lights are out and he’s walking on the opposite side in deep shadow. Stop for a moment, Fox. Yes. He’s not risking going past the house. Or is he? Look at that, Fox.”

A belated taxi drove slowly towards them up Capricorn Place. The driver seemed to be looking for a number. It stopped. The huge bulk of Sanskrit, scarcely perceptible in the shadows, light as a fairy, flitted on, the taxi screening it from the house.

“On you go, Fox. He’s heading for the brick wall at the far end. We go left, left again into the Square, then right, and left again. Stop before you get back to Capricorn Place.”

Fox executed this flanking manoeuvre. They passed by No. 1, the Walk, where Mr. Whipplestone’s bedroom light glowed behind his curtains, and by the Sun in Splendour, now in eclipse. They drove along the far end of the Square, turned left, continued a little way farther and parked.

“That’s Capricorn Place ahead,” said Alleyn. “It ends in a brick wall with an opening into a narrow walk. That walk goes behind the Basilica and leads by an alleyway into Palace Park Gardens. It’s my bet this is where he’s heading, but I freely admit it’s a pretty chancy shot. Here he comes.”

He crossed the intersection rather like a walking tent with his buoyant fat-man’s stride. They gave him a few seconds and then left the car and followed.

There was no sign of him when they turned the corner, but his light footfall could be heard on the far side of the wall. Alleyn jerked his head at the gateway. They passed through it and were just in time to see him disappear round a distant corner.

“This is it,” Alleyn said. “Quick, Fox, and on your toes.”