Alleyn excused himself and was glad to see them off. The driver of the official police car was talking into his radio. He said: “Mr. Alleyn’s here now, sir. Yes, sir.”

“All right,” Alleyn said and got into the car.

It was Gibson. “So you’ve heard?” he said. “Nothing so far but we haven’t finished.”

“Did you hear the call?”

“No. He or she rang the Yard. Info is that he probably spoke through a handkerchief.”

“He or she?”

“The voice was peculiar. A kind of squeaky whisper. They reckon it sounded frightened or excited or both. The exact words were: ‘Is that Scotland Yard? There’s a bomb in the Black Embassy car. Won’t be long now.’ Call not traced. They thought the car would be outside your place and a minute or so was lost ascertaining it was on the way back. All my chaps were alerted and came on the scene pronto. Oh, and they say he seemed to speak with a lisp.”

“Like hell they do! So would they with a mouthful of handkerchief. Who’s on the Capricorn ground?”

“A copper in a wig with coloured chalks.”

“I know all about him. That all?”

“Yes,” said Gibson. “The others were ordered round here,” and added with a show of resentment, “My job’s mounting security over this big, bloody black headache and a bloody gutty show it’s turned out to be.”

“All right, Fred. I know. It’s a stinker. I’ll get back there myself. What about you?”

“I’ll stick here with the suspect car. Look!” said Gibson with the nearest approach of shrillness that Alleyn would have thought possible, “it’s got to such a pitch that I’d welcome a straight case of bomb disposal and no nonsense. There you are! I’d welcome it.”

Alleyn was forming what conciliatory phrases he could offer when he was again called to the radio. It was the gifted Sergeant Jacks.

“Sir,” said the sergeant in some agitation. “I better report.”

“What?”

“This bomb scare, sir. Just before it broke the military gentleman, Colonel Whatsit, beg pardon, came walking very rigid and careful up to the pig-pottery and leant on the bell of the door into their flat. And then the scare broke, sir. Mr. Gibson’s chap, keeping obbo in a car near the entrance to Capricorn Passage, sir, came round and told me quick, through the driving window, that it was a general alert, sir. And while he was talking, a dirty great van pulled out of the garage and obscured my view of the pottery. Well, sir, I’d got my orders from you to stay where I am. And Mr. Gibson’s chap drove off. Meanwhile a traffic jam had built up in the Mews behind the van. I couldn’t get a sight of the pottery but I could hear the Colonel. He’d started up yelling. Something like: ‘Open the bloody door, damn you, and let me in.’ And then the drivers began sounding off on their horns. It was like that for at least five minutes, sir.”

“Could anybody — could two enormous people — have got out and away while this lasted?”

“I reckon not, because it sorted itself out, sir, and when it had cleared, there was the Colonel still at the piggery door and still leaning on the bell. And he’s leaning on it now. And yelling a bit but kind of fading out. I reckon he’s so drunk he’s had it. What’ll I do, sir?”

“Where are you?”

“Ducked down behind my easel. It’s a bit awkward but I thought I’d risk it. Could you hold on, sir?”

An interval of street noises. Alleyn held on and the voice returned. “I’m up the alleyway, sir. I had to duck. The gentleman from the basement of No. 1, the Walk, passed the end of the alleyway going toward the pottery.”

“Get back to your easel and watch.”

“Sir.”

“I’m on my way. Over and out. Capricorn Square,” Alleyn said to the driver. “Quick as you can make it but no siren.”

“What was all that, then?” asked Fox. When he was informed he remarked that the painter-chap seemed to be reasonably practical and active even if he did get himself up like a right Charlie. Mr. Fox had a prejudice against what he called “fancy-dress coppers.” His own sole gesture in that line was to put on an ancient Donegal tweed ulster and an out-of-date felt hat. It was surprising how effectively these lendings disguised his personality.

When they reached the Square, Alleyn said: “We’d better separate. This is tricky. Sheridan-Gomez is the only one of the gang that doesn’t know me. The others might remember you from your checking out activities after the party. Have you got your nighty with you?”

“If you mean my Donegal ulster, yes I have. It’s in the back.”

“And the head-gear?”

“Rolled up in the pocket.”

“When you’ve dolled yourself up in them you might stroll to the piggery by way of the Square and Capricorn Place. I’ll take the Walk and the Mews. We’ll no doubt encounter each other in the vicinity of the piggery.”

Fox went off looking like a North of Ireland corn chandler on holiday, and Alleyn turned into Capricorn Walk looking like himself.

Lucy Lockett, taking the sun on the steps of No. 1, rolled over at him as he passed.

No doubt, Alleyn reflected, Gibson’s men patrolling the Capricorns, who had been diverted to the Embassy on the bomb alarm, would soon return to their ground. At the moment there was no sign of them.

It was the busiest time of day in the Capricorns and a pretty constant two-way stream of traffic moved along the Walk. Alleyn used it to screen his approach to the house-decorator’s shop on the corner of the Mews. From here, looking sideways through the windows, he had a view down the Mews to the pottery at the far end. Intermittently he had glimpses of the gifted Sergeant Jacks at his easel, but commercial vehicles backing and filling outside the garage constantly shut him off. The pottery flashed in and out of view like the fractional revelations of commercial television. Now it was Colonel Cockburn-Montfort, still at the pottery flat door, with Gomez beside him. And then, as if by sleight-of-hand, Chubb was there with them in consultation. Now a van drove into the Mews, fetched up outside the Napoli and began to deliver cartons and crates, and there was no view at all.

Between the Napoli and the garage, and next door to the flower shop, there was a tiny bistro, calling itself the Bijou. On fine days it put four tables out on the pavement and served coffee and patisseries. One of the tables was unoccupied. Alleyn walked past the van and flower shop, sat at the table, ordered coffee and lit his pipe. He had his back to the pottery but got a fair reflection of it in the flower shop window.

Gomez and Chubb were near the flat door. The Colonel still leant against it, looking dreadfully groggy. Chubb stood back a little way with his fingers to his mouth. Gomez seemed to be peering in at the curtained shop window.

He was joined there by Inspector Fox, who had arrived via Capricorn Place. He appeared to search for an address and find it in the pottery. He approached the shop door, took out his spectacles, read the notice Closed for stocktaking and evidently spoke to Gomez, who shrugged and turned his back.

Fox continued down the Mews. He paused by the talented Sergeant Jacks, again assumed his spectacles and bent massively towards the drawing. Alleyn watched with relish as his colleague straightened up, tilted his head appreciatively to one side, fell back a step or two, apologized to a passer-by and continued on his way. When he reached the table he said: “Excuse me, is that chair taken?” and Alleyn said: “No. Please.”

Fox took it, ordered coffee, and when he had been served asked Alleyn the time.

“Come off it,” Alleyn said. “Nobody’s looking at you.”

But they both kept up the show of casual conversation between strangers.

Fox said: “It’s a funny set-up back there. They act as if they don’t know each other. The Colonel seems to be on the blink. If you poked a finger at him, he’d fall flat.”

“What about the premises?”