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note. Then he got in his car and drove home. No one saw him, and no one saw the car.’

      ‘In other words he couldn’t account very convincingly for his movements between ten o’clock and twelve-thirty,’ Mike said.

      ‘Quite so,’ Goldway answered. ‘Medical opinion has established beyond all doubt that it was during this period that the murder took place. Go on, Inspector.’

      ‘Two days after the murder Weldon sent a suit to be sponged and pressed. I went to see the cleaners and found a handkerchief in one of the pockets. It had blood on it. The blood was tested and found to belong to the same group as the murdered girl’s. Weldon admitted it was his handkerchief, but he couldn’t account for the blood.’

      ‘Excuse me … but I thought Lucy Staines was strangled?’

      ‘She was. But she must have put up some kind of a struggle. There was a bad scratch down the side of her face. That accounted for the blood.’

      ‘Who discovered the body, Inspector?’

      ‘A woman called Nadia Tarrant. She has a flat in Soho Square. She was taking a short cut across the bomb-site just after midnight when a man came out of the shadows, pushed past her, and ran down Greek Street. She was able to give us a description of the man and we put Harold Weldon amongst others in an identity parade. She picked him out without a moment’s hesitation. We also found Weldon’s fingerprints on Miss Staines’s handbag. There were five pounds in the purse and a gold powder compact. Also she was wearing a nice little diamond clip.’

      ‘Was anything missing?’ Mike asked.

      ‘No. That ruled out assault with intent to rob.’

      Goldway interrupted as Rodgers lit himself a cigarette. ‘There was actually one thing missing, oddly enough. But it doesn’t appear to be relevant.’

      ‘Why, John? What was it?’

      ‘Her shoe.’

      Rodgers blew out a cloud of smoke and nodded. ‘Yes, I forgot that. She was only wearing one shoe, on her right foot. The other must have fallen off during the struggle. Strangely enough we never found it.’

      Mike frowned thoughtfully. ‘What a curious thing for a murderer to take. What use is one shoe? Could be damning evidence too.’ He caught Inspector Rodgers looking at his watch and said hastily, ‘Inspector, you’ve been very generous with your time. Many thanks for putting me in the picture.’

      Rodgers nodded surlily and left with a curt, ‘Good day.’

      On leaving the Yard Mike took a taxi to his garage where his car, a new E-type Jaguar, was being given a grease-job, then drove in deep thought back to Sloane Street where a cold lunch prepared by Linda and served by Mrs Potter awaited him.

      That afternoon, mindful of his deadline, he thrust all thought of the Weldon case out of his head and put in a good two hours’ work on his book. The only interruption was a telephone message from Linda telling him not to expect her back at the flat and asking him to pick her up at Conway and Racy’s some time after three o’clock.

      Finding a place to park near Bond Street was hopeless but eventually Mike saw a gap in Hanover Square and dived at it like a Rugby wing forward, beating two rivals by sheer effrontery and superior acceleration. By the time he had walked to Conway and Racy’s Linda had finished her final fitting for the two-piece grey suit she referred to as her ‘Cannes stunner’. It would be delivered on the following day and Mike grimly reminded himself that the bill was likely to be a stunner too.

      ‘How did you fare at the Yard?’ Linda asked him as she came out of the changing booth.

      ‘Only so-so.’

      ‘You look depressed. Haven’t they found a Lord Fairfax hotel?’

      He shook his head. ‘Not only that; my brief chat with Mr Jaime Mainardi was enough to put a blight on the day. I’ll tell you all about it once I’ve steered you successfully past the hat department and out of this criminally expensive emporium.’

      Linda giggled and took his arm. ‘Too late, darling, I’ve already visited the hat department.’

      Mike sighed heavily. ‘What did you buy? – Two feathers, and a wisp of veil direct from Paris?’

      ‘Nothing as bad as that, honestly.’ She turned for support to a well-groomed blonde assistant in her late thirties who was hovering near by and making vaguely helpful gestures; she was obviously the Department Supervisor who had arranged Linda’s fitting. She favoured Mike with an exceedingly arch smile that involved a lot of teeth and brilliant lipstick. Linda introduced her as Miss Long.

      ‘I think you’ll like the hat, Mr Baxter. It really looks most distinguée on your wife.’

      ‘You’re the expert,’ said Mike. ‘Oh, by the way, Miss Long, do you have a young lady working here, as a model, I think, by the name of Peggy Bedford?’

      Miss Long hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Yes, we do. She’s in the lingerie department.’

      ‘I wonder if I might have a word with her?’

      ‘By all means, Mr Baxter. The only trouble is, she’s not here today.’

      ‘Is she ill?’

      ‘No; at least I don’t think so.’

      ‘You don’t happen to know where I might be able to contact her?’

      A fleeting shadow of doubt crossed the blonde assistant’s face and Linda stepped gallantly to the rescue. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Long, if she’s too attractive I’ll keep my husband on a very short leash.’

      Miss Long giggled nervously. ‘Well, it isn’t usual, of course, but in the circumstances there’s really no reason why I shouldn’t give you her address. She has a flat in Plymouth Mansions, just off Baker Street. She’s probably there; our models sometimes work very irregular hours.’

      ‘Thank you, you’ve been most kind. I believe Peggy Bedford was a close friend of Lucy Staines, wasn’t she?’

      Miss Long’s expression changed. ‘Er … yes, that is so. What a dreadful business that was. It cast the most fearful gloom over – Oh, excuse me, Mr Baxter, there’s the house phone, I must answer it. Goodbye, Mrs Baxter, I do hope you have a lovely holiday.’

      Outside in Bond Street Mike took his wife’s arm and led her to where the car was parked in Hanover Square.

      ‘Are we going straight home, darling?’ Linda asked.

      ‘More or less. With a little detour via Baker Street, if you don’t mind.’

      ‘Peggy Bedford? What do you hope to get out of her?’

      ‘Maybe she can shed some light on who L. Fairfax was, assuming my original hunch was wrong. At least she should be able to give me some idea of Lucy Staines’s habits, her interests, what sort of circles she moved in.’

      They drove to Baker Street and after several fruitless inquiries succeeded in finding Plymouth Mansions. It was an imposing building set some distance off the main street. Linda’s eyes widened as she stepped out of the car and gazed at the impressive entrance.

      ‘Rather an expensive address for a fashion model, isn’t it?’ Mike said, running his finger down the list of tenants’ names in the entrance hall.

      ‘I suppose we shouldn’t be too surprised. Staines said the girls earn good money.’

      He quickly found the name he wanted. ‘Here we are! – Peggy Bedford. Flat 37. We’ll take the lift, unless you want to climb three flights.’

      A surly, uniformed porter with a permanent scowl took them up and gruffly jerked his head towards the corridor leading to Flat 37.

      Mike pressed the bell and they waited in silence. No answering steps came. They rang again, and after a few moments Linda bent impatiently

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