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the threshold, making Messiter give ground. The young man backed off agilely, then halted, in a cluttered hall.
    ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll try to find him. Perhaps you’ll just wait here.’
    ‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘Please don’t be long.’
    Messiter ducked through a curtain at the end of the hall.
    Lyons closed the street door, and they waited. There was no sound from behind the curtain. A faint smell of incense hung about the hall, which was lit only by a fan-light over the street door. The walls were muffled with floral tapestry and vases and knick-knacks stood about on stands. A bundle of Polynesian spears, very ancient and dusty, were stuffed into an umbrella-stand near the door. An odd, over-filled place, somehow devoid of effective character.
    The curtain twitched again: a man appeared; he came hesitatingly towards them. He was aged about fifty, of plump build, with a short neck and bowed shoulders. He was wearing a green silk smock and loose trousers that suggested a judo kit, and embroidered slippers. He had fluffy, greying hair, and his large features were netted with wrinkles, like crumpled brown paper.
    ‘Oscar Walling?’ Gently said.
    ‘Yes – yes!’ The man was smiling ingratiatingly. He had a reedy but cultivated voice and appealing pale blue eyes.
    ‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Gently. I’m investigating the death of Adrian Stoll.’
    ‘Yes – yes – poor Adrian! Yes, of course. I understand.’
    He made a quick, dipping motion forward, and threw open a door to Gently’s left. Then he stood smiling and motioning them through, with soft white hands, on which rings glinted.
    They entered a large, lofty room, with the same appearance of clutter as the hall outside. In the centre stood a huge, over-stuffed sofa, piled with tasselled cushions and books. A rosewood desk occupied one wall, and fitted bookcases two others; several outsize chairs, echoing the sofa, were disposed to monopolize the remaining floor-space. Then there was an infilling of stands and whatnots, bearing vases, figures and native carvings; and everywhere books, papers, periodicals and piles of sheet-music. Two standard lamps, with vast shades, presided over the collection. In the bay window stood a music-stand; a violin lay on a chair beside it.
    Walling bobbed in after them and closed the door, which was heavy and lined with draught-excluder. He waved them to seats. Lyons ignored him. Gently perched on an arm of the giant sofa. Walling hesitated, smiling, then emptied a chair, and plumped down in it, his short legs dangling. He looked hopefully at Gently.
    ‘Yes – poor Adrian! Yes – I wish I could be of some help to you! But I’ve spoken to this other gentleman already. There is really nothing I can add.’
    ‘That’s unfortunate,’ Gently said. ‘Have you been to your office today?’
    ‘M-my office?’
    ‘Torotours. 221B Hapsburgh Place.’
    ‘Torotours?’ Walling gazed at Gently, his smile flickering on and off. ‘Yes – yes – that’s my company – Torotours, in Hapsburgh Place.’
    ‘So have you been there today?’
    ‘Well – no – not today. I’m not personally engaged in running it, you know. I have a good manager – very good man.’
    ‘I think you should ring him,’ Gently said.
    ‘What – why?’ Walling’s eyes were dithering. ‘Why should I ring him?’
    ‘I think you should. Then we can get on with our little chat.’
    Walling sat uncertainly for a moment, the smile leaking from his crumpled face; then he darted up, crossed to the desk, and dialled a number with a silver pencil.
    ‘Stella – hallo? Get me Parsons, darling.’ He shored his plump bottom on the desk. ‘Hullo? What? I want Parsons! You’re not Parsons. What? Who—?’
    Slowly, the instrument sank from his ear and was dropped back unsteadily on its rest. He turned his face away from the policemen.
    ‘Dear God. Oh, dear God.’
    Gently was watching him. ‘Will that help your memory?’