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carpet? Maybe we should pull in Ali Baba for questioning?’
    Harley continued, undeterred by the sarcasm.
    ‘Well, my bet is that he slipped in next door—Vi rarely has her front door locked—made his way upstairs and onto the fire escapevia Miss Perkins’ room, which was vacant until she returned home from work at eight o’clock.’
    He moved over to the window.
    ‘Our man probably then gained entry via the window over here—which, as you can see, has a broken catch. He’s masked to hide his identity—so he was possibly known to the boy, or maybe wasn’t certain he’d find him alone.’
    Harley now moved back to the bed.
    ‘He pounces on Aubrey, who was slight, and in his injured state couldn’t have put up much of a fight. He smothers him with a pillow, then he searches the house for a razor—he didn’t have far to look: this one belonged to my uncle and was stored in the drawer over there … He takes the razor and slashes Aubrey’s wrist to make it look like suicide … He makes his way back along the fire escape—but he’s disturbed by Miss Perkins, who’s at the window smoking a cigarette. He dispatches her with some kind of toxic powder.’
    Harley turned and mimed blowing the powder from the flat of his hand into Quigg’s face.
    ‘Which, come to think of it, he may have used first on Aubrey to incapacitate him. He then makes his escape across the roof and down into Tallow Street.’
    ‘Bravo!’ said Quigg, giving a few, mocking handclaps. ‘And what do you think you’re doing, Pearson? Strike that rubbish out of your notebook at once! As for your little theory, Harley—it’s pure, unadulterated, tosh! Where’s the evidence? The motive? This gobbledygook might be good enough for the poor saps who part with their hard-earned cash for you to retrieve their lost pets, or take dirty pictures of their unfaithful husbands, or whatever else it is you get up to in that tuppenny-ha’penny detective agency of yours; but in a case such as this, we require real police work. And at Scotland Yard you’ll find that we rely on fact, rather than mere flights of fancy. Here, then, are the facts: an hysterical woman claims to have seen a masked stranger on her fire escape. Are there any other witnesses? No . Is there any evidence of this stranger’s presence? No . Is there any evidence of a reasonable motive for the intrusion? No . Most obvious conclusion—the masked stranger never existed and is merely a product of some mental aberration on the part of the Perkins woman. It takes the slightest provocation to pitch a female of her type headlong into hysteria; she was probably over-stimulated by a salacious novel, or a trip to the cinema—all these hormones they have … Anyway, I think we can confidently strike our masked stranger from the series of actual events. Fact: a male prostitute is found dead in bed with his wrist slashed. Is there any evidence of suicide? Yes —the razor isstill gripped in the hand. Is there a motive? Yes —the individual was a sodomite, an aberrosexual , engaging the sewers of the body in the pursuit of sexual gratification. One can only guess at the horror and shame, the mental torment that such an evil can inflict upon a young man on a daily basis; the only wonder is that more of these unfortunate perverts don’t end their suffering with the clean steel of the razor. Is there any evidence of foul play? No —’
    ‘ Yes! ’ interrupted Harley.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘You’ve missed a vital clue.’
    Quigg gave another of his snorts.
    ‘Look at the wounded hand,’ said Harley, moving to the bed.
    ‘I already have. The wound is consistent with a suicide attempt.’
    ‘I’m not talking about the wound itself. I’m talking about the hand, the fingers. Look again, look here! ’
    ‘There’s simply no need; I’ve seen all I need to see.’
    ‘Well then, I’m sure you’ll have noticed the nicotine stains on the index and middle fingers? The ink stains