The Curator of Fossil Mammals answered his own doorbell. He was as sleekly self-assured as ever, in a superbly tailored dinner jacket and Old Wykehamist tie.
“Good evening, Chief Inspector,” he said resignedly. “I was half expecting you. You’re looking for gemstones, I expect?”
“That’s right, sir.” Once again Alec explained the search warrant. Hearing voices from an inner room, he added, “We’ll disturb you as little as possible. My men will go through the rest of the flat, but I’m afraid I shall have to take a look at the—” He hesitated: not lounge; sitting room? drawing room? He chose the last. “The drawing room.”
As if reading his mind, Witt smiled a trifle sardonically and said, “I’m not so high-falutin’. Sitting room will do. Come in.”
The spacious sitting room was as modern as the Steadmans’ lounge, but of a different kind entirely. The predominant colours were ivory and lavender, with russet accents but a minimum of pattern. Chairs and sofas were leather-covered, as sleek as their owner. In contrast, a cabinet and occasional tables of probably-genuine Chippendale somehow humanized the whole.
Alec recognized at once the woman seated in one of the chairs. Maggie Weston was a well-known actress, the sort who plays Juliet or Rosalind, not the ingenue in drawing-room comedy. The couple on the sofa looked familiar, moreas a type, Alec thought, than because he knew them. They reminded him of Daisy’s sister and her husband, Lord John Frobisher.
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, from Scotland Yard,” Witt introduced him dryly. “My sister-in-law Lady Genevieve, Chief Inspector; Miss Weston; and my stepbrother Lord Meredith.”
While Alec appreciated the courtesy of the introductions, it added to the doubts aroused by Witt’s previous improbable helpfulness. A policeman, even of his comparatively superior rank, was not normally considered worthy to be presented to such company. Lord Meredith, in fact, looked surprised and made no move to rise and shake hands.
“Darling, too thrilling,” said Miss Weston in her famous throaty voice. “Has Mr. Fletcher come to arrest you?”
Witt cocked an eyebrow at Alec, who said, “Not tonight, Miss Weston.”
“Pity! One ought to see how it’s properly done, and I’m sure Mr. Fletcher would have done it properly. Well, darling, if you don’t need my support through this ordeal, I’m off. I’ve a rehearsal at an ungodly hour tomorrow.”
“We’ll give you a lift, darling,” Lady Genevieve said languidly, rising. “It’s time we made a move. Do let us know, Joker dear, if you have to be bailed out.”
Witt kissed the cheek she offered, and then Miss Weston’s—rather more warmly. Lord Meredith, who had stood up when the ladies rose, put his hand on his stepbrother’s shoulder and said in a low voice, which just reached Alec’s ears, “Don’t want to desert you, Joker. Gen can drive Maggie home and come back.”
“That’s all right, old man. Fletcher’s a gentleman, and I’ve nothing to hide.” Witt raised his voice. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Chief Inspector.” He went out to see off his guests.
Alec used his absence to peek behind the half dozen framed drawings hanging on the walls. Contraband had been stuck to the backs of pictures before. He found nothing, and when Witt returned, he was contemplating a drawing of a bison. It was crude and misshapen, yet there was something oddly satisfying, even graceful, about its sweeping lines.
“Prehistoric art,” said Witt, coming up behind him. “They’re copies of wall paintings found in caves in France and Spain: Altamira, Pair-non-Pair, Font-de-Gaume.”
“I’ve heard of them, but not seen any before. Interesting. It’s an attractive room.”
“So I’m told. I can claim no merit, at least not for the colour scheme. It was designed for me by a friend who does that sort of thing. I’m colour-blind.”
“Ah,” said Alec, in the best tradition of Tring inscrutability, but he warmed slightly towards Witt. At least his suspected lack of war service was explained. “Mind if I poke around a bit?”
“Not at all.” He grinned. “As if I had any choice in the matter. There’s just one favour I must beg, Chief Inspector.”
“Which is?” Alec asked, peering into a beautifully shaped vase with a lavender glaze.
“Please refrain from mentioning at the museum that I’m known to friends and family as Joker! A schoolboy play on my name, of course. I am not given to jokes, verbal or practical. But it wouldn’t go down well with my colleagues.”
“And you care what they think?”
“Naturally. I see them and work with them daily.”
“You’d be sorry to give up your position, then.”
Witt gave him a sharp look, then laughed, with a mocking edge to his tone. “Ah, I see, you think I might have purloined the jewels so as to be able to quit work.”
“It’s a possibility I have to consider, sir.”
“Yes,” Witt mused, “It is a possibility. I do need a job. You see, Chief Inspector, the comforts of my life are provided by my father. He’s an American—my mother divorced him and brought me back to England as a baby, then married Meredith’s father.”
“A wealthy American,” Alec assumed.
“Oh, very. The fly in the ointment, so to speak, is that Poppa came up the hard way and believes idleness is bad for the soul. He requires his offspring to hold down a job of work in order to profit from his millions. I refused to go into his ironmongery business—hardware they call it over there. Fortunately I had an alternative to offer, though it was not easy to persuade my father it qualified as a career.”
