“We’d better go round to the front,” said Nigel.

“Plenty of time. I want you to meet Stephanie Vaughan, Alleyn. She’s madly keen on criminology and would never forgive me if I hid you.” (Alleyn looked politely resigned.) “Stephanie!” Gardener shouted loudly. A muffled voice from beyond the wall sang:

“Hullo — oh?”

“Can I bring visitors in to see you?”

“Of course, darling,” trilled the voice, histrionically cordial.

“Marvellous woman!” said Gardener. “Let’s go.”

Behind the tarnished star they found Miss Stephanie Vaughan in a rather bigger room, with thicker carpets, larger chairs, a mass of flowers and an aproned dresser. She received them with much gaiety, gave them cigarettes and dealt out her charm lavishly, with perhaps an extra libation for Gardener and a hint, thought Nigel, of something more subtly challenging in her manner towards Inspector Alleyn. Even with blue grease on her eyelids and scarlet grease on her nostrils, she was a very lovely woman, with beautifully groomed hair, enormous eyes, and a heart-shaped face. Her three-cornered smile was famous. She began to talk shop — Alleyn’s shop — to the inspector, and asked him if he had read H. B. Irving’s book on famous criminals. He said he had, and thought it jolly good. She asked him if he had read other books on criminals and psychology; if he had read Freud, if he had read Ernest Jones. Mr. Alleyn said he thought them all jolly good. Nigel felt nervous.

“I’ve saturated myself in the literature of crime,” said Miss Vaughan. “I’ve tried to understand, deep down, the psychology of the criminal. I’m greedy for more. Tell me of more books to read, Mr. Alleyn.”

“Have you read Edgar Wallace?” asked Alleyn. “He’s jolly good.”

There was a nasty silence, and then Miss Vaughan decided to let loose her lovely laugh. It rang out — a glorious, bubbling cascade of joyousness. Gardener and Nigel joined in, the latter unconvincingly. Gardener flung his head back and shouted. He put his hand lightly on Stephanie Vaughan’s shoulder.