The porch was dry, and she stamped her feet to remove the worst of the snow from her boots. Meanwhile, Samuel lifted the door knocker and smacked it down.

At first no one answered, and he had to rap again, louder this time.

“It seems as if no one is home,” Cecily murmured. “We shall have to call another time.”

She was about to turn away when the door creaked open, and a young man with a drooping mustache and stubble on his chin looked at her with sleepy eyes.

He was wrapped in a blanket that covered a dressing gown and nightshirt, the robe bunched closed by a tattered cord. “Whatcha want?” he demanded, not even bothering to put a hand over his mouth when he yawned.

“Here,” Samuel said, stepping forward, “mind who you are talking to. This is Mrs. Baxter from the Pennyfoot Country Club and she’s here to ask you some questions about Jimmy Taylor.”

The young man’s eyes sharpened at once, and his voice lost its drowsy tone. “What about him?”

Cecily forced a smile. “Mr. Baker? May we come in? Just for a moment? It’s terribly cold out here.”

Basil Baker looked over his shoulder, then back at her, his eyes now wary. “The place is in a mess.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind that at all. I’m sorry to disturb you, but this is rather important.”

Losing patience, Samuel put a foot on the threshold. “Where’s your manners, letting a lady stand out in the cold? Let her in, right now.”

“I already told the bobby everything I know,” Basil muttered, but nevertheless stood back to allow them to enter.

He hadn’t exaggerated the condition of the living room. Clothes and shoes littered the room, a half-eaten sandwich sat on a plate on the couch, and empty beer glasses lined the mantelpiece. No coals burned in the fireplace, and it didn’t feel much warmer inside the house than it had outside.