Detective-Constable Waite sharpened his pencil. He remarked wistfully that this was a Ritzy joint. His glance wandered appreciatively over the huge chairs, the big desk and the indirect lighting.

"All these people have got Ritzy names, too," he said. "Grosvenor – that's something to do with a Duke. And Fortescue – that's a classy name, too."

Inspector Neele smiled.

"His father's name wasn't Fortescue. Fontescu – and he came from somewhere in Central Europe . I suppose this man thought Fortescue sounded better."

Detective-Constable Waite looked at his superior officer with awe.

"So you know all about him?"

"I just looked up a few things before coming along on the call."

"Not got a record, had he?"

"Oh no. Mr Fortescue was much too clever for that. He's had certain connections with the Black Market and put through one or two deals that are questionable to say the least of it, but they've always been just within the law."

"I see," said Waite. "Not a nice man."

"A twister," said Neele. "But we've got nothing on him. The Inland Revenue have been after him for a long time but he's been too clever for them. Quite a financial genius, the late Mr Fortescue."

"The sort of man," said Constable Waite, "who might have enemies?"

He spoke hopefully.

"Oh yes – certainly enemies. But he was poisoned at home, remember. Or so it would seem. You know, Waite, I see a kind of pattern emerging. An old-fashioned familiar kind of pattern. The good boy, Percival. The bad boy, Lance – attractive to women. The wife who's younger than her husband and who's vague about which course she's going to play golf on. It's all very very familiar. But there's one thing that sticks out in a most incongruous way."

Constable Waite asked "What's that?" just as the door opened and Miss Grosvenor, her poise restored, and once more her glamorous self, inquired haughtily: