“What was the dosage?”

“Two grains of heroin — one of cocaine.”

“Then she can’t have been an addict for long. Most of my regulars are on five, six or seven grains of heroin alone. There were the usual tracks in her arm?”

“Only a few.”

“Which would seem to confirm my theory.” Das sighed. “What a tragedy. She looks such a pleasant child.” He handed the photo back. “I’m sorry, I can’t help. You have no idea as to her identity at all?”

“I was hoping she might be a registered addict.”

Das shook his head emphatically. “Definitely not. We have a new scheme operating under which all registered addicts must attend my clinic at St. Gregory’s Hospital on Saturday mornings.”

“Is this as well as their visits to their own doctor?”

Das nodded. “Believe me, sergeant, if she was registered I would know her.”

Miller swallowed the rest of his coffee. “I’d better get moving. Got a lot of ground to cover.”

“Why not have a chat with Chuck Lazer?” Das said. “If anyone could help, he could.”

“That’s an idea,” Miller said. “How is he these days? Still dry?”

“For ten months now. A remarkable achievement, especially when one considers that his intake was of the order of seven grains of heroin and six of cocaine daily.”

“I hear he’s running a small casino club now.”

“Yes, the Berkley in Cork Square. Very exclusive. Haven’t you been?”

“I got an invitation to the opening, but I couldn’t make it. Does he still play a good jazz piano?”

“Oscar Peterson at his best couldn’t improve on him. I was there last Saturday. We were talking about you.”

“I’ll drop in and see him,” Miller said. “Where’s he living now?”

“He has an apartment over the club. Very pleasant. He’ll probably be in bed now, mind you.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

They went out into the hall. Das opened the front door and shook hands formally. “If I can help in any way…”