“Bill,” said Rollison, “what’s this I hear about bedlam at the Yard this morning?”

“Whoever told you that was right,” said Grice. “We’ve been flooded out with calls from zanies and half-wits—half a minute.” His voice faded, and Rollison pulled the newspaper towards him and once again studied the photograph of Madam Melinska. She must have been a beautiful woman in her youth, he decided, noting the high cheek-bones, the long, lean jaw, the proud tilt of the head. Now she was probably in her early sixties—but she was still beautiful for those who had eyes to see it.

After a moment it dawned on him that he had paid little attention to her companion. Her name, he read, was Mona Lister, and she was Madam Melinska’s assistant. She had a pretty face, and fair, wispy hair hanging to her shoulders—but as he leaned forward to examine the photograph more closely, Grice came back on to the line.

“Sorry, Rolly—what is it you do want, anyhow?”

“I hardly dare tell you,” Rollison said. “What time is Madam Melinska due in Court today?”

“So you are interested in the woman,” said Grice, almost testily. “Around ten o’clock, I should say. But you haven’t a chance.”

“A chance of what?”

“Getting in. There’s a half-mile queue outside the Court already, stretching from both ends of Southcombe Street. Uniform’s had to detail thirty extra men to keep order. We’ve had twenty times the usual number of calls this morning, from threats of murder to threats of eternal damnation, as well as pitying souls who say we should know better than to try to stop the stars in their courses. You didn’t lose any money over Melinska, did you?”

“My sainted Aunt Gloria did.”

“What” There was a moment of silence, then Grice gave a throaty chuckle and laughter quivered in his voice as he went on: “That’s my best moment of the morning; I didn’t think I’d laugh at anything today. But seriously—you won’t get in.”