“Not even disguised as a policeman?”

“No,” said Grice firmly. “I shall not spirit you in. There simply won’t be room.” He paused for a moment, before asking in a puzzled way: “Did you realize what a fantastic public interest there was in astrologers and fortune-tellers?”

“I’m learning,” said Rollison. “Thanks, Bill. See you in Court.”

He rang off, and after a long spell of cogitation, went through a narrow passage and into the kitchen, where Jolly, resplendent in green baize apron, was neatly dropping crisp rings of onion into a flour-dusted dish.

“Ha, hot-pot,” said Rollison.

“As I am not sure what time you will be back, sir.”

“No. Grice says that Madam Melinska is attracting film-star crowds.”

“So I would expect, sir. Have you any special instructions?”

“Yes. Find out if anyone has been here in the past few weeks who knows Madam Melinska or Mona whatever-her-name-is, and who can count up to forty-nine. Some people are natural counters of heads and trophies. I knew a man who never addressed a public meeting without estimating the number of victims in front of him, and—”

“Quite so, sir.”

“It’s time I went, is it?” said Rollison. “Very well. Expect me when you see me.”

It was a rare, golden morning in May. The sun, bright and venturesome, found improbable gaps and cracks through which to penetrate. The milkman, the postman and somebody’s daily help wished Rollison the best of good mornings. A day, he reflected, when it was good to be alive. The West London Magistrates Court in West Kensington was too far away to walk to, but parking would be impossible, and he turned out of Gresham Terrace towards Piccadilly and hailed a taxi; it stopped.

“Nice morning, Guv’nor!”

“What a happy place the world is this morning,” remarked Rollison.

“For some folk,” observed the taxi-driver, sagely. “Where to, sir?”