“Yes, but —”

“Never mind the buts.” Roger was suddenly sharper. “Get that dead man identified, and go all out to find evidence that he and Raeburn were acquainted. Have you tried Records yet?”

“No.” Turnbull sounded subdued.

“Try ‘em, and ring me at Clapham,” said Roger, briskly. “Get hold of the doctor who examined Raeburn and certified him as drunk last night, too, and trace Raeburn’s movements for the earlier part of the evening.”

“See what you’re driving at,” conceded Turnbull. “Never satisfied, are you? But I can answer the last question off the cuff. He’d been to a little club near Clapham Common, The Daytime. Had plenty to drink, too.”

“Raeburn has quite a reputation for holding his liquor,” Roger said. “I want you, personally, to go through everything we get on the dead man as if this were a murder case. Has Raeburn sent for legal aid?”

“Yes. Abel Melville.”

“Don’t give Melville an inch of rope,” warned Roger, urgently. “If there’s any trouble, get Abbott cracking. Abbott’s about the only man who can really freeze Melville.” He paused, then went on almost like a machine. “By twelve o’clock, I want to see the copper who found the body, and to know the name of everyone who was on the Common about one o’clock last night. Ask the Division chaps to give it priority. Then check at The Daytime, to find out if Raeburn had really been drinking heavily. Try to find at least two people who’ll say he was sober when he left. Okay?”

“Slave driver,” Turnbull growled. “I’ll fix it.”

“I’ll be seeing you,” said Roger.

He rang off, and put the cigarette between his lips; it had burned half way down, and he had to draw several times to get it going again. In his mind’s eye was a picture of Paul Raeburn, smiling, handsome and self- assured.

Roger stood up, and the door opened and Janet came in.