"You mean he was killed elsewhere?"
"A long ways elsewhere is my guess. And what's more, he was frozen practically stiff — like he'd been in a refrigerator a couple of days."
Solly accepted a third Scotch, eyeing Solo's bruises with professional interest. "Now," he said, "suppose you trade a little information. Like, for instance, how you got the shiner."
"All right — but it's strictly off the record. When the time's right you'll get it exclusive. Fair?"
"Fair," Solly confirmed. "Till you say so, I'm an oyster."
Solo told him the story.
He rolled another cigarette from coarse pipe tobacco and licked the paper thoughtfully. He had to relight the end three times before it would burn properly. At last he said, "If you're fingering Dancer for the murder you can think again. He'd kill his own brother for sixpence and sleep easy. But it's a matter of technique. Dancer's strictly a chiv man. With a knife he's an artist. And with him it's a business. Nothing personal, you understand. But this Hughes job — what a butchery! And the boy who did it had himself a ball." He considered. "Maybe you remember, there was a mob in Brooklyn that worked with Murder, Inc. They used choppers. It was that kind of job. Crude."
He went through the ritual of buttoning his raincoat to the chin, though the sun was hot on the windows of the room. "Got to go. Thanks for the drinks...and the lowdown. Anything I hear that we can't print, I'll keep you posted."
"Now what do you make of that?" Illya asked when the door had closed behind the reporter.
"You tell me. It's a mess. But some part of the answer's in the Gloriana. Dancer may not have been the killer, but five will get you ten it was his boot I felt last night. The raid, coming on top of our visit to Anna, was too coincidental. And who else knew exactly where to find us?"
"It could have been an ordinary prowler."
"Prowlers don't fool with the electrical fittings," Solo pointed out. "They get in, turn the place over, and get out fast. Our man seems to have been looking for information, not for loot."
"That makes sense. But what else have we got?"
Solo said, "The big tie-in is that Price Hughes owned the building, ran his business and lived — at least, for some of the time — next door to the Gloriana. If Solly is to be believed, and his information is usually twenty-carat, we also know that Anna was lying when she claimed she had no personal dealings with the old man. According to Solly, she gave Dancer his job because Hughes asked her to do it. Why lie about it? There's also the story that she came from Cardiff to London. That may mean a lot or nothing at all, but the Welsh background is certainly interesting.
"On the other hand, she has no police record and the club is in the clear. We know her floor manager is a thug, but again the story is that he's keeping his nose clean."
Illya nodded. "And that's it. There's not a shred of evidence to connect the club or anyone in it with the killing. Or, for that matter, with the attack on you last night. It seems to me that our one solid lead is the medallion."
"That's what I'm banking on," Solo said. "I think Dancer will make a move when Blodwen shows up with it around her neck. Meanwhile we'll start checking on Anna's daily rounds."
The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver. Blodwen's voice came cheerfully over the wire. She said, "I've got a flat in Berwick Street. You'll like it. It's got rummage sale furniture, plumbing straight from the Ark and mice behind the walls. The rent book says seven pounds a week but I had to pay the landlord twenty — and six months in advance. Ain't life wonderful for us working girls?"
"My heart bleeds for you," Solo said. "Want us to come over?"
"Yes, do that. In this house a girl's nobody without gentlemen callers. In fact we put ads up in a neighborhood store to encourage them."
"You're learning fast. We'd better get over there before replies start coming in."
A taxi dropped them in Brewer Street and they walked the rest of the way, shouldering through the bargain-hunters crowding the stalls in Berwick Street's open market, where you can buy anything from a rusty flintlock to a string of Spanish onions. The number Blodwen had given Solo turned out to be a narrow doorway sandwiched between two shops. A woman was leaning against the doorpost, smoking a Gauloise cigarette. She wore a peasant-type silk blouse that strained against massive breasts, a tight black skirt, and patent-leather shoes with heels that were more like six-inch nails. She had coarse black hair piled high and gray eyes that had seen everything.
She switched on a smile that was meant to be inviting. "You boys looking for something?"
"Just visiting," Solo said. "A friend moved in here today."
"Oh, her." She lost interest. "She's up on the second floor. If she's in."
The staircase, covered with ancient gray carpet, was steep and rickety. It had a sad, indefinable smell compounded of cheap perfume, damp and grime. The once white walls bore marks of the passing of many bodies.
On the door facing the head of the second flight a cheap printed visiting card was secured with a thumbtack. It read: Miss Yvonne Grey. Modeling.
Solo pressed the yellowing doorbell and a two-tone chime sounded through the wood.
The girl who opened the door wore a black nylon blouse, skin-tight scarlet jeans and black stiletto-heel shoes. Her hair was tightly curled and bright red. Lashes thick with mascara fringed eyes of startling china-blue.
She smiled widely and said, "Surprise! Surprise!"
"My God!" Solo said. "What have you been doing to yourself?"
She put a finger to lips the color of over-ripe tomatoes. "Can't talk on the doorstep. Let's go in."
She led the way into a pocket-size sitting room that was overcrowded with shabby pseudo-Scandinavian furniture. The poodle cocked a beady eye from its basket near the gas fire, yapped briefly and subsided.
"A drink?" Blodwen asked.
"No, thanks. You still haven't explained the fancy dress."
"Protective coloring," she said. "If I'm going to join the soiled doves in the Gloriana, I have to look the part." She struck a Mae West pose and patted the incendiary curls. "Don't you like it?"
Illya said, "Your eyes. What happened to your eyes?"
"Contact lenses. No gal should be without them." Then more seriously she said, "There's always the chance that somebody might show up who saw me in Corwen or Newport. I had to do a complete remodeling job."
"That makes sense," Solo agreed. "Have you been around to see Anna?"
"No need. She doesn't employ regular hostesses. Any girl who's free and over twenty-one can put in an evening's stint as decoration at the bar — provided she's properly introduced. And that's been taken care of." She grinned. "I expect you met my chaperone downstairs."
"The girl with the armor-piercers?"
"The same. She has the flat below. She's one of those hard-boiled hustlers with a heart of gold., and she's taken me under her wing. I do my first stint at the Gloriana tonight."
"Well, watch it," Solo warned. "There are limits to what Alexander Waverly expects in the line of duty."
"Don't worry. I'm a long-time student of Dear Abby."
There came a faint morse-like tapping. Blodwen said, "Uh-oh!" and went to the door.