A light showed in one of the downstairs rooms, and through the open window came the brittle notes of Chopin’s Etude in E Flat.
Dallas got out of his car, pushed open the gate and walked up the path. The night was hot and still, and the perfume from the roses was a little overpowering.
He dug his thumb into the bell-push, leaned forward to sniff at the purple flower of the clematis — as big as a breakfast plate.
Purvis came to the door and opened it. He was in his shirt sleeves and had changed his shoes for slippers.
‘You’re late,’ he said, giving Dallas a sharp look. ‘I was thinking of going to bed.’
‘You’re lucky to have a bed,’ Dal as said, fol owing him into the comfortable front room. It was lined with books and restfully lit by table lamps. Purvis was a bachelor, but he knew how to make himself comfortable. He had a Filipino boy to run the house and cook, and in his spare time he looked after the tiny garden himself. ‘I don’t get any time for my bed,’ Dal as went on, lowering himself gratefully into a comfortable easy chair.
Purvis wasn’t paying at ention. He was listening to the concluding passages of the Etude.
‘You should listen to this,’ he said, leaning against the radiogram and beating time with his finger.
‘It’s the most difficult of any of Chopin’s Etudes. Even Paderewski used to make some mistakes when he played it.’
‘Never mind Paderewski — he’s dead,’ Dal as said, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. ‘Turn it off for the love of Mike. I’m here on business.’