Which sounded plausible. Leon remembered that the Arts Ball was a fancy dress affair, and there was some reason for the departure from the mews instead of from the front of the house. As though he were reading his thoughts, Newton said:
“It was Miss Leicester’s idea, going through the back. She was rather shy . . . she was wearing a domino.”
“Colour?”
“Green, with a reddish hood.”
Leon looked at him quickly.
“Rather distinctive. Was that the idea?”
“I don’t know what the idea was,” growled Newton, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on a sock. “But I do know this, Gonsalez,” he said, with an outburst of anger which was half fear: “that you’ll be sorry you did this to me!”
Leon walked to the door, turned the key and opened it.
“I only hope that you will not be sorry I did not kill you,” he said, and was gone.
Monty Newton waited until from his raised window he saw the slim figure pass along the sidewalk and disappear round a corner, and then he hurried down, with one shoe on and one off, to call New Cross 93.