“I’m only showing that she had opportunities.”
“All right.”
“Alleyn,” said Nigel, “please tell me. Do you think she did it?”
“There you go, you see,” said Alleyn wearily. “Stick to your press-manship, my boy. Go away and write a front-page story and let me see it before you hand it over to your evening screecher. Come on. We’ll go home to our unfortunate wives and Fox to his blameless pallet.”
They parted on the Embankment. Nigel hailed a taxi; Fox, his head bent sideways, his hand to his bowler and his overcoat flapping about his formidable legs, tacked off into the wind, making for his lodgings in Victoria. Alleyn crossed the Embankment and leaning on the parapet looked down into the black shadows of Westminster Pier. The river slapped against wet stones and Alleyn felt a thin touch of spray on his face. He stood for so long that a constable on night duty paused and finally marched down upon his superior, flashing his torch into Alleyn’s face.
“It’s all right,” said Alleyn. “I’m not yet tired of life.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure. Mr. Alleyn isn’t it? Didn’t recognize you for a minute. It’s a thick night.”
“It’s a beastly night,” agreed Alleyn, “and we’re at the worst part of it.”
“Yes, sir. That’s right, sir.”
“Dull job, night duty, isn’t it?”