"The evidence points that way, doesn't it?" said Grant nastily. "I'm looking for the man who has these offices."
"Oh?" said the head, as if this were an entirely new idea. It disappeared, and a moment later appeared right way up in its proper place as part of a young man in a dirty painter's smock, who came down the last flight to the landing, smelling of turpentine and smoothing down his mop of hair with paint-covered fingers.
"I don't think that man's been here for quite a while now," he said. "I have the two floors above — my rooms and my studio — and I used to pass him on the stairs and hear his — his — I don't know what you call them. He was a bookie, you know."
"Clients?" suggested Grant.
"Yes. Hear what I presume were his clients coming sometimes. But I'm sure it's more than a fortnight since I saw or heard him."
"Did he go to the course, do you know?" Grant asked.
"Where's that?" asked the artist.
"I mean, did he go to the races every day?"
The artist did not know.
"Well, I want to get into his offices. Where can I get a key?"