CHAPTER XXIIChief Inspector Lamb sat at a table in what had been Carola Roland’s sitting-room. It was the most solid of the tables in the flat, but his mind condemned it as gimcrack. He himself was on the massive side, a stout man with a small, shrewd eye and a heavy jowl. His hair was thin on the top, but even his promotion had brought no grey to it—very strong black hair.
The routine which waits on murder had run its course. The photographer and the fingerprint man had done their jobs. The body had been removed and the blue carpet rolled up. The figure of the dancing girl had been carefully packed up and taken away for examination.
Lamb looked up as Sergeant Abbott came into the room. Quite a different type—public school and Police College—very fair hair slicked back; tall, light figur
