CHAPTER 21Inspector Bull’s car drew up to the kerb in Jermyn Street. Somewhere behind him in Piccadilly a clock struck midnight. He turned his torch on the vertical row of bells and pressed the one under Gwatley-Wells’s name. He could hear it sounding far off in the quiet night. He waited a bit and pressed it again, aware that there was no reason to expect the white-faced young man with the flaccid jaw and tiny blond mustache to be sitting up waiting for him.
He stepped out into the road and looked up at the windows of the first floor flat. After a moment a light went up. He went back to the door and inside. Kane was standing at the head of the stairs, his trousers pulled over his white nightshirt. He blinked and shaded his eyes.
“I beg pardon, sir? Mr. Gwatley-Wells is not in. I can’t q
