‘Can you give us the names and addresses of people who can confirm this account, sir?’ Joe asked.
‘Certainly not! Would you involve your friends in such a murky matter? Wouldn’t name any of them even if I could remember who they were. And, anyway, they were all as tipsy as I was and they’ll be sleeping it off till next Wednesday.’
Seeing a steely look in Joe’s eye he added, ‘Well, you might try Freddie Cooper. I started the evening with him so he may have some glimmerings and the room where I fetched up was halfway down Fitzroy Street. Blue door. I noted it particularly in the firm intention of avoiding it in the future.’
‘Is there anyone at all who will remember seeing you in the course of the evening – someone sober . . . a maître d’hôtel . . . a waiter? The time you should concentrate on is from midnight until one o’clock.’
Orlando sighed. ‘The maître d’hôtel at the Mont Olympe may well have noticed me.’ He spent a moment peeling paint from under his fingernails. ‘We had a whip round to pay the bill and I – as usual, I’m afraid – made a rather larger contribution than most. I say, it’s damned embarrassing to be talking about money like this, don’t you fellows understand? But just for once I may have done myself a favour. I left a large tip. Doesn’t often happen but I’d just sold two paintings. Rather well. Someone will remember the tip.’
‘And when did you leave the restaurant, sir?’
‘Oh, yes. That would have been before midnight because we were going on to a nightclub to meet some of the dancers from the Russian ballet after the performance. Lydia Lopokova was meant to be there but she never put in an appearance. Look, Commander, I’m getting pretty fed up with all this. It really is none of your business. I’m a gentleman – you’re some sort of a gentleman, I observe – why can’t you take my word for it? I had absolutely nothing to do with my sister’s murder.’
‘We must insist, I’m afraid,’ said Joe patiently. ‘From midnight until one o’clock, if you wouldn’t mind? That’s the time we’re interested in.’
‘Oh, all right then,’ he grumbled. ‘Anything to get rid of you. Well . . .’ he said, suddenly brightening, ‘you may not find anyone who can vouch for my presence or, more likely,’ he grinned, ‘you may find that everyone vouches for my presence! Policemen tend not to be very popular with this crowd and they won’t hesitate to lead you up the garden path, running rings around you and tying you in knots until you fall over your own flat feet – but what if someone could corroborate my impression of the events of the evening? Wouldn’t that be more useful to you than a chummy alibi?’
‘Go on,’ said Joe, uncommitted.
‘Well, two of the male dancers came in – we were at the Cheval Bleu by then – did I say that? And though they must have been well-nigh exhausted after their evening they cleared the floor and did a turn or two. One had red tights on.’
Armitage glowered, licked the end of his pencil and noted down the tights.
‘Any further impressions lingering from this jolly jamboree, sir?’ he said. ‘Just to get you through safely to the other side of one o’clock?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure I can reveal them in the presence of a lady.’
‘Constable Westhorpe has nerves of steel. I guarantee that she will not faint at any revelation you may care to make,’ said Joe.
Orlando looked at Tilly with awakening interest. ‘Oh? Right. Well, there’s a young Hungarian . . . or is he Bulgarian? . . . chap out and about at the moment. Writer of some sort, I believe. All the rage. He’s been taken up by some of the fashionable set. Trouble is he’s got too big for his boots and everyone decided it was time he was taken down a peg or two. He got roaring drunk and – resenting the attention being paid to the dancers and not liking Russians much either – he decided to steal their thunder. He stalked into the middle of the floor and started stripping.’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Armitage’s pencil lifted from the page. ‘Stripping what?’
‘Himself of course. Good-looking chap, as all agree, and I must say he did it with panache. Well, everyone gathered round – they were all there, the Slade gang, the Café Royal mob – shouting encouragement and then . . . it was one of those incredible crowd movements, you know, all acting together, without a word said . . . he stood there taking a bow, naked apart from his socks, and everyone, to a man or woman, went absolutely silent and turned their backs on him. Choreographed, you’d say! Then Tonia Fawcett, I think it was . . . yes . . . Tonia strolled over, put a hand on his shoulder and said confidingly in that devastating drawl of hers, “Darling, just put them back on again, would you?”’