She was certainly not shy, for she challenged attention by making an entrance as though she were on the stage. Her gaze flashed over the men like the sweep of a searchlight. Foam thought he had never seen so arresting a face as her eyes met his as though in unconscious greeting. Even when she spoke to Raphael Cross in a voice which was trained in elocution, he acquitted her of any charge of boldness. He felt instinctively that she was snatching a rare opportunity to test her personality and to hold the attention of an audience. "Have you found your daughter yet?" she asked.
Cross shook his head without speaking. As the girl looked compassionately at him, Foam felt absurdly jealous of the fine build and fair curly hair of his client.
"Of course not," the girl told him. "You've set about it entirely the wrong way. Why didn't you tell that young man"--her glance indicated Foam--"that you've lost an exclusive model gown? Leave out all mention of the girl who was wearing it. She'll only weaken the case...don't you realize that no one cares about the human element? All the laws are framed to protect property."
"Isn't that rather sweeping?" asked Major Pomeroy.
"I call it an understatement," declared the girl. "The law imprisons for theft but they only fine for cruelty. If I murdered you, the press would make me into a public heroine. I should be called a beautiful young brunette. But if I pinched a stamp off you, I should be put into quod and the papers would describe me as a young person. That's because stamps are property--and property is sacred."
"But why pick on me?" asked the major indulgently. "Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Foam. He will probably want to interview you about--"
He bit off the end of his sentence--in deference to Cross' feelings--and mentioned the girl's name.
"This is Miss Green, the tenant of No. 15."
"Viola Green," supplemented the girl. "I'm called 'Greeny' on the set. Nice cool little name, does it make you think of tender young lettuce?"
"No." said Foam. "Unripe apples."
He was determined not to be biased by Viola's attraction. In order to escape, he turned to the major with a suggestion: "While we are waiting for the builder, suppose I have a few words with Miss Power? Merely routine."
"You'll find her at home," said Viola, who seemed uncrushable. "Power's a lady. She peeks behind curtains while I run out into the street to see the accident. And she's incredibly rich. She has all the proper pots and pans. I know, for I borrow them."
When Miss Power opened the door of No. 17 in response to the major's ring, Foam summed her up in his first glance.
"Country rectory."
She was about twenty-seven--probably younger--with short blunt features and a set expression which suggested strength of character. She was not perceptibly powdered and used no lipstick. Her thick fair hair was brushed back and worn in a small knot at her neck. She wore a tailor-built suit of blue-and-green speckled tweed--the skirt of which was calf length and revealed sports stockings and stout brogues.
"Will you come in?" she asked formally, after the major had explained Foam's standing.
As he looked round him, Foam noticed that the room was smaller than Madame Goya's and bore signs of being a living-place. It had evidently been converted into a flatlet by the expedient of chopping off a strip at one end, for part of it was concealed by a cream-painted wooden partition.
There was the same standardized suite and buff Axminster carpet as in Goya's apartment, with the addition of a cheap wardrobe and an oak bureau. The central table was piled with books and papers, besides a portable typewriter and two framed photographs. One was a cabinet portrait of a clergyman--the other a hockey team of schoolgirls, wearing tunics and long black stockings.
The faces were too small for recognition at that distance, but Foam was certain that Miss Power was among the players--probably as captain. Miss Power apologized for the disorder.
"Rather a mess--but I'm studying at high pressure for an advanced exam. I've been working here all day. I've already told Major Pomeroy that I've seen no strange girl. No one, in fact."
"Did you hear her voice?" asked Foam.
"No."
"Are these walls thick?"
Miss Power glanced interrogatively at the major, who answered the question.
"As a matter of fact, the dividing wall between No. 16 and No. 17 is merely lath and plaster. The original wall was removed during the conversion. I had to take in some of Madame Goya's apartment to make the flatlet."
"Rather a risk of disturbance in the case of a noisy tenant," commented Foam.
"I hear nothing of the next-door tenant," remarked Miss Power coldly.
Foam realized that it was characteristic of her type to profess ignorance of her neighbour's name, although she must see it daily on Goya's door. He also concluded that the glove maker's mysterious occupation was discreet, for Miss Power would not hesitate to lodge complaints.
"Does the second door lead to your bedroom?" he asked, glancing at the partition.
"No," replied Miss Power, "I sleep here on the divan. Kitchen, bath and the rest are down that end. Slum conditions--but one has to pay for an address...You can look inside."
Foam inspected the premises alone, for the major took the opportunity to go outside. There was the anticipated clutter of cramped domestic fixtures, but no sign of an extra exit. Unless, however, the builder revealed a secret egress from No. 16, the adjoining flatlets were free from suspicion.
"Thank you," he said. "I hope I shall not have to disturb your work again. If you should learn of anything unusual about this building or the tenants, will you let me hear. This is my number."
Her swift glance at the photograph of the hockey team made him aware of his blunder. He had outraged her code of playing the game. Ignoring his card, she opened the door.
"I'm too busy working to notice anyone or anything," she told him coldly.
It was a relief to return to the landing and into a friendlier atmosphere. His heart felt absurdly light when Viola limped to meet him, as though she, too, recognized a bond between them. She might have been the playmate of his childhood inviting him to play, when she whispered to him from a corner of her mouth:
"The major's in the hall, giving the builder the lowdown...Isn't this a thrill? Aren't you loving it?"
"I should," replied Foam. "I'm getting paid for it."
"Oh, of course. I forgot you're a cop. You look just a nice boy, with no brains and rather tough...Well, from the criminal angle, how does Power strike you? She reminds me of an underdeveloped 'still.' Too true to type...do you suspect her--or anyone?"
With a rare wish to humour her, he compromised. "I'll tell you someone whom I trust. It's Higgins."
"Who's 'Higgins'?" asked Viola.
"The hall porter, of course."
Viola began to laugh heartlessly. "You poor sap, don't you know the first rule is never tell your real name to a policeman? The porter is 'Pearce.' He double-crossed you all right."
And then--swiftly and sweetly--just as his childish playmate used to relent after she made fun of him--Viola changed her mood.
"You win," she said. "Pearce really is honest. He's hopeless at telephone lies. The time I've wasted, trying to corrupt him...Not dishonest lies. Just professional swank. You've got to swank in the profession...look, here's the builder."
She stopped talking to gaze with frank interest at the builder. He was a burly Esau, with shaggy hair and bushy eyebrows. His face was hollowed by elongated pits--the graves of original dimples--and his brown eyes were a challenge to humbug. He gave an impression of bluff honesty, plus intelligence,