combined bar and restaurant. There were, however, two temporarily unescorted young women there, one blonde, the other bru-nette. The former, immaculately coiffured, and dressed in a white suit, would attract interest wherever she went; the lat-ter, her hair cut stylishly short, and dressed in a fold-over Oxford-blue creation, would perhaps attract her own fair share of attention, too, but her face was turned away from Morse, and it was difficult for him to be certain.
With no real ale on offer, he ordered a glass of claret, and stood at the bar for a couple of minutes watching the main door; then sat on one of the green bar-stools for a fur ther few minutes, still watching the main door.
But Miss Smith made no entrance.
'Are you on your own?'
The exaggeratedly seductive voice had come from di-rectly behind him, and Morse swivelled to find one of the two women, the brunette, climbing somewhat inelegantly on to the adjoining stool.
'For the moment I am, yes. Er, can I buy--?
He had been looking at her hair, a rich dark brown, with bottled-auburn highlights. But it was not her hair that had caused the mid-sentence hiatus, for now he was looking into her eyes---eyes that were sludgy-green, like the waters of the Oxford Canal.
'Ye gods!' he exclaimed.
'Didn't recognise me, did you? I've been sittin' waitin'.
Good job I've got a bit of initiative.'
'What will you have to drink.9'
'Champagne. I fancy some champagne.'
'Oh.' Morse looked down at the selection of 'Wines available by the Glass.'
'Can't we stretch to a bottle?' she asked.
Morse turned over the price-list and surveyed 'A Selection of Vintage Champagnes,' noting with at least partial relief that most of them were available in half-bottles. He pointed to the cheapest (cheapest!) of these, a Brat Premier Cru: 18 pounds 80 pence 'That should be all right, perhaps?'
She smiled at him slyly. 'You look a little shell-shocked, Inspector.'
In fact Morse was beginning to feel annoyed at the way she was mocking him, manipulating him. He'd show her! 'Bottle of Number 19, waiter.'
Her eyebrows lifted and the green eyes glowed as if the sun were shining on the waters. She had crossed her legs as she sat on the bar-stool, and Morse now contemplated a long expanse of thigh.
''Barely Black' they're called--the stockings. Sort of sexy name, isn't it?'
Morse drained his wine, only newly aware of why Eleanor Smith could so easily have captivated (inter alios)
Dr. Felix Mc Clure.
They sat opposite each other at one of the small circular-topped tables.
'Cheers, Inspector.'
'Cheers.'
He noticed how she held the champagne glass by the stem, and mentally awarded her plus-one for so doing; at the same time cancelling it with minus-one for the finger nails chewed down to the quicks.
'It's OK--I'm workin' on it.'
'Pardon?'
'Me fingernails--you were lookin' at 'em, weren't you? Felix used to tell me off about 'em.' She speared first a green, then a black olive.
'You can't blame me for not recognising you. You look completely different--your hair...'
'Yeah. Got one o' me friends to cut it and then I washed it out four times!--then I put some other stuff on, as near me own colour as I could get. Like it?'
She pushed her hair back from her temples and Morse noticed the amethyst earrings in the small, neat ears.
'Is your birthday in Febmary T'
'I say! What a clever old stick you are.'
'Why this... this change of heart, though T'
She shook her head. 'Just change of appearance. You can't change your heart. Didn't you know that T'
'You know what I mean,' said Morse defensively.
'Well, like I told you, I'm gettin' spliced--got to be a respectable girl now--all that sort o' thing.'
Morse watched her as she spoke and recalled from the first time he'd seen her the glossy-lipsficked mouth in the powder-pale face. But everything had changed now. The rings had gone, too, at least temporarily, from her nose; and from fin-gers, too, for previously she had wom a whole panoply of silverish tings. Now she wore just one, a slender, elegant-looking thing, with a single diamond, on the third finger of her left hand.
'How can I help you?' asked Morse.
'Well, I thought you might like to see me for starters--that wouldn't 'ave bin no good over the blower, would
