sent a few days earlier via Lloyd's Bank.'
'With a signature?' said Frensic.
'The signature of the bank manager,' said Mr Cadwalladine.
'That's all I need,' said Frensic. 'What is his name?'
Mr Cadwalladine hesitated. 'I don't think...' he began but Frensic lost patience.
'Damn your scruples, man,' he snarled, 'the name of the bank manager and quick.'
'The late Mr Bygraves,' said Mr Cadwalladine sadly.
'The what?'
'The late Mr Bygraves. He died of a heart attack climbing Snowdon at Easter.'
Frensic slumped in his chair. 'He had a heart attack climbing Snowdon,' he muttered.
'So you see, I don't think he's going to be able to help us very much,' continued Mr Cadwalladine, 'and anyway banks are very reticent about disclosing the names of their clients. You have to have a warrant, you know.'
Frensic did know. It was one of the few things about banks he had previously admired. But there was something else that Mr Cadwalladine had said earlier...something about a typing agency. 'You said the manuscript came from a typing agency,' he said. 'Have you any idea which one?'
'No. But I daresay I could find out if you'll give me time.' Frensic sat holding the receiver while Mr Cadwalladine found out. 'It's the Cynthia Bogden Typing Service,' he told Frensic at long last. He sounded distinctly subdued.
'Now we're getting somewhere,' said Frensic. 'Ring her up and ask where...'
'I'd rather not,' said Mr Cadwalladine.
'You'd rather not? Here we are in the middle of a libel action which is probably going to cost you your reputation and...'
'It's not that,' interrupted Mr Cadwalladine. 'You see, I handled the divorce case...'
'Well that's all right...'
'I was acting for her ex-husband,' said Mr Cadwalladine. 'I don't think she'd appreciate my...'
'Oh all right, I'll do it,' said Frensic. 'Give me her number.' He wrote it down, replaced the receiver and dialled again.
'The Cynthia Bogden Typing Service,' said a voice, coyly professional.
'I'm trying to trace the owner of a manuscript that was typed by your agency...' Frensic began but the voice cut him short.
'We do not divulge the names of our clients,' it said.
'But I'm only asking because a friend of mine...'
'Under no circumstances are we prepared to confide confidential information of the sort...'
'Perhaps if I spoke to Mrs Bogden,' said Frensic.
'You are,' said the voice and rang off. Frensic sat at his desk and cursed.
'Confidential information my foot,' he said and slammed the phone down. He sat thinking dark thoughts about Mrs Bogden for a while and then called Mr Cadwalladine again.
'This Bogden woman,' he said, 'how old is she?'
'Around forty-five,' said Mr Cadwalladine, 'why do you ask?'
'Never mind,' said Frensic.
That evening, having left a note on Sonia Futtle's desk saying that urgent business would keep him out of town for a day or two, Frensic travelled by train to Oxford. He was wearing a lightweight tropical suit, dark glasses and a Panama hat. The sandals were in his dustbin at home. He carried with him a suitcase the Xeroxed manuscript of Pause, a letter written by Piper and a pair of striped pyjamas. Dressed in the last he climbed into bed at eleven in the Randolph Hotel. His room had been booked for Professor Facit.
