brought London girls, though not on Thursday. Anyway, they’re both rather favorites of his.”
“About that cat—was it white?”
“Yes, exactly. Longshanks, they called him, like Edward I—because they insisted that he was taller than the average cat. I couldn’t see it, and we got into frightful arguments about the average cat’s height.” Stamp laughed fondly. “They had him from the dean’s wife.”
“Is there anybody else to connect them?”
“I don’t think so. Oh—I suppose there’s Andy Scratch. He’s a decent fellow, though rather of a different crowd. A year older than us. The three of them serve on the social committee together. You can usually find him playing cards with the bartender down at the Mitre on Turl Street in the evening. Sandy-haired chap.”
“Scratch or the bartender?”
“Scratch.”
They had arrived at the rooms.
“Why did you live with Dabney?” asked Lenox. “If you were closer with Payson?”
“Oh—I suppose I put that too strongly. We’re all about equally friendly. All three of us requested a triple room, but only Dabney and I were put together. Between you and me, I reckon it was George’s mother who intervened, because he got practically the best digs in college.”
“Oh yes?”
“I’d trade. Although it’s a bit lonely for him. He spends a good deal of time over here, or at the Mitre. More sociable. Payson’s a sociable lad. The sort who would have been friends with the cricket captain at school even though he didn’t play cricket himself. Popular, I mean to say.”
Lenox smiled. It was a good description.
The room offered relatively little useful evidence. There was the usual assortment of books and tennis rackets and shoes lying about, and a fair amount of paper covered with Latin translations and other incidental coursework. On the back of one of these pages, the name George Payson was written several times in script.
“Any clue why this is here?”
Stamp shrugged. “Probably George was bored and practiced his signature. I sometimes doodle during lectures. Same thing.”
“Yes,” said Lenox.
There was also a fair collection of matchboxes. “A smoker?” Lenox asked.
“No. Perhaps he collected them.”
“Yes, they’re all from clubs and bars.”
“I remember now—he got quite touchy if I nicked one.”
“Odd.”
“Well, Dabs can be moody, as I told you.”
A few other things—none of them really interesting. Oddsand ends. Lenox couldn’t make much out about the lad from the detritus of his life.
“Where did you find the card—the September Society card?” he asked.
“Lying on top of all his books,” Stamp said. He was in the process of taking another match from one of Dabney’s matchbooks to light a cigarette. “Only about an hour before you came. I misplaced a biography of Cromwell. Hope it stays misplaced, actually. That’s why I was digging through here.”
Lenox finished looking at the room, making a thorough job of it. Outside it was dark.
“Thank you for your help.”
“Don’t mention it. You will find them, won’t you?”
“Where are you from?”
Stamp pushed his hair away. “Why, London. Do you ask for a reason?”
“If I were you I might consider returning home this weekend.”
“Why?”
“Both of your best friends are missing. I only suggest caution, not anxiety. But caution, certainly. This is a deep business.”
Stamp looked surprised. “Rum, that. Perhaps I will,” he said. “Rum,” he repeated to himself.
He showed Lenox downstairs and out into the courtyard. At his last glimpse Lenox saw anxiety dawning on the young man’s face, despite the counsel against it that he had just received.
CHAPTER TEN
A re you going to consult the police?” McConnell asked, lifting his glass of beer.
“I shouldn’t think so. Not yet, anyhow. It’s been a day and a half and there’s no conclusive evidence of foul play. For all we know they may be on a trip into London. Though I doubt
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