The Professionals Circuit Archive

Masquerade

"Sit down," Cowley said, and they sat, as obedient as dogs at Crufts.

He studied them, feature by feature, letting the silence grow, examining the two utterly different faces. As he had known he would be, Bodie was the first to become restless, impatient. Doyle remained impassive. Neither man spoke.

Cowley nodded, a silent assent to the question he had been asking himself since Cavanagh's visit.

"Sir William Maitland," he said, taking a photograph out of a file and putting it in front of them. They stared at the image, a grim-faced man in his late fifties, white hair thinning, a white moustache above thin lips and a stubborn chin. "Richard Maitland." A second photo joined it, a young man, dark hair cut short, eyes frowning at the camera. It was a handsome face, marked with a sullen nervousness, skin pale, eyes dark-ringed, jaw jutting with an inherited stubbornness.

"Looks familiar," said Doyle. "Do we know him?"

"No." Cowley's smile was entirely mirthless. "He bears a marked resemblance to Bodie. They could be a twin."

"What?" Outrage from Bodie. "Not bloody likely! He doesn't look a bit like me."

"Yes, I see what you mean," Doyle said thoughtfully. "Sending him in as a ringer, sir?"

"Yes. Something like that. Pay attention, Bodie. Sir William is an old friend of mine, we went to school together. So too is Joel Cavanagh." A third photo appeared; another man in his late fifties, dark hair greying at the temples, swept straight back from a high forehead. "Joel had been meaning to look me up for some time with a problem of his own, but was not sure if it was CI5 material or not. After a meeting with Sir William and a comparing of notes, they decided their two problems could well be one.

"Sir William is the head of the Constable Research Unit at Cambridge. Last month, his chief assistant's son was caught going through his father's research notes. They had a row, the boy ran out. The next morning he was found hanging in the orchard. Suicide. He left a note which Sir William kept from the police. It is somewhat ambiguous; our experts reckon it was written under the influence of drugs, and certainly cocaine was found in the boy's system at the post mortem. However, it does tie in with some of the things he'd yelled at his father during their quarrel. The boy was under pressure from an unidentified person or persons to obtain information on the Research Unit's current project--a so-called miracle-drug--the lever being blackmail with some unspecified photographs, and the lad's addiction to cocaine. He had been an habitué of some rather expensive London nightclubs, and this is where the two problems become one. Joel is the leader of a 1930's style dance band that plays alternate nights at two of these clubs. He was in Intelligence during the War, and he is convinced that one of the clubs is being used for some kind of underhand activity. He thought drugs, but it could also be blackmail."

"Does it link in with any other security leaks, sir?" Doyle asked.

"Possibly. We've no concrete proof, but what we could have here is a gang who specialize in industrial espionage using inside contacts through blackmail. There have been a number of cases over the last year that could fit this pattern. The relevant files are here for your perusal. I intend to put a stop to their activities, and have come to an arrangement with Sir William and Joel. And Richard Maitland." He glared at Bodie, and daring him to speak out of turn. "He is Sir William's only child, and is something of a black sheep. He's spent the last six years in San Francisco, living a somewhat bohemian life, and has been estranged from his family since he was sent down from Cambridge. The official reason was drug-taking--cannabis. What was not general knowledge was that he had also been caught in a compromising situation with his History don. His time in San Francisco reflects the same indulgences; drugs and a series of homosexual liaisons." He broke off, the better to appreciate Bodie's expression of dumbfounded and outraged horror. Doyle, his face contorted with suppressed laughter, leaned over and patted Bodie's knee.

"Never mind, sweetheart," he snickered. "It couldn't happen to a nicer girl."

Bodie took several deep breaths, and controlled himself.

"I see, sir," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm supposed to stroll into this bloody club, pick up a feller and get myself blackmailed. Right?"

"Something like that," Cowley agreed cheerfully. "Maitland has been flown back to this country and is safely stowed away in our care. Sir William will let it be known that he is anxious to be reconciled to his son, providing he gives up his rackety lifestyle and settles down to a respectable job with a respectable girl who'll become a respectable wife. In the meantime, Richard Maitland will appear in London under another name, attached in some way to Joel Cavanagh's band. Do you play an instrument, Bodie?"

"Triangle," Doyle supplied, ribaldly delighted.

"Guitar," Bodie snapped. "And piano. But I don't like 1930's music."

"You'll learn to like it," Cowley said. "Joel has just gained a pianist."

"Who," Bodie snarled, "do I pick up? Anybody?"

"No. A casual pick-up is too random. There would have to be a lot more at stake, more to pressurize Maitland with." His gaze moved to Doyle, and the wide grin faded to wall-eyed wariness.

"Oh, no. Not me."

"Yes," said Cowley.

"He's not my type!" Bodie protested, his own grin growing as Doyle's disappeared. "Far too butch and hairy."

"He won't be by the time we've finished with him," Cowley said grimly.

"Now wait a minute!" Doyle yelped. "There's no way--"

"Oh, yes, mate!" Bodie interrupted. "If I'm going to be made the laughing stock of CI5, there is no way I'm going to leave you on the outside to stir up more bad jokes at my expense. You're going to be right in there with me!"

"Exactly," said Cowley. "Doyle, can you sing?"

"'Course he can sing," Bodie cut in. "Pour enough alcohol into him and the trick is to stop him. No one knows more verses of Eskimo Nell than he does."

"No," snapped Doyle. "I can't."

"Then you're going to have to learn. I want you to be a visible part of the Cavanagh outfit, and Joel is prepared to stretch a point and let you take over his vocal spot. If you're good enough. If not, we'll have to think of something else." Doyle heaved a sigh, glowering and sullen in his chair.

"Yes, sir," he muttered. "I take it you've got it all worked out, sir?"

"Yes. Bodie, make a start on these files--that one is Richard Maitland from birth to this morning. Memorize every last word. Doyle, come with me. They're waiting for you in the basement."

"Oh, Christ," he moaned. "The things I do for my country." Bodie laughed and blew him a kiss as he trailed in Cowley's wake.

The resources of CI5 are many and various, and the gentleman waiting for them in one of the small basement photographic studios was not known to Doyle. He eyed the immaculate pinstripe suit and lavender shirt with some distrust, was appraised in his turn with speculation, amusement and appreciation.

Cowley did not perform introductions.

"Sit down, Doyle," he snapped. "All right, Jason, what do you suggest?"

"A change in his expression for a start," the man sighed. "The photos were useful, but I want to see what I'm working with."

"Poker up, 4.5," Cowley ordered. "You're not getting out of this, so make the best of it."

Doyle muttered under his breath and schooled his features into a blank mask.

"That's better." Jason walked round the chair. "An extraordinary face," he said thoughtfully. "The hair first, I think. A lightener to bring out the auburn in it. Reshape the eyebrows slightly, just enough to emphasize that arch, and darken his eyelashes. They are beautifully long, but the ends are bleached out. "

"Mascara?" Doyle bleated, horrified.

"Heavens, no, dear boy." Jason chuckled. "A semi-permanent tinting. You'll be amazed at the difference it'll make. It will also take years off your age. We're aiming for middle twenties."

"Oh, God," he groaned.

"How long will all that take?" Cowley asked, ignoring him.

"An hour or so. We'll be ready for the photographs by then, I should think."

"Good. I'll be back. Doyle, cooperate."

"Yes, sir."

Cowley returned to his office. Bodie was well into Maitland's file, an expression of settled gloom on his face.

"This--pillock is a right twat," he announced as Cowley entered. "How's Ray doing?"

"Simmering. How good a singer is he?"

"Not bad, if he doesn't fool around," Bodie conceded. "How in hell's name do you intend to turn that nutter into a fairy queen? Sir?"

"Window-dressing, Bodie. You'll be surprised. Leave the file for now, you can read it later. Your name is Richard Maitland, but you'll use the name of Foster, that being your mother's maiden name. 4.5 can go in as Ray Duncan. You met him in San Francisco, and you have a settled, virtually married, relationship, strong enough for you to be reluctant to let him go, even with the parental fortune at stake. You are dominant and possessive, and known for your chancy temper. I don't think you'll have much trouble with those characteristics, do you?"

"Huh. Probably not, sir. But Doyle isn't going to be happy with the fairy queen role."

"He'll manage. Joel is auditioning all this week at these two addresses. You'd better be good enough for him to be justified in hiring you, so practice all you can. I just hope Doyle can pass muster as a vocalist. Once you're in, concentrate on establishing yourself as a bona fide pianist, with Ray Duncan as resident boyfriend. Don't go hunting trouble, inviting contacts with the opposition, just play the piano and keep house. Sir William will be hiring a private eye to track down his lost sheep--we'll stage the reunion and the ultimatum, and let events take their course. You can get rooms at this address, it's a ten minute walk from one club, twenty minutes from the other. The rent is cheap, they have vacancies, and it is in an unquestioning neighbourhood. Equity cards--you'll both need 'em. Ray Duncan is also going to register with a couple of model agencies. But the only stage work you've both done was in the States. You're down to your last few pounds, so need jobs to pay the rent--you'd better blow some of your expenses on a cheap piano."

"Yes, sir."

"Any questions?"

"Not at the moment, sir."

"Good. Get on with your reading," and he left him to it.

Doyle scowled at his reflection, the angry belligerence at odds with the effect Jason was still striving to achieve.

"What the bloody hell am I supposed to do when this case is wrapped up?" he demanded. "Walk around with a bag over my head until it grows out? I look like a raving poof!!"

"You do not!" Jason snapped, exasperation overcoming self-control. "Androgynous is the word, and it does not mean the same thing."

"It does in my book, sunshine," Doyle snarled. "This is ridiculous! I'm not going to be able to live this down."

"You are a strikingly attractive young man," Jason pointed out from the region of his left shoulder.

"Striking being the operative word, mate," Doyle snapped. "Have you finished with me?"

"No, not yet. We need photographs."

"What for, for God's sake?"

"Model agencies," Cowley said crisply, coming in and shutting the door firmly behind him. "Good heavens. A remarkable transformation, Jason."

"Don't you start!" Doyle yelled.

"It's amazing what a few small details can achieve," Jason agreed, complacently. "Of course, his present attitude is wrong for the created image, but once he is into character out on the street, he shouldn't be faulted."

"He'd better not be." Cowley fixed angry green eyes with a cold blue stare. "On your feet, 4.5. We need publicity shots. Carry on, Jason. Don't mind me," and he took over Doyle's vacated chair, favouring his bad leg.

"These aren't going to be mug-shots, Ray, so relax," Jason said, voice chatty, as of one passing the time of day with a bomb that might explode if the wind changed direction. "And, er, you'd better start getting into your skin. I mean, start thinking and moving like Ray Duncan."

"Oh, strewth." Doyle sighed, and minced onto the small dais surrounded by spotlights. "How's that, ducks?"

"Awful," Jason snapped. "The boy is not the Camping Queen of Islington! Underplay, Ray, underplay. Be subtle about it! Make him fey, ethereal--he doesn't flounce, he drifts. Use your eyes and eyelashes, your mouth, the way girls do to you. But be subtle about it," he repeated earnestly. "Forget the stereotype fem gay. This boy has got to have class, and a lot more beside, if Maitland is to risk his father's anger and money for him."

"Why did I ever join CI5?" Doyle complained. "Okay, I'll do my best. I'm cooperating, so tell me what to do."

"Move and freeze as I tell you--turn and look to the top left--good--you'll have to wash your hair every day to keep that soft aureole effect--look straight at the camera and tilt your chin up--hold it--that's fine--and you'll have to shave as many times a day as you need to, to keep beard-shadow away. Undo your shirt to the waist--hands on hips--keep your chin tilted--good. Do you have any jewellery? Chains?"

"Got a silver one I used to wear."

"No good. It has to be gold for your colouring. George?"

"Get what you think suitable," Cowley said plummily. Doyle groaned.

"Have you forgotten the wedding ring?" he demanded, acidly.

"No doubt Richard will provide one, when he can afford it," Cowley said, and Jason chuckled; unnecessarily, in Doyle's opinion.

Bodie yawned, stretched, and rubbed the back of his neck. Cowley came into the office with a deceptively brisk stride, a twitch of a smile about his mouth and a sheaf of photographs under one arm.

"Finished Maitland's dossier?" he asked. "Good. Read it again. Later. Take them all home with you and brief Doyle. He's waiting for you in the car."

"In the car?" Bodie repeated, eyebrows climbing.

"Yes." The twitch became a definite smile. "He refused to walk through more corridors than he had to, to get out of here."

"Poor old sod." Bodie grinned. "What've they done to him, sir? Tarted him up like a Christmas-tree fairy?"

"Not exactly." Cowley spread the coloured photos in front of him in a wide sweep. "Take a look for yourself."

"Good God," said Bodie, blankly. He'd been expecting a parody of Doyle's aggressive masculinity, not a feline, fine-boned androgyne with the face of a flawed and fallen angel, and the shock unhinged his jaw. "Good God," he said again. "Never mind about getting a job. I could hire him out by the hour and rake in one hell of a profit."

"You do, and it'll be taken out of your salary," Cowley countered immediately.

"Naturally," Bodie sighed. "When does this job start? Officially, that is?"

"As far as you're concerned, it already has. I suggest you leave Doyle at his flat to read the files, then go and rent the rooms--on foot. You can't afford a car. You can move in tomorrow morning. Get a move on, before Doyle changes his mind and hands in his resignation."

"Yes, sir." Bodie grinned, and left at a fast lope.

Doyle was a disgruntled silhouette hunched in the passenger seat, coat collar turned up about his ears, half-masking his face. Bodie leered at him, tossing the wedge of folders onto the back seat, and climbing in under the steering wheel.

"Okay," he said brightly. "Let's have a look at you. Bloody hell, Ray, I wouldn't have thought it possible." Doyle glared at him, eyes startlingly green under the mane of copper fire.

"One crack, one smartass remark, and I will rip your guts out with my bare hands," he breathed, sorely tried.

"Wouldn't dream of it." Bodie swallowed the chuckle that threatened to break through his control. "What did they actually do? Apart from make your hair redder?"

"Just drive, will you?" Doyle snapped. And refused to open his mouth until he was back in the safety of his own flat, and had taken a few swallows of coffee.

"So what did they do?" Bodie repeated, peering closely at him. "Makeup? Your eyes look different."

"No!" Doyle stiff-armed him away. "He used a lightener on my hair, some kind of dye-stuff on my lashes, and sort of reshaped my eyebrows. Satisfied?"

"That's all?" Bodie was startled.

"What did you expect? Plastic surgery?" Doyle yelled.

"Okay, okay," Bodie soothed, aware that this was no time for flippancy. "Calm down, Ray. It's only window-dressing," borrowing Cowley's phrase, "and the job isn't going to last forever. I'd better go and see about this damn flat--shall I bring back a Chinese take-away? There's a hell of a lot of paperwork to get through."

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks." Doyle looked at him, and for the first time a smile took away the scowling mask. "Sorry. Those bastards back there gave me a rough time getting out to the car."

"I'll bet they did," Bodie said, ruefully. "Don't get me wrong, Ray, but you look like a million dollars, and there was me expecting the Queen of the May."

"Hah!" Doyle snorted, the scowl back in place. "The word, according to Jason, is androgynous."

"Is it? I'll take his word for it. Won't be long, and keep the door on the chain, okay?"

"Sod off!" Doyle yelled, and he beat a fast retreat.

Bodie left the car several streets away from the apartment block, a four-storey Victorian edifice divided into eight flatlets. The landlord inhabited the basement, and reluctantly heaved himself up flights of stairs to the second-floor apartment, treating his prospective tenant with a wheezing monologue of rules and regulations: no pets, no children, no radio or TV after midnight. Bodie speculated wild-eyed on the possibility of everyone turning into pumpkins at the witching hour; the landlord looked as if he had been interrupted halfway through his vegetable transmogrification.

As a flat, it made his own apartment seem like an annex to Buck House. A bedroom, a living room, a bathroom that was merely a curtained alcove containing a bath with a hot water geyser and an antediluvian flush-toilet, and a kitchen that was an uncurtained alcove containing a sink, a work top, a fridge of sorts, and a smaller water heater. All mod cons?

"Meters are in the broom cupboard. Rent's a month payable in advance, one month's notice to be given or payment in lieu," the landlord recited, as Bodie gazed around him at the old, worn furniture. The place smelt stale, but not damp.

"Can we bring in a piano?" he asked. "I'm a musician "

"Yus. But you don't play after midnight."

"Uh, okay. Do we have to be in by midnight?" he added.

"Please yerself what bleedin' time you come in, mate." Watery brown eyes raked him in mild contempt. "D'you want it 'r not?"

"Yes," said Bodie, smiling with all his teeth. "Can we move in tomorrow?"

"Yus. As long as the rent's paid, you can move in when you like."

Bodie pulled notes out of his hip pocket.

"How much?" he said.

On the way back to the car, he stopped at a junk shop, cleared cardboard boxes of paperbacks off an aged piano sitting on the pavement, and prodded a few keys. They seemed to work, so he stretched his fingers and attempted a shaky run at some scales. The thing seemed to be more or less in tune. A period of fierce haggling with the proprietor followed, at the end of which Bodie was the proud possessor of a piano with terminal woodworm, a music stool likewise afflicted, and the stool's contents; a goldmine of old sheet music. All for fifteen quid.

He made a quick sprint to the phone box a few yards away.

"Hi, Cuddles," he warbled, as Doyle's voice answered. "Guess what I've just bought us?"

"For God's sake, Bodie--"

"Our house-warming pressie, just to show how much I love you."

"Bodie!"

"A piano, and I'm not going to be the only one to get a hernia shifting it. Come on over and give me a hand getting it up to the flat."

"Up?"

"Second floor. It's not that large, as pianos go."

"Bodie!"

"Yes, I know. You love me too. It's Charlie's Emporium on Carters Lane. Know it?"

"Yes! Where did you park?"

"In front of the hat shop in Thackeray Road."

"Okay, I'll be there. Why don't you sit and practice your scales? Lover-boy." And the phone slammed down.

When Doyle arrived at the junk-shop, he found Bodie doing just that.

"Sometimes I wonder about you," he grumbled. "Has it got castors?"

"You're the only person I know who can make castors sound like a social disease." Bodie grinned. "It's got three. Isn't it lucky?"

"Isn't it just. I'll take the stool-thing, you can bring the piano."

"Try again, you didn't get it quite right. How about if we tie the whole lot together with string, we can get it there in one go."

"You are insane!" But he was laughing, suddenly infected with Bodie's particular brand of madness. "Okay, Butch, where's Home Sweet Home?"

"Down there, across the road and round the corner."

"Christ. Oh, well, let's get on with it."

Between them they manhandled the piano to the house and up the stairs, settling it in pride of place against the wall in the living-room. And propped the corner with the missing castor on a pile of sheet music to level the thing up.

"There," said Bodie, standing back and admiring it as if it was a personally created work of art. "I'll nip back and collect the stool. Why don't you give it a quick polish?"

"Not bloody likely, mate," Doyle snorted. "Look at the state it's in! If we stay here for any length of time we could infect the whole building with woodworm."

"No chance," he said with boundless confidence. "Oh, by the way, the bed's a double. Lover-boy." And he disappeared down the stairs, whistling.

"Maniac!" Doyle yelled after him, before realizing he had an audience. He shut the door on the curious stares from across the hall, and took stock of the flat, mentally listing the things that would have to be ferried in. Then suddenly realizing he was thinking like, of all things, a housewife, he gave himself a swift metaphorical kick. It wasn't time yet to get into the role of Ray Duncan.

But it was. A tentative knock on the door brought his head round. Not Bodie, since he had the keys. He opened it cautiously on the chain.

"Yes?" he said to the man and girl on the other side. She was white, the man West Indian.

"Um, Ann and John from upstairs. Number Five," the girl said. "Just a sort of welcoming committee, and to say if you need any help, just let us know."

"Oh. Thanks." He took the chain off the latch, and opened the door wide. "Ray Duncan," he supplied with a measured amount of wariness. "We're not moving in until tomorrow, officially. Just bringing in the odd bit."

"We heard." The man grinned. "You play it?"

"No, my--uh--Richard is the pianist." His eyes slid momentarily from their faces, and the girl blinked at him. He could almost see the data banks shift in her mind. It appealed to his sense of humour. "Is he with a group?" Ann asked.

"No, not yet, but he's looking. Hey, I'm sorry, I can't offer you a cup of coffee, a beer, or anything--"

"Don't worry about it." Her smile was unforced. "That's one of the things we've come down to offer."

"Yeah," said John. "The kettle's just boiled, and there's beer in the fridge. Come on up."

"We'll be glad to, as soon as--" Bodie chose that moment to reappear, carrying the stool on his shoulder.

"Hi," he beamed. "New neighbours already? I'm Richard Foster; call me Dick."

"Ann and John," Doyle supplied dutifully, "from Number Five upstairs."

"With refreshments on tap," she continued. "Just come on up when you're ready, don't bother to knock, the door'll be open."

"Thanks," Bodie said appreciatively, then caught Doyle's gaze on him, and softened his grin into a smile. "There you are," he went on, dropping a casual arm about lean shoulders, "told you the natives would be friendly."

They had not talked out the character of Ray Duncan, all their concentration being given to Richard Maitland, his father, and the collection of relevant files. Doyle had decided vaguely on one or two points, based on Maitland's projected character and on Jason's instructions and opinions, but had not had the chance to discuss anything with Bodie. But the man had to be established right now, so he could only pray that his partner would react correctly. He stiffened under the casual embrace, head averted.

"Yes," he muttered. "Should have listened--excuse me," and ducked into the flat.

Bodie rose to the test, his mind sliding into overdrive and supplying the necessary inspiration.

"Ray's over-reacting to England," he said quietly, not letting his startlement show. "We're not long back from 'Frisco. They are a lot more uncritical over there. So," he let a note of belligerence creep into his voice, "you better know right from the start, if you don't already. Ray and I are lovers. We live together. Gays. Queers. Homos. Whatever label you want to put on it."

"Hey, man." John shrugged. "Different strokes for different folks. At least you won't be making a pass at my old lady."

The hard arrogance relaxed into a grin.

"That's right," Bodie said. "Or at you, mate. Not my type. You going to move in on my feller?"

"Nope." John's answering grin was very white in his dark face. "He ain't my type."

"So now we can be friends?" Ann chuckled.

"Friends," Bodie agreed, shaking both their hands. "All I have to do now is convince Ray he's not about to be burnt at the stake. That's why he left England in the first place; got beaten up by a pack of yobs out queer-bashing," and tapped his right cheekbone. "Plastic," he said succinctly. "We'll be with you soon." And he slipped inside the flat.

Doyle was waiting for him, an indolent sprawl on the misshapen couch, a Cheshire Cat grin on those subtly altered features.

"You sneaky bastard!" Bodie hissed. "You dropped me right in it with that vanishing trick."

"Ah, but you coped, didn't you?" Doyle was unrepentant. "Besides, I decided it would fit Duncan; when in doubt, duck out."

"I'll remember that. Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. Inventive, and beautifully macho, my friend," Doyle purred, eyes glinting under lowered lashes.

"So tell me more about little Raymond Duncan," Bodie growled, standing over him, arms akimbo.

"Not so much of the little, Butch," Doyle drawled.

"You'll always be little to me, Goldilocks," he retaliated. "Come on, my shrinking violet. It's time to be insecure upstairs." He took hold of Doyle's wrist, pulled him to his feet, and towed him out of the door. "My God," he muttered, "we're going to have one hell of a reputation around here without even trying." Across the hall, the door snapped shut.

"Hold on a minute!" Doyle hissed. "Will you cut out the caveman act?"

"That's Foster's image," Bodie snickered. "Here we are, Number Five. Don't be bashful."

"Wait. What do I call you?"

"Huh?"

"Richard's too formal, Dick is for everyone. So what do I, as resident hot-water-bottle, use for a name? Butch?"

"Not bloody likely. You serious?"

"Yes. Something informal, personal, and unsloppy."

"Oh." Bodie racked his brains. "According to his file, Maitland was nicknamed Dickon when he was a kid."

"That'll do fine."

Six large, battered suitcases brought clothes and other basic necessities up to flat Number Four, and they spent most of the morning emptying them out and stowing the stuff away in drawers, wardrobe, cupboards and shelves. All the clothes had been provided by CI5, and every item down to underpants and socks had come originally from the West Coast of America. Bodie's selection was no different to his own choice of wear. Doyle's was. Gone were the loose, comfortable shirts, pullovers and jackets, worn jeans and cords. In their place were styled denims, cords and slacks, closefitting shirts and tops that emphasized the slimness of his build while camouflaging the whiplash strength, with a selection of fashionable jackets to match the ensemble, and a heavy gold choker that glinted expensively about his throat.

"Bloody Jason," Doyle muttered, holding up a cheesecloth shirt, white embroidered on white. "I wouldn't be seen dead in this."

"Oh, no, it's very you." Bodie grinned. "Positively bridal. Don't flex any muscles, Ray, you're likely to get through a hell of a lot of seams."

"Sod off," his supposed-lover told him, and pulled on a nearly-new Arran sweater and a jacket, heading for the door. "I'd better go and register with these agencies. You better get in some practice on that monstrosity, or you'll never land the job, and we'll all be in the shit."

"Okay. Here, you'll need your key. And the pin-up pictures," tossing envelope and key across the room. Doyle caught them neatly and stowed them away about his person. Then he pulled a wry face, took a few deep breaths, and pushed himself into Ray Duncan. Bodie grinned and blew him a kiss.

"Good luck, but stay off the casting couch," he said. "And don't accept lifts from strangers."

He got a wounded glance from wide green eyes.

"As if I would," said Ray Duncan, reproachfully, and drifted out.

Left to himself, Bodie snickered and shook his head. The transformation from Doyle to Duncan was a fascinating spectacle. He also found it slightly irritating, though he could not pin down exactly why it should be so. He didn't try to pin it down. Bodie was not given to self-analysis.

The contemptuously discarded cheesecloth shirt caught his eye, and he picked it up, put it away in the wardrobe, stacked the last suitcase on top of that scarred piece of furniture, and studied the bed. It looked secure enough. He sat on the bare mattress and bounced. The springs creaked. Loudly.

Sheet, pillows and cases, duvet and cover were all that was needed to make the bed habitable, and didn't take him long to put together from the pile of stuff tipped from a suitcase. Then he turned his attention to the piano.

The sheet music wedged under the castorless corner was exchanged for a couple of paperbacks, the stool was emptied, and he spread the lot over the table. It was a motley collection, but contained some useful items among the dross; songs from the 30's and 40's, and several booklets devoted to the lyrics of Noel Coward. The remainder he discarded.

Flexing his fingers and wondering if he could remember how to read music, Bodie sat at the piano and did a scale or two. It was not noticeably out of tune, even after its journey and elevation in the world, and he amused himself picking out half-recalled favourites on the stained keys. He was surprised at how much he did remember, and with jaunty confidence sorted out one of the Coward collections and opened it at the title that had previously caught his eye.

"This one's for you, Ray-baby," he snickered, and attacked 'Mad About The Boy', providing his own vocal accompaniment.

Doyle visited three agencies recommended by Jason, was interviewed, photographed and filed, then headed for the first of Cavanagh's auditioning addresses.

At nearly midday on a Tuesday morning, The Paradise Grove was closed for business, though music could be faintly heard from within. He investigated a side-alley, discovered a door and a sign. 'Auditions 9 to 1 Monday to Wednesday. Thursday to Saturday at The Mandalay.' Doyle went in, slipping unobtrusively into the empty restaurant and joining the group of hopefuls on the edge of the small dance floor. Joel Cavanagh, recognisable from his photograph, sat with another man at a table opposite them, and on the stage a sweating middle-aged man played a sedate jazz on the piano.

Doyle studied Bodie's potential competition. Age-range and appearances were varied, but most of the younger ones displayed hairstyles not unlike his own, or carefully casual shoulder-length locks, with or without California-style sun-bleach. Bodie, Doyle decided, regardless of how he played, at least could look like a 1930's lounge-lizard, and that was what Cavanagh wanted, judging by the shots out front. Bodie, the Lounge Lizard. That amused him, and he swallowed back his involuntary chuckle.

The music stopped.

"Thanks, Harry." Cavanagh's voice was quiet, but it carried well. "I'll let you know by Saturday. Mark Wells?"

"Yes, Mr. Cavanagh." A blond-brown youth with a pronounced American accent stepped forward. Accent false, Doyle decided.

"Vocals and piano?"

"Yes, sir."

Wells' performance wasn't bad in Doyle's estimation. What Cavanagh made of it he couldn't guess. A hand tapped him on the shoulder, and he jerked round to face the raised eyebrows of a harassed-looking man in his forties.

"You're not on the list," he hissed.

"Uh, no," he whispered back. "I'm only here to find out if the auditions are still running."

"Until Saturday. Come on out into the office, I'll take your details."

"Okay." And Doyle followed meekly in his wake.

"It's not a question of come-one-come-all," the man said, as the door marked Private closed behind them. "Joel likes a bit of order in the chaos of life. Sit down, Mr.--?"

"Duncan. Ray Duncan."

"Paul Newley, business manager. Okay, Ray, previous experience?"

"Uh, it's not for me. I don't play the piano, only sing."

"We're auditioning for both," Newley said, patiently. "So I'll take both sets of details, if you're interested, and make two appointments. You first. Previous experience?"

Doyle dutifully trotted out the background already arranged for himself and Bodie, all of it verifiable.

"Ever sung 30's-style before?" Newley said at the end.

"No," Doyle answered. "But there's no harm in trying, is there?" and offered a tentative smile.

"None at all. But I'll give you one hint, Ray. 30's-style means just that, all the way through. You and Foster come along to the Mandalay, Thursday, at ten."

"Yes, sir. Thank you."

On the way back to the flat he stopped at a phone box, and put a call through to Cowley's office.

"Audition's Thursday, sir," he said crisply. "For both of us."

"Good," Cowley said. "Joel will be keeping an eye out for you, and an ear. Bodie had better be good enough, and so had you. I've got some advice to pass on. No hamming, no extravagant gestures, deadpan it. You've got music tapes in the flat, listen and learn, but don't strangle your voice trying to be an exact replica."

"Thanks. But, sir, Duncan's image isn't your 30's look-alike, either. The hair, and that."

"Unimportant. A dress-suit and a red carnation will be all that's necessary, Doyle," Cowley snapped. "Don't make difficulties."

"No, sir," he sighed. "Well, it was worth a try...."

"And here's some more advice, from me. Once you're in and Foster has been identified as Maitland, stay with the characters at all times. Cameras and recorders can be hidden, remember. All you have to do now is just make sure you get the job." And the line went dead.

"Yeah," said Doyle to the handset. "And I just might keep it. Bet he pays better than CI5."

The next stop he made was at a supermarket, where he stocked up on some basic groceries, trudging the last few streets with loaded carrier bags.

The piano could be heard as he opened the street door, and he paused briefly to listen. Mellowed by distance it wasn't too bad. The melody even sounded familiar, a lively tinkling tune. Then he placed it. 'If I Had A Talking Picture Of You'. He laughed, and ran up the stairs humming along with it.

"That's out of the Ark," he said as he let himself in. Bodie glanced round with a grin of welcome.

"Don't knock it, this could be our bread and butter. Talking of which, I'm starving."

"So'm'I," Doyle said with asperity. "I don't suppose you thought of getting us any lunch, did you?"

"'Course not," Bodie snorted. "You're the home-maker in this set-up."

"Don't bank on it, sunshine," he retorted. "I could well go on strike. Advice from Cavanagh via Cowley: no overacting on stage, we've got to be deadpan."

"Oh." Bodie's face fell. "No candelabra, no rhinestone jackets?"

"Right. How're you getting on?"

"Pretty well. Why?"

"We audition at 10 on Thursday."

"That was quick. You better get your act sorted out, mate, and I don't mean just the songs. Can you read music?"

"The words, yes. The dots and squiggles, no."

"Oh. Thank God you've got a good memory."

"Yeah. We'll eat first, though, or my guts'll be giving their own recital. Cowley also said we should stay with the characters 24 hours a day."

"Bloody hell." Bodie gaped at him. "That's a bit steep."

"You're not kidding. Once we're in with the band, and the Maitland cover is blown, no more Doyle, or Bodie. Oh, well, all in a day's work. What do you want? Sausage, beans and instant mash?"

"If I must."

"Knock my cooking, sweetheart, and it's divorce," Doyle warned him and took his groceries off to the kitchen alcove. Behind him the piano gave forth notes, and Bodie soulfully warbled his way around 'Mad About The Boy.'

The previous evening, once they'd extricated themselves from the hospitality of Number Five, they had concocted a life history and rounded out the personality of Ray Duncan. Now it was as firmly rooted in two photographic memories as Richard Maitland's career and character, and Doyle could step into his alter ego without noticeable pause, maintain it without much effort. Which was as well. There was not much time left to them before the man's fully public debut.

Rehearsals in the afternoon went well, Doyle surprising himself, and Bodie, once he had found the knack of producing a relaxed, poker-faced style of singing. His voice was a pleasant, untrained tenor, and fitted the aged songs well. But how he would get on in front of a microphone and an audience was another matter. In thirty-odd years and varying careers, it was something he'd not done before. Bodie, who claimed to have played jazz-piano in a dive in Cape Town, was unsympathetic. What was an audience, after all? They had played undercover parts before where a shaky portrayal would have meant death. Joel Cavanagh, his band, and the clientele of several nightclubs would be a piece of cake.

A knock on the door cut short the argument, and Ann's voice came muffled through the peeling wood.

"It's only me, not the Noise Abatement Society," she called, and Doyle opened the door, gesturing her in with a smile. "You two sounded really good from upstairs."

"Thanks. Would you like to go down to The Mandalay and tell Cavanagh?" he said ruefully.

"Ignore him." Bodie grinned. "The fool's getting stage-fright already. We audition Thursday."

"Great! I'll keep my fingers crossed," Ann said. "I'm not stopping--just thought you'd like to know you've got something, even if it's not exactly Motorhead."

"I'll let you into a secret," said Bodie. "It's not our kind of music, either. But a job is a job, if one or both of us can land it."

"Yeah," she said with feeling. "I don't think much of waitressing in a Wimpey bar, but--" She shrugged, gave them a smile, and left.

"Odd, isn't it," Doyle said. "She's accepted that we're as queer as nine quid notes, but bet you she'd raise all hell if she found out we're CI5."

"No takers. What say we go out tonight, Lover-boy?"

"Where to? Back row of the local flea-pit?" Doyle quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. That or the Paradise Grove. You dress up all pretty, and we'll check out the lie of the land."

"The Mandalay is the questionable place," Doyle pointed out.

"True. But Cavanagh is at the Grove tonight, and I want to see in the flesh the guy who not only went to school with George Cowley, but is also an old friend."

"Okay." He chuckled. "But it's a pricey joint."

"Stick to orangeade, then, my flower. How much cash have we got left?"

Their financial situation would have been grim if the expenses handed out by Cowley had to last an indefinite period. As it was, they felt able to afford a snack in Ann's Wimpey bar before walking on to the Paradise Grove.

Bar prices were high, the clientele were fashionably, expensively, dressed, and a swift glance at a menu impressed Bodie as much by the dishes on offer as the amounts charged for them. Doyle paid more attention to the music, making mental notes of the song titles performed by Mr. Cavanagh. And Bodie, because he was trained to notice such things, made mental notes on the number of men whose glances strayed too frequently to Doyle's intent features and slim body.

"Do you know," he murmured intimately in Doyle's ear, "I reckon if I slapped a price ticket on you, we could clear Cowley's salary by midnight." Ray Duncan's wide, feline eyes turned to him, and the full lips were almost inviting.

"You bastard," Doyle breathed. "You want a mouthful of fist?" Bodie choked his hoot of laughter into a coughing fit, discovering the delights of a new game: baiting Doyle when Doyle was unable to respond as he would wish offered up endless possibilities. But any coherent reply he might have made was deflected by the approach of a tall, wry-featured man.

"Evening, Ray. Sussing out the band?"

"Uh, as a matter of fact, yes. Dickon, this in Mr. Newley, Joel Cavanagh's business manager."

"Evening," said Bodie, taking the offered hand. "Dick Foster." There was a cynical amusement in Newley's eyes, a swift appraisal that took stock of them both. (Bloody hell) thought Bodie. (Is it as obvious as that?) And felt Doyle move a little away from his side.

"Yes, of course," Newley said. "The Thursday audition. See you then." He moved on, greeting more people by name.

"That's our cue to leave," Bodie said quietly. "Got all you need?"

"Just about," Doyle nodded. "It's getting to be a little crowded around here." There was an angry glitter in his eyes that did not belong to Duncan, a cold edge to his voice, and he moved closer to Bodie with an almost aggressive grace. "Okay, Big Boy. You're supposed to be the protector, so protect me, or I'm going to damage the next piece of crud that gropes me." It was spoken in an icy whisper that would have been inaudible to anyone else, and the suppressed fury and outrage made Bodie's day complete.

"Come on," he said, taking Doyle's elbow. "Let's get out of here." And managed to step hard on several pairs of expensive shoes as he ushered him away.

Doyle was still fuming when they got back to the flat, and Bodie's stomach hurt with the strain of keeping his hilarity in check. To let it out would be to trigger an explosion of atomic proportions, and he had had experience in the past of Doyle's rare rages. This was neither the time nor the place for Armageddon.

"Decided on your songs?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Yes. 'Heaven Can Wait', 'Penny Serenade', and 'Dancing In The Dark'," Doyle snapped. "We've got the music for them, haven't we?"

"Yeah. In the stool, just under the Noel Coward stuff. You want first crack at the bathroom?"

"No, go ahead. What're you going to play?"

"Whatever you've chosen," Bodie said, surprised, heading for the curtained alcove.

"No. I think we should go in separately, not as a duo."

"Okay." He shrugged. "Doesn't make much difference, I suppose. How about 'It's Only Make Believe'? And 'That Old Black Magic'? 'Love Is The Sweetest Thing'?"

"They'll do. We've got 'em all here, at any rate." Bodie could hear him rummaging around in the piano stool, then the quiet lilt of a song as he ran through the lyrics half under his breath.

"You've got a pretty good voice," he announced. "Better than Cavanagh's."

"Sod off," said Doyle vaguely, and Bodie went back to his ablutions, relieved that the Doyle temper appeared to have been safely defused.

"Hurry up and put the lights out," he said on his way through to the bedroom, a towelling robe over bare shoulders and pyjama pants. "God knows how long that last ten pence is going to give us."

"'Kay."

It was Bodie's boast that he could sleep on a clothesline, and certainly an uneven mattress and springs that spoke at the slightest movement proved no obstacle. The last thing he remembered was the light tenor voice drifting easily through a melody. It was an excellent soporific.

He was awakened by a hard prodding finger, and a disgusted complaint in the darkness.

"Bodie! Shift your misbegotten carcass, will you? You've got two-thirds of the bloody bed!"

"Wha'?"

"You sleep on that side, not in the middle! Shift!" and he was heaved bodily out of the way. Doyle slid into the vacated space, and settled himself with an economy of fuss. "Meter's run out," he said. "G'night."

"Ungh," said Bodie. "Divorce you t'morrow."

His next awakening was kinder, a smooth transition from sleep to awareness in a cool, bright dawn light. A glance at his watch supplied the time. 7.43.

Bodie yawned and stretched, and cautiously sat up. Doyle was a neat curl of limbs beside him, hair a riotous tumble of copper in the sunlight that managed to get through the gaps in the curtains. Dark and long, his lashes were a fan-spread that any girl would envy, and Bodie grinned down at him. (Poor sod never knew what kind of a face he had until Cowley and Jason mucked about with it--hardly the stuff to launch a thousand ships, but it could easily run to a row-boat or two. Pity Duncan was a spineless drip.)

"Rise and shine, my sweet," he carolled, and planted a swift kiss on Doyle's brow, bounding out of the bed like a stag to avoid the immediate retaliation of a jabbing fist.

"Bloody maniac." Doyle groaned. "What time is?"

"Time we got up. We've only one full day of practice, and that's all. Can't waste a minute."

"Are you always this bloody-cheerful in the mornings?" Doyle demanded, stretching long muscles.

"Yes," said Bodie succinctly, hitching up sliding pyjamas. "Except when I'm hung-over. What's for breakfast?"

"Christ." He sighed, and crawled out of bed. "You're going to be a bachelor all your life, mate. No girl would be daft enough to put up with you." Bodie leered at him, eyeing him from head to foot, from tousled hair to white pyjama pants balanced precariously on his hips.

"Who needs a girl?" he drawled, and collected an exasperated glare.

"You will, sunshine," Doyle said. "This job isn't going to be over in a week. A month of celibacy won't bother me much, I've got self-control. Reckon you can take it?"

Bodie was momentarily speechless. That aspect of the case hadn't occurred to him.

"Start praying I can," he said when he found his voice. "And practice keeping your back to the wall in case I can't."

"Cowley doesn't like his operatives getting too close." Doyle grinned. "Think again. Lover-boy."

"Huh." Bodie conceded a temporary defeat, and took himself off to the bathroom while Doyle ambled out to the kitchen and the kettle.

Come the afternoon, and they ambushed Ann, kidnapping her from her door and bribing her with coffee to be a critical audience. More usefully, it was another opportunity to give Doyle a chance at Duncan, sustaining the character over a period of time.

Ann's reactions to Duncan's self-effacing insecurity was something Bodie found fascinating to watch; far from being reserved, she treated him with an unconsciously maternal affection, as if he was an unfledged and semi-helpless cuckoo-chick in need of care and protection. An interesting pointer to Maitland's attitude to his lover, Bodie realised. More than dominant, more than possessive--Doyle had said it yesterday--protector. An easy role for him to play, but Duncan was a direct antithesis to Ray Doyle all along the line.

"Dickon." The quiet voice filtered through his thoughts, and a long-fingered hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "You're miles away. Ann's spoken to you twice."

"Uh, sorry." He directed his best smile at the girl. "Guess it's my turn to start the nerves. Give me a third chance?"

"I said come to tea tomorrow, and we'll help you celebrate or mourn," she offered.

"We won't know until Saturday, probably," Bodie said, "but tea would help us through the post-audition depressions. Thank you." She blinked at the warmth of his smile, and Doyle moved suddenly to the table, shuffling through the sheet-music there with exaggerated concentration, and Bodie realised he was letting his own reaction to a pretty girl get the upper hand. Maitland may well have swung both ways, but right now he was supposed to be happily 'married'. "Thanks, Ann. We'll be glad to come. Excuse me while I soothe some ruffled feathers," and walked across to Doyle. Deliberately he put his arms around him, pulling him back into his embrace, aware both of Doyle's involuntary tightening of muscles, and of the girl's smiling departure. He did not release his partner until the door had clicked shut.

"Dumb bastard," Doyle grunted. "You damn-near blew it that time."

"Yeah. Sorry," he said ruefully. "Never played a queer before. Just can't help eyeing up the girls."

Doyle snickered.

"You've got it easy," he said. "If she leans close and pats my knee again, I'll probably rape her. I am not her kid sister."

"Thought you said you could cope with celibacy?"

"I can cope," Doyle insisted. "Come on, let's run through our programmes one more time."

"Ray," said Bodie quietly, suddenly serious as another previously unthought-of aspect hit him. "There's something else you're going to have to cope with, especially when we're into these creeps full-time."

"What's that?"

Bodie put his arms round him again.

"This," he said, tightening his hold on the abruptly stiffened body. "Duncan isn't going to jump like a goosed kangaroo every time Maitland touches him. He's possessive, remember? He's going to be staking his territory. Making sure the world knows Duncan is his. Right?"

Doyle thought about it.

"Right," he agreed, and relaxed. "But he won't be so keen on too much public demonstration. Not in Good Old England."

"True. But, Ray, they've got to have a blackmail lever. So they've got to see enough to have enough. So--" He paused, and grinned down at the frowning face, an unholy joy building in him. "How good a kisser are you?"

"My girls don't complain," he said, warily.

"Neither do mine," and covered Doyle's mouth with his own. He won a grunt of surprise and indignation, and Doyle jerked his head back, breaking the kiss.

"That isn't going to work, sunshine," he said. "They'll have to do without the passion. This is one tango that isn't going to get off the ground."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We can't both take the lead in the dance, and I'm not giving way."

"That's Doyle speaking. Not Duncan. Bet it suits him down to the ground, being wanted."

Doyle heaved an exasperated sigh.

"Bodie. I've got news for you. It doesn't do a thing for me, or Duncan. And if you don't let me go, you're going to get a painful introduction to my knee."

"I'm the macho one, remember?"

"Any minute now, you won't have much left to be macho with."

"Spoilsport," Bodie snickered, and released him. "How about a coffee break?"

"Good idea." Doyle moved away with a light punch to Bodie's midriff and an indulgent shake of his head. "Bloody clown."

But Bodie had a point, Doyle admitted to himself. Whoever was running the operation at The Mandalay would require more than a public announcement of the Duncan-Maitland relationship. Well, they would cross that bridge if or when they came to it. He did not relish the prospect--it had felt very strange being kissed by a man, and while he'd put up with it if he had to, it was not an experience he would choose to repeat.

If the Paradise Grove was a classy establishment, The Mandalay topped it by several notches. Even in the cruel clarity of the morning, the stacked chairs and bare tables could not detract from the deep red and gold opulence. According to the billing out front, the Joel Cavanagh Orchestra split the week with Harry Jackson And His Band, who Bodie, judging by the photos, announced to be Glen Miller clones. Doyle didn't argue.

Newley had met them at the stage door, ticked them off his list, and sent them on through to join the half-a-dozen already waiting.

They waited their turns in silence, ostensibly watching the opposition, but paying as much attention to the place itself, and the staff that moved unobtrusively about their tasks.

"Ray Duncan?" Cavanagh said finally, and Bodie nudged Doyle in the ribs.

"Good luck," he muttered, and got Duncan's unsure smile. (Never mind the singing, you're a bloody good actor, mate.)

"He's very nervous," said the only other applicant left. Which was true. Acting couldn't provide the fine sheen of sweat on upper lip and mismatched cheekbones.

"He'll be okay," Bodie said flatly.

And Doyle was. The three songs were sung without any evidence of strain, the delivery relaxed, diction having a bell-like clarity he hadn't used in their rehearsals. It was a competent performance, good enough and different enough from what had gone before to justify Cavanagh's 'Come back this afternoon, Ray, and we'll see how you sound with the full band.'

Bodie got the same quiet remark, as did the third man, another vocalist, and he found himself ridiculously pleased even knowing that the result had been virtually a foregone conclusion.

The second audition went as smoothly as the first, and afterwards Cavanagh sent the other vocalist on his way, and took the two of them into his office.

"Congratulations," he said, gesturing them to chairs. "I'm glad George managed to find a couple of lads who wouldn't compromise my reputation."

"Your reputation?" Duncan reverted to Doyle with startling abruptness, the extent of the change taking the bandleader by surprise. "What about my reputation?"

"Take no notice of him." Bodie grinned. "He still hasn't got over being beaten into second place as the Stud of CI5."

"Hah!" Doyle snorted. "Mr. Cavanagh, who else in your set-up knows who we are?"

"No one. This is entirely between William, George, and myself. And you two. How much in these particulars is genuine?" tapping the sheets Newley had filled out.

"None of it, on my part," Doyle admitted. "God's Gift here reckons to have played jazz in a Cape Town honky-tonk, but no one believes half of what he says--"

"It's true!" Bodie snapped, affronted.

"How long were you there?" Cavanagh asked.

"Well, six weeks," said Bodie, "but--"

"But you can play the damn thing," the band leader finished for him. "Okay, boys, you're in. Dick, our wardrobe will provide a black dress-suit and a range of shirts and bow-ties. We vary the colours show to show. Ray, you'll be getting a white suit, coloured shirts. When you're signed up, you can go down to the dressing room and get fitted out. Buttonholes are also worn--these'll be provided at the beginning of every show. Rehearsals one to four every afternoon bar one. We're on stage from nine to two, three days here, three days at the Paradise Grove. Mondays are free. If you want to take private bookings for that day, you can. As you're both new to the kind of music we play, you can take a pile of sheet-music back with you, along with the projected programmes for the next week. Ray, I've ticked the numbers you'll be singing. In between your songs, you can sit at the bar, in the dressing room, up on stage, wherever you like, but be ready for your cue, or else."

"Yes, sir," he grinned.

"Dick, you'll be involved in most numbers. Do well, and I might give you two your own spot in the show. Sign here and here. Salary is paid weekly, at the Friday rehearsal."

"Uh, any chance of an advance?" Bodie suggested hopefully. "Our expenses weren't exactly generous, and we had to buy a piano--"

"We can manage," Doyle cut in, glaring at him. "Have there been any further developments since your last report to Mr. Cowley, sir?"

"No. I haven't managed to find out if The Mandalay staff are involved, or--"

"We'd rather you didn't try, sir," Bodie said quietly. "CI5 are already checking out all possible connections, staff and customers, and it would be best if nothing was done on the inside."

"Yes, sir," Doyle went on. "Our instructions are to sit tight, go along with the charade with Sir William, and wait for them to make the first move."

"Fair enough. But if I hear the odd remark, I'll pass it on." Clearly, old habits died hard.

"Mr. Cavanagh." Bodie leaned forward. "What will the reactions be from the rest of the band to the arrival of a couple of housekeeping queers?"

"This is show-business, Dick." Cavanagh's smile was ironic. "You're not an isolated case, you'll find, and you'll get no stick from the ones who are straight. There's at least one of my lads you'll have to defend your--er property from," he gave Doyle an apologetic nod, "and there'll be customers, male and female, who'll pay special attention to you both."

"Strewth." Doyle groaned. "Can't help thinking this assignment would be easier if we were gay."

"Listen," said Bodie, with deep feeling, "by the time it's over, we'll either be at each others' throats, or bent as a bloody hatstand. Anything else we should know, sir?"

"Uh--no, I don't think so," Cavanagh said over Doyle's crack of laughter. "Just be back here for rehearsals at one sharp."

They stood up, and Cavanagh watched Doyle's alert competence become Duncan's almost ethereal reserve and feline, drifting grace.

"Good luck," the bandleader said. "I'll take you along to the dressing room; Tad will measure you up and have your outfits waiting for you Saturday."

The celebratory tea at flat Number Five went very well, as Doyle let enough of his own somewhat caustic sense of humour and personality through Ray Duncan's reserve to give that otherwise bland character a strength and life of his own--hidden fires behind the mask--another reason for Maitland to be hooked to the exclusion of all else. Bodie toasted him with a healthy slice of Marks and Spencer Swiss roll. If he could project some of that on stage, in front of an audience, Cavanagh needn't worry about compromising anything.

On Saturday night, Doyle could and did. A motionless, solitary figure in the spotlight, white suit, blood-red carnation in the lapel, a dark green shirt, and hair a fiery lion's mane, he sang the old love songs without overt emotion, yet somehow conveying the impression of a cat poised to leap--the machismo of the potentially dangerous--with nothing fey or retiring about him at all. The applause was more than polite form, and he came over to the piano with a feral bounce to his stride and a chatoyance in the green eyes.

"Not bad," Bodie murmured. "Didn't forget a word," and beamed up at him with proprietorial pride.

"Play your cards right, and I'll give you my autograph," Doyle countered, finding audience-feedback a very potent wine.

"Play your cards right and I might take you home with me tonight," Bodie snickered. "Keep on coming out of your shell, my fire-cracker, you'll knock their eyes out."

"Thanks for not saying closet," Doyle purred, and drifted offstage, heading for the beer and fruit-juices stocked permanently in a fridge in the dressing room.

The band had one more number before the interval, giving Doyle time to down a glass of lime juice in comparative peace. His hands, he noted, still had a tendency to shake.

"Congratulations," said a smooth voice, and he jerked round. Harvey Lowe approached, smiling. Doyle did not like the smile, or the slowly appraising eyes of the older man. He had already been warned about the clarinettist and his tactics.

"Uh, thanks," he said. He and Bodie had not advertised their supposed relationship by word or gesture, deciding that it would fit with Duncan's character to wish to keep it hidden until he was more at ease with those around him, and sure of their acceptance. It now looked as if the time for the public announcement was near.

"Did I hear you say you're new to the 30's style? Well, you made a damn-good start." Lowe moved in closer. "Still nervous?"

"Yeah. A little." Doyle retreated to the fridge, poured lime and lemonade into his glass.

"Get me a beer, will you?" Lowe asked, and followed on his heels. When Doyle held out the can, the man's hand folded over his. "How was 'Frisco?"

"Foggy." Jerking free and attempting to edge away. The move was blocked.

"Don t be unfriendly, Ray," drawled Lowe.

"Back off!" he snapped.

"Temper, temper," and a hand reached out to rest caressingly on his hip. He knocked it away.

"Look. Keep your hands to yourself, mate. I don't want to know." And he resisted the urge to sink one swift punch into the man's stomach.

"Playing hard to get, Ray?"

"I don't play at anything! Back off!"

The rest of the band crowded in, forming a welcome distraction, and some took in the situation at a glance. It seemed to cause no surprise.

"Hey, Harv, leave the kid alone," from Alan Brett, drummer. "Ray, you did real fine out there."

"Thanks," he said stiffly, as irritated by being called 'kid' as by Lowe's advances and confident smirk. Suddenly Bodie was at his side, and the clarinettist flinched back a pace as a polished shoe landed hard on his instep.

"Oh, sorry," Bodie said earnestly. "How clumsy of me. Out of the way, Raymond my boy. Never stand between a man and his beer. Anyone else want one while I'm here?"

Angry, bristling like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way, Doyle retreated to a corner, but was not permitted to isolate himself.

"Hey," Brett again. "Don't let Harv put the wind up you. He gropes anything that moves--it's his glands, or hormones, or something. You'll get used to him. Best thing is to treat him with amused tolerance--that bruises his ego and he'll leave you alone, more or less."

"I'll remember that. Thanks," so genuinely heartfelt that Brett laughed, and slapped him on the back.

"Thought you were going to give him the old knuckle sandwich for a moment--wouldn't blame you either, but he's the best bloody clarinettist we've got, and the Old Man wouldn't be happy. You've worked in the States? Where? How long have you been back?"

"The West coast. Left about a month ago. Money's just about run out, so this was a Godsend."

"I'll bet. Were you out there long?"

"Eighteen months or so. How long have you been with the band?"

"Seven years, give or take a few. Part of the fittings now, like the rest of 'em. You and Dick are the only new boys for four, five years. Vince, on bass guitar, was the last one."

"Did he flatten Lowe?"

Brett hooted into his beer can.

"Nope. Took him on. Wore the old faggot out in a week, and let it be known. Harv wouldn't speak to him for days."

Doyle snorted his amusement, and shook his head.

"I'll try the amused tolerance. Or a fist," he said.

"So I should think," Bodie said in his ear. "Hi, Alan. You wouldn't believe the blue funk this one was in at seven o'clock."

"Yes, I would." Brett grinned. "You two know each other?"

"Yes," said Bodie. "From way back. Good old 'Frisco. The Golden Gate. The Smog. Ray Duncan..." and ambled away again. Doyle glared daggers at his shoulder-blades.

"You forgot the cable cars," he called.

"The what? Trams, Ray. They were trams," coming back with another can beer. "Alan, does that aging pervert grope automatically, or does he check first?"

"Purely a reflex action--only the Old Man is safe, and he's had a few close calls. He got you?"

"Someone assaulted my left buttock. I presume it was him. And, Ray, if you don't wipe that Cheshire Cat grin off your face, it'll be more than your left buttock that cops the assault."

"Amused tolerance, according to Alan," Doyle told him, "is the best deterrent."

"Very likely. I will be both amused and tolerant when I've busted his jaw. Will Cavanagh sack me if I put good old Harv in hospital?"

"Probably." Brett laughed. "He's our star clarinettist."

"In that case I'll wrap his bloody clarinet around his prostate gland. For God's sake, Ray, don't let him grope you in that suit. His sweaty hands will mark it up as bad as a coalminer's," and wandered off again before Doyle could make a fitting retort.

"Dick can manage Harv," Brett prophesied. "Make sure you can, too. He'll get as much out of you losing your rag as active cooperation. There's the Old--time's up. Good luck for the second half," and gave him a cheerful slap on the back. "Sock it to 'em, kid."

Other congratulations and salutes followed Doyle through the door and to the wings, where he found an unoccupied stool to perch on and waited for his cue, watching band and audience.

The nightclub was crowded, every table taken, the dance floor packed, and the bar doing brisk business. Automatically he checked faces against the card index of his memory, found some matches, and made mental notes. Drug pushers, dealers, one specialist in blackmail and bunco, a known fence, and a couple of big society names known to Fraud Squad, but no Organisation men.

"--and now, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure in introducing to you once again, our new vocalist, Ray Duncan--" and he found himself stepping into the spotlight, losing sight of audience and dancers beyond the stage.

"Well done," said Newley, his smile for both Bodie and Doyle. "Don't know what kind of music you made in 'Frisco, but you suit ours like hands in a pair of gloves."

"But don't let it go to your heads," Cavanagh said crisply, his voice carrying above the noisy chaos of the dressing room. "Dick, you're tending to swing that piano too much. We're a dance band, not a jazz combo. Ray, you're in too much of a hurry to get offstage, and you nearly missed several of your intros. Practice 'em, get it right. Apart from that, you're passable." And went on his way, a friendly smile taking the sting from the words.

"Passable!" Bodie groaned, and collapsed into a chair. "I thought we were bloody marvellous."

"You would," Doyle said. "But that's what the Boss-man said. So keep on practicing."

"Bastard."

Doyle chuckled, and headed for his small patch of dressing room, took off his jacket and hung it up, carefully removing the carnation and laying it on the table. He got rid of his tie, took off his shirt and reached for a hanger to put it on, and stiffened as a hand slid over his ribs.

"Lowe, I'm warning you," he snapped, stepping away.

"Now, Ray, don't make a scene," the man drawled quietly. "Why won't you be friendly? Is it too public for you? Come back to my place, we could have a drink and discuss 'Frisco." The hand snaked out again, curved over the contours of his buttock before he could get clear. "You've got a beautiful body under all that window dressing--and some interesting scars--you must have had some excitement in your life?"

The temptation to react as himself rather than Duncan was almost overwhelming, and unconsciously his body took on a subtly altered stance, the preliminary to lightning-fast and violent action. But Bodie's hand on his shoulder checked him, and he relaxed, letting Maitland have his say.

"Just take it easy," Bodie said. "I'll deal with this. Harvey, I guess I was too subtle for you last time, so I'll spell it out in words of one syllable. Keep your grubby paws off Ray. He doesn't want your questionable attentions, and there is no reason why he should put up with them. If I catch you pestering him again, I will damage you quite severely. Is that understood?"

There was silence in the dressing room by then, and the cool, menacing voice cut clear to interested ears.

"Staking a claim, Dick?" Lowe sneered. "What gives you the right--"

"I don't have to stake any claim, friend." The menace was now a chilling threat, and Lowe suddenly sensed danger. The game abruptly lost its thrill for him. "Ray is not, and never was, up for grabs. He's booked, spoken for, otherwise involved. And if you lay a finger on him again, I'll break every bone in your body!"

"I see." Lowe's voice was high, scared. "So that's how it is--"

"Yes. Don't poach, Harvey. I don't like poachers."

"And I don't like threats." Lowe tried a bluster, using the arrival of the band-leader to preserve precariously balanced safety.

"That's not a threat, it's a promise," Bodie cut in. Cavanagh stepped between them.

"That's enough," he said quietly. "You've got your fingers burned this time, Harv. Leave Ray alone in future. Dick, this is not San Francisco, and I won't tolerate brawling regardless of the provocation. There's no real harm in Harvey, and no need for overreaction on your part. If you had made it clear from the start that you and Ray were together, this probably wouldn't have happened in the first place. Shake hands, have a drink, and forget the hassle."

After a pause, the two men grudgingly obeyed, and general conversation started up again. Doyle caught Brett's eye, and got some satisfaction out of that gentleman's patent amazement. It was all he could salvage from an incident that, necessary though it was, he found infuriating and irksome. He had the sneaking suspicion that Bodie had enjoyed it from beginning to end.

But the scene was not quite played out. As they prepared to leave the nightclub, Lowe gestured Bodie to him, and Doyle eyed the short conversation warily. Bodie's attitude was all aggression, the older man's conciliation, and the CI5 operative returned to his waiting partner with something of a swagger to his stocky shoulders, though his poker-face gave nothing away. They walked out into the night, Bodie's arm across Doyle's shoulders.

"Harv wanted to know how long we'd been together, and how--uh--serious it was," he reported when the club was out of sight behind them. "So I told him, and that it was as near a marriage as makes no difference. Made me a formal apology, he did."

"No kidding?"

"Would this face lie? Swore he'd never come between a man and his--wife--" and broke off with a grunt as Doyle's elbow connected forcibly with his ribs. "He then complimented me on my choice--the hair, the eyes, the mouth--oh God the mouth--that cheekbone, the way he moves--"

"For God's sake!" Doyle snorted.

"--the neatness of the ass--several times, that one--the mouth again--he was all but slavering. And I said yes. Wasn't I lucky? All of it mine."

"Complacent bastard," disgustedly.

"You wouldn't play me false, would you?" Bodie demanded, outraged.

"Not with the likes of him," Doyle promised. "Your rivals, Lover-boy, are about five foot five, blonde, brunette or redhead, shaped like that, and without unnecessary equipment between their legs. And believe me, you're nowhere in the running."

"Fickle," Bodie sighed, removing his arm, and they continued on their way in amicable silence.

The preliminaries were now over. The operation proper was underway.

By the following Saturday, Bodie and Doyle were fully accepted members of the band, on easy, friendly terms with all of them, their wives, girlfriends and boyfriends. Even Harvey Lowe. Who, while it could not be said that he managed to keep his hands away from Doyle's anatomy, did not make the mistake of pressing his attentions too far. It was a close-knit community, and once the Duncan-Foster relationship had been tested out and found unassailable--and Foster over-swift to defend his property against trespassers of either sex--they had been taken in without reservation. The clientele of the two nightclubs had likewise accepted Cavanagh's new vocalist, greeting his appearance on stage with stirs of interest and applause. He had rapidly collected a small following that appeared most nights at whichever club the band was playing, and they became the standing joke--the Duncan Appreciation Society, or Ray's Harem--a joke that Bodie suffered from in his Maitland identity as much as his partner did.

Their days and nights now had a settled routine, beginning with the jogging sessions late mornings. This was a useful innovation, providing exercise, much-needed fresh air, escape from the confines of flat and clubs, and from their alter egos. It would also give Cowley the opportunity of a meet, but to date he had not taken it up. They neither saw, nor had contact with, any member of CI5.

After more than a week of being almost constantly in each other's company, Doyle had expected the strain to show, the niggles, the personality clashes to start, but it didn't happen. A certain amount of adaptation on both sides, and their lives worked together like well-oiled machinery. The easy companionship born of mutual trust and respect could be interpreted in other ways, and in the outside world people took their closeness for granted, no one raising an eyebrow at the protective possessiveness of Richard Foster. Nor did Doyle object to its public manifestations. He was used to Bodie's arm around his waist or shoulders, the sly and ribald comments whispered with lips touching his ear, just as he was now accustomed to sharing the bed with him, occasionally having to defend his right of tenure against a restless sleeper, and sometimes waking in the mornings with a neatly-cropped dark head burrowed into his shoulder, a possessive arm across his chest.

Though Monday was a free day, they did not break the established pattern, and started it with a brisk jog. Their destination, as usual, was the small park and recreation ground not far from the flat, and finally they saw a familiar face. 8.3 with an overweight Labrador in tow, idling along the paths.

Bodie and Doyle paused for breath, collapsing on a convenient bench seat. Some five minutes later 8.3 arrived and sat down, opening up a newspaper while the dog settled thankfully at his feet, neither man nor beast showing any interest in the two track-suited men at the other end of the bench.

"Catch the next Hyde Park bus. Upstairs. You've got twenty minutes," came from behind the formidable barrier of the Times Literary Supplement.

"On your feet, slacker," Doyle said, prodding an apparently comatose Bodie. "Rest-time's up."

"My God," Bodie groaned. "Can't a man suffer cardiac arrest in peace?"

"No." And loped off, leaving him sprawled on the bench.

"Hey!" A shout of indignation, and Bodie took off, sprinting after him. The Labrador half-raised its ears, opened one eye. 8.3 merely turned to the next page.

On the front seat of the upper deck sat George Cowley, needing only a peaked cap to complete the resemblance to a commander on the bridge of his frigate, patrolling for U-boats. Doyle and Bodie sat behind him. But for a pair of leather- and denim-clad teenagers at the back, they had the top of the bus to themselves.

"Friday night, 7.1 will be at The Mandalay to identify Maitland," Cowley said without preamble, taking a photograph out of his pocket. "This is Martin Dent, private detective, hired by Sir William to find his son. He will also be there. He could well turn up at the Paradise Grove before then; we've fed him enough clues to direct him to both places. 7.1 will be an old Oxford friend."

"Understood." Bodie sighed. "That'll be another one we'll have to flatten when this is over." Doyle grunted.

"Any word on The Mandalay personnel, sir?" he asked.

"I was coming to that, 4.5," Cowley snapped. "Frank Russell, the manager, appears to be the head of this particular operation. He's working with Joseph Marshall and Kevin Rourke, and no one else as far as I can tell."

"Marshall and Rourke are both regulars at The Mandalay," Doyle said. "Spotted 'em the first night we played there."

"Joey's drugs, Kev's blackmail and bunco," Bodie said. "An interesting combination."

"Yes," said Cowley. "Who in the band uses drugs?"

"Alan Brett smokes pot on occasion," Doyle said quietly. "Marshall is not his supplier. Two others have old convictions for pushing and using cocaine, but kicked it years ago. Are any of them involved?"

"No. Everyone has been checked; they are all in the clear. It seems pretty certain it's a three-man op. They've started to move in on Lisa Murray, daughter of one of the research team of Western Chemicals. She is going to be taken out of their reach, and we'll offer them Maitland. 7.1, by the way, will be using the name of James St. John."

"Yes, of course," Bodie burbled happily. "I remember him well. Chumley ffortesque-Smythe Minor. You'll just adore him, Ray."

"Will I? Sounds interesting--how much can I adore him?"

"Hardly at all, sugar. Behave, or I won't tie you to the bed tonight."

"Spoilsport." Doyle tossed his head.

"That's enough," Cowley said dampeningly. "There's no need to make public exhibitions of yourselves. Have a good jog round Hyde Park, boys," and limped for the stairs.

Dent appeared at the Paradise Grove late on Wednesday evening, stayed at the bar for an hour, and left. Thursday afternoon he was in a parked car, watching the nightclub, and trailed them back to the apartment house after rehearsals were over. Friday evening, he was in the bar at The Mandalay. So too was 7.1, a very large fair-haired young man in his late twenties, along with Kevin Rourke, and several freelance Journalists.

The stage was set, and by the unholy glitter in his eyes, Bodie had the bit between his teeth.

"He's got 3.2 with him," Doyle murmured. As usual between his numbers, he was leaning, nonchalant and elegant, against the piano. Bodie had already identified the vapidly pretty brown haired girl giggling on 7.1's arm.

"Has he really? Chumley's changed his luck, then."

"Don't go over the top. Cowley won't give you an Oscar for it."

"Would I do that? You're on stage, Bright Eyes."

To applause and the introduction to 'Penny Serenade', Doyle drifted out into the spotlight, while Bodie watched from the corner of his eye the tall fair head and its partner move around the dance-floor. Five minutes later, a waiter delivered a note to the pianist. Would he be the guest of James St. John during the interval, at the bar for a large scotch. Bodie scrawled 'Make it a double' on the bottom and sent it back.

Bodie threaded his way through the crowd, and a long arm shot out of the press, reeling him into a bear hug.

"Dick Maitland!" 7.1 whooped with the exuberance of arrested development. "Knew it was--couldn't believe my eyes--what the hell are you doing pounding a joanna in London? Last I heard you were in 'Frisco."

"Chumley ffortesque-Smythe!" Bodie responded, hammering him in the region of his kidneys. "Minor! How the devil are you? The name, these days, is Foster. Got it? F.O.S.T.E.R.?"

"Is it?" Blank amazement. "Why? Oh. Yes. I see. The old man doesn't know you're back?"

"Right. And he isn't going to know. Chumley, don't tell me you're swinging both ways at last--who is this?" beaming toothily at 3.2. "Great Aunt Amelia, I presume?"

"Jane Westlake." 7.1 grinned and turned to the girl. "Told you he was insane, didn't I?"

"Yes," she said, doubtfully. "I thought your name's Jim--"

"Probably," Bodie cut in. "But he'll always be Chumley Minor to me," patting the man's cheek. "When did they kick you out of the Dreaming Spires?"

"They didn't. Got my knuckles rapped, but managed to stay put. Shame about you getting it, though."

"My God, that was years ago," Bodie said scornfully. "Best thing they ever did for me. What are you doing these days?"

"Foreign Office," announced 7.1. "Off to Brussels and Geneva tomorrow. You know; the Under-Secretary's secretary's assistant?"

"Oh, yes. You sharpen the pencils and fill up the paper-clip dish," he said wisely.

"Just about. How long have you been back?"

"Not long. Chumley, my little Minor, do me a favour and don't spread it around you've seen me. I'd just as soon stay clear of the family."

"Oh, yes. Quite. Foster." The blond head nodded earnestly. "Won't tell a soul."

"How is the old bastard, do you know?"

"See him now and then," 7.1 admitted. "'Course, he doesn't know me from Adam, thank God. Looks the same as ever, lost a bit of weight, I suppose. Still top dog with the Constable Unit--going great guns, they are."

"Naturally," Bodie said, voice acid. "Where's that double whisky, cheapskate?"

"Ready and waiting. Been hearing about you from the barman." 7.1 winked and nudged him in the ribs as he handed over the glass of amber liquor. "Still up to your old tricks, I hear."

"Leopards," said Bodie, showing his teeth, "never change their spots. Tell me, Great Aunt Amelia, has he told you about his spots? No, I thought not. My vices are run-of-the-mill by comparison. This hulking brute, the pride of the rugger team, could give us all lessons--and did. Rubber, you know. And whips. And what he did with tapioca and blancmange--"

"Don't we get an introduction?" 7.1 interrupted, the light of battle in his eyes.

"To whom, my Minor Chumley?"

"Your current companion, the oh-so-stunning redhead. Jane is dying to meet--"

"Good Lord, no. Not a chance. That is one redhead I ride close herd on. All poachers will be rapidly hospitalised, results guaranteed. Listen, I have to go now, the interval's practically over. When are you back in London?"

"Next month. Maybe the four of us could get together then?"

"Make that a date. Mondays are free, so just give me a call here or at the Paradise Grove any other time in the week."

"Great. Be good, Dick."

"I'm always good. You're the one who used to need the practice." And he extricated himself from the crowd, carrying the whisky with him, stepping on Martin Dent's feet as he did so. Rourke had been within earshot as well, and Bodie congratulated himself on a job well done.

He reaped the fruit of his labour the next morning. Their leisurely twelve o'clock breakfast was interrupted by a swift tattoo on the door, and Doyle let in a wide-eyed Ann, clutching a newspaper.

"This is you, isn't it?" she demanded, pushing it into Bodie's hands as he left the table to greet her.

"Pardon?" he said blankly. "The Mail? Somehow I would have put you down for The Star, or The Daily Worker."

"What's up?" Doyle asked. "Coffee, Ann?"

"Please--wouldn't have bought it, only I saw you over the shoulder of the man in front of me on the bus."

"Well, you didn't make the front page." Doyle smiled, peering over his arm. "Here you are, Ann, already sugared and stirred. Maybe the club was raided without us noticing."

"Must have been." Bodie grinned. "The likes of us don't make the dailies."

"You did. The society page," the girl said.

"What?" Suddenly serious, he leafed through to that page, and low down on the left his own face stared out at him, cool, arrogant, and supercilious in dress-suit and bow-tie. Beside him was a shot of Sir William Maitland, climbing into a car. "My God--"

"'Earlier this week Sir William Maitland was seen leaving the Harley Street Clinic of Mr. Ralph Courtney, the acclaimed cancer specialist,'" Doyle read aloud over his shoulder. "'Sir William refused to comment on his vigil, saying it was a routine check-up, nothing more. His estranged son, Richard, plays with the band at a well-known London nightclub. The two have not been on speaking terms since Richard was sent down from Oxford for drug offences, but rumour has it Sir William is anxious for a reconciliation--'" his voice trailed away, eyes on Bodie's set face. "Cancer specialist?" he whispered. "Dickon--"

"Don't say it!" Bodie yelled, throwing the paper across the room. "He told me years ago he'd live his life without a son--so he can bloody-well go on with it all the way through!"

"Looks like I dropped a bombshell," Ann muttered, putting down her coffee and retreating to the door.

"He'll survive." Doyle produced an uncertain smile. "At least it won't be sprung on him at the club. He'll have time to get his act together. Thanks, Ann."

Bodie waited until the door closed and the girl was halfway up the stairs, then he pounced on the scattered paper.

"That Cowley's a crafty bastard," he grinned. "Take a good picture, don't I?"

"Sure," Doyle agreed tolerantly. "Everybody's pin-up boy. Should have been Page Three in the Sun."

"That, my flower," said Bodie, hooking an arm about his waist, "is reserved for you. Shall we go out and spit in the world's eye?"

"Why not?" Doyle prised himself free with casual expertise. "Wonder if we'll fall over the Jim Rockford of Tottenham Court Road?"

"Bound to," Bodie said. "Bet you a tenner Russell is more in evidence today."

"What do you take me for? I don't bet against dead cert."

As they left the house, both gave the street a swift raking glance that missed nothing, certainly not the blue Ford Escort and its passenger parked across the road. Dent was still earning his fee.

The short paragraph in the Daily Mail had gone the rounds of the band, they discovered, and Bodie had some leg-pulling to put up with. His tolerance, though, was noticeably strained, and a worried frown seemed to be a permanent fixture, at odds with his scornful rejection of any idea that he might get back on good terms with Sir William.

Just before the end of the rehearsal, a phonecall came for him. Bodie took it in Newley's office, and returned to the stage grim of face.

"He wants me to pay him a visit," he said to Doyle, ignoring the others around them. There was no need to say who 'he' was.

"You're going?"

"No."

"Dickon--it wouldn't hurt just to talk to him," Doyle said quietly.

"No. You don't know what the old bastard's like, he'll--"

"No, I don't. I haven't known you that long. At least go and hear what he has to say."

"Don't need to. I could quote it word for word from umpteen speeches he made on the subject when I left Oxford."

"That was six years ago. People change."

"I haven't. Not the way he'd want, or what the hell are you doing in my life?"

"Whoa," said Cavanagh. "Family wars come after rehearsals. Back to the piano, Dick. We'll try 'Talking Picture' once more. Ray, pay attention to your cues."

The two men returned to their places, both aware of the distant, shadowed figure of Frank Russell standing on the far side of the dance floor.

At the end of the afternoon session, Bodie and Doyle left the nightclub and walked. They had no particular goal, just aimed to give the impression of earnest and troubled discussion to whoever decided to tail them. Dent did not, but Rourke did. He was good, but not good enough to escape detection, and the CI5 operatives played to their one man gallery for all they were worth.

Eventually Bodie entered a phone box, dialled a number and spoke briefly. He came out with a thunderous scowl, and they retraced their steps, moving quickly, too quickly for Rourke to entirely efface himself, and snatches of conversation reached the man's ears.

"At his club, midday tomorrow. I might miss part of the rehearsal."

"The Old Man'll understand, in the circumstances. He'll--" and they passed out of his hearing.

"Hooked!" said Bodie gleefully as they caught a bus back towards their flat.

"So I should hope," Doyle said, relaxing in the seat. "We put enough into it. What's he sound like, Sir William?"

"A frightfully English version of Cowley. Called me Richard, he did."

"I see. So it's bangers and mash and the old school tie at The Club. At least no one'll be tailing or bugging you there. You do realize, don't you, we've got to tighten up our act? From now on it will have to be Duncan and Maitland twenty-four hours of every day?"

"Yes, my love. From good morning cuddle to goodnight kiss."

"Just be very careful, Bodie." Doyle stood up as their stop approached. "Or you may end up having to marry me."

"With Cowley to give you away?"

"Complete with shotgun under his arm."

"Sir Bill as Matron of Honour, and Joel for Best Man?" Bodie elaborated happily. "And you in white lace--" But got no response. Doyle was already on the pavement.

Their flat had been searched. Expertly and with a minimum disturbance, but the tiny details leaped up to be noticed by trained eyes. They stayed in character, keeping conversation to musical matters and the occasional bitter comment on the perfidy of Sir William, while Doyle fixed a quick meal.

When they left to walk to The Mandalay, they were not followed.

Ten minutes before the band was due to go on, Bodie was called to a phone.

"Hi," said a familiar voice.

"Chumley Minor," Bodie said grimly. "And how is Brussels? Or is it Geneva and would you know the difference?"

"You'll regret yesterday, Bodie," 7.1 promised. "Joey Marshall went through your love-nest this afternoon. He took nothing away, and the place is clean of bugs. We've fitted a bleeper, and we'll warn you if one gets planted."

"I'm supposed to believe that?" Bodie demanded querulously. Russell's office door was ajar, and the room occupied. "Listen, as long as they lubricate your throat, you'll talk to anyone."

"Dent has completed his assignment for Sir William," 7.1 went on, "and he questioned enough of The Mandalay staff for it to get to Russell's ears that a P.I. was looking for Richard Foster. Or Maitland. Russell, Rourke and Marshall are under close surveillance."

"That's all very well. I now have the old bastard on my back wanting the big reconciliation scene. This, Minor Chumley, I don't need, as he will almost certainly have some ultimatums I have no intention of accepting. So if you think you are going to walk in and console my redhead, you've got another think coming." Bodie was enjoying himself. So, too, was his fellow agent, who had purposely kept the blockbuster for the finish.

"An hour ago Rourke moved into a bed-sit across the road from you," he said. "Posing as a member of Special Squad. The girl has been put into a bed-and-breakfast round the corner, all expenses paid. He has taken in field-glasses and camera equipment--you can place money on the telephoto lens being present. He'll be one floor higher than you, with direct views into your two main rooms. Your instructions are to remain in character at all times. But don't get 4.5 pregnant. Cowley won't like it."

"He won't be getting it," Bodie snapped, and put the phone down. Then his sense of humour reasserted itself, and he returned to the dressing room, his amusement masked by a frown. As he passed Russell's office, he got a brief glimpse of the man working at his desk, head industriously bent.

No one seemed to pay undue attention to Joel Cavanagh's pianist, nor were they tailed on their way home. The walk, though, was conducted as usual--close in step with Bodie's arm across Doyle's shoulders--and he took the chance to relay 7.1's information without the risk of eavesdroppers.

"Oh, Christ," Doyle sighed. "Bet that dandelion-headed moron enjoyed telling you that."

"Put it this way. I think 7.1 is getting a lot of job satisfaction at the moment. But once this case is wrapped up, he'll find that life will sour very quickly. However, it wasn't unexpected, just a bit premature," Bodie went on. "Which means that there are a few things you're going to get used to awful fast."

"Yeah?" guardedly, mistrusting the mournful tones and evil glitter of narrowed eyes.

"Of course." Innocent surprise. "We'll have to provide a little more for his home movie than wandering around holding hands."

"Bodie," Doyle said, a warning in his voice. "I know damn-well you're only doing it to get up my nose. So don't push your luck. It's bad enough being groped in earnest--you trying it just for the hell of it is beyond the limit."

"I don't know what you mean," Bodie said, all hurt virtue. "I'm passionately in love with you--haven't you noticed?"

"No," said Doyle. Which was a mistake.

"Then I'll have to prove it to you," Bodie drawled, leaned closer and delicately bit Doyle's ear.

He reacted as if he had collected a wasp sting.

"You bastard! Not in the bloody street!"

"Okay," said Bodie, willing to please. "Upstairs, then."

"Behave, or you'll sleep on the couch for the rest of this case!"

Doyle was awakened by footsteps running down the stairs. It sounded as if the perpetrator was wearing hob-nailed boots, or wooden clogs, and it successfully dug him out of a deep, comfortable sleep.

He lay there for a while, then focused on the alarm clock at the bedside, and groaned. Bodie was still asleep, curled into his back and occupying the middle of the bed, and Doyle glared at his unconscious partner. No matter that they started out on opposite sides of the bed, come the morning, Bodie always seemed to have ended up with the lion's share of it. There was no justice in the world.

He slid out from under the quilt without waking him, and padded into the living room, drawing back the curtains. Sunlight flooded in, making him blink. He yawned, stretched until his spine creaked, then went into the kitchen.

The gas meter needed feeding, so he went through Bodie's coat pockets until he found coins of the correct value, put them in, and bullied the cooker into producing a flame for the kettle. By the time it had boiled he was washed and shaved and more than ready for a cup of tea.

He poured two mugs and took them into the living room, collected Ann's discarded Daily Mail and a ball pen, and sat at the table with the crossword spread in front of him.

"Tea's poured," he called absently, filling in One Across.

He didn't hear Bodie's approach, the first warning he had was hands sliding round upper arms and chest, then lips and teeth fastened onto the side of his neck.

"Bodie!" a yell of outrage.

"Stay in character, 4.5," Bodie admonished as he jerked round. "We have a Peeping Tom, remember?"

"I'll bloody-well kill you--" he began, but the words were stopped by a kiss that offended every one of his instincts. Bodie's mouth was hard, demanding, attempting to force his mouth open and assert a dominance that Doyle had no intention of permitting. It was also cold-bloodedly deliberate, part of Bodie's perennial needling campaign, part of the rivalry that permeated all aspects of their relationship. And typically, Bodie had picked his time well, when he was at a disadvantage, unable to break free. The watcher across the street made sure of that. He had to put up with it, take the temporary defeat, and bide his time--but he would not open his mouth for the victor.

Finally Bodie raised his head.

"Good morning," he grinned.

"Good morning," Doyle echoed. "I hope your tea is cold. And I've got news for you. You're a lousy kisser. No finesse at all."

"Practice makes perfect," Bodie said smugly, eyes on the swollen lips and the darkening mark on Doyle's throat above the heavy gold chain. "What's for breakfast?"

"Not me," he snorted. "And if you're dining at Daddy's club, my Dickon, you'd better not have too much to eat now."

"No?" Bodie touched a fingertip to the bite-bruise. "I've put my brand on you," he announced with complacent satisfaction. Doyle grunted and returned to the crossword, pointedly ignoring him.

Hands resting lightly on the lean shoulders, Bodie studied him with amused irritation, and tried another goad.

"Good old Harv should see you now," he murmured. "He'd eat you alive, Pretty Boy." The muscles under his hands tensed, then relaxed. He got no other reaction. It was, in any case, a misnomer, he decided. There was nothing fragile or effeminate about the half-naked man in the sunlight. Slender-boned and narrow-hipped he might be, but Doyle had a whiplash speed and tensile strength, the same dangerous arrogance and beauty as the big hunting-cats--a predator, a proven killer-- Illogically a kind of anger grew in Bodie, tightening his muscles, setting his jaw, and pulling down the strongly arched brows. They--Cowley, Jason, Cavanagh, and himself--had taken that deadly masculinity and covered it with the housecat meekness of Ray Duncan, and the contrast was almost offensive--but at the same time the situation had a similar appeal to prodding sticks at a caged panther, just to see how long he'd put up with it and what would happen--

Bodie chuckled, the transient anger fading into cheerful speculation, and he bent to kiss the mark he'd left on the smooth throat. With any luck it would show above his shirt-collar. Doyle did not react to that stick either.

"If you're making toast," was all he said, "do some for me. What was Leningrad before it was Leningrad?"

Stalemate.

"St. Peter-something," Bodie said after a moment's thought, and ruffled the uncombed curls. "You're going to have to be a little more demonstrative, my passion-flower, or Patrick Lichfield over there will be smelling a rat."

"Yes, Dickon," said Doyle meekly. "A semi-precious stone beginning with P, seven letters?"

"Pearl," Bodie said with monumental confidence, and wandered into the kitchen alcove. "Any sign of him?"

"Can't be sure. The curtains are still half-drawn, same as they were when we got home last night. Peridot, cloth-head."

"Never heard of it. Hey, don't you let Harv get too friendly when I'm not around. I may not be back until two, half-past."

"No, Dickon. Vegetable named after the Holy City? Something-something T--"

"Jerusalem artichoke," Bodie supplied.

"Well, you got that one right. Which club is it?"

"Same as Cowley's."

"Oh." Doyle looked up, and laughed quietly. "Stay clear of the steak and kidney pudding, sunshine."

"Listen, after all this time of your League-of-Nations cooking, steak and kidney pud would be a welcome relief."

"Haven't noticed you leaving any."

"A starving man will eat anything."

"I'll remember that. You'd better get a move on--seen the time?"

"Christ!" and Bodie loped through to the bedroom. "Finish the toast, will you?"

Immaculate in a dark suit, cream shirt and brown tie, Bodie brushed his already neat hair into a smoother cap, then glanced at his watch.

"God knows how long this'll take," he said. "Expect me when you see me."

"Ask him about George," Doyle said. His back was to the window, so his wide grin did not have to be kept behind a mask. "You never know when background information like that could be useful."

"Very true. I'll give him the third degree over dessert. All set for the big farewell scene?"

"You're only going to visit Dad, not the upper reaches of the Amazon," he pointed out, but when Bodie held out his arms he drifted into the circle, and his own arms slid around his partner's ribs under the jacket. "He better be taking pictures of all this. I feel a bloody fool."

"Yeah?" Bodie stroked his hands down the bare spine, face turned in against Doyle's hair, the curve of jaw and throat. From across the street it was quite a touching tableau. "It's okay, it doesn't show. You using a new aftershave?"

"No. Get your hands off my pants." Doyle leaned back, tolerant amusement on the uneven, haunting features. "Don't give up the needling, do you, Bodie?"

"Nope. Be good."

"Yes, Dickon." He raised his face for the kiss, dutiful, mechanical, then stood away.

"I've seen more effort put in by a piece of wet fish." Bodie grinned. "Stay clear of Harv," and left.

Doyle sighed and shook his head, and padded into the bedroom to dress.

A period of thought during his solitary walk to The Mandalay, and Doyle had Duncan's reactions sorted out. On the one hand wanting his lover reconciled with the family, on the other, afraid of losing him through parental opposition. Vulnerable and insecure, his would be an isolationist policy; sit quiet in his own little corner, and maybe the world wouldn't see him. When Maitland got back from his dinner date, depending on what had been said, and how it had gone, Duncan would stick to him like glue. However, if he was lucky, it might even put the wind up Bodie, a small compensation for the increasing tedium and irritation of the job.

He discovered that the band would not permit Duncan to creep into a corner. Alan Brett, straight as a die, appointed himself surrogate watchdog and deflected the renewed attentions of Lowe with a Maitland-like determination that both amused and annoyed Doyle. From what was carefully not said, he gathered that they had also speculated on the possible outcome of a reconciliation with Sir William, and had come to the conclusion that Duncan would probably find himself ditched. Which meant that the ground was already prepared for the next phase, without any further spadework. This pleased him, as it was not only a measure of the validity of their created characters, but made for a more fluid, natural flow of events, with Duncan and Maitland as the pivots rather than the triggers. He always had been in favour of the dropped pebble to start the avalanche. Bodie was the one who set the explosives under the snow crest, whether it needed it or not. 'Professor', his partner sometimes called him, with scathing indignation, and certainly he was astute enough to know there was a time and a place for explosions. But not in the midst of Joel Cavanagh And His Orchestra.

Bodie turned up at a quarter to three, while the band was tackling a new arrangement of 'Begin the Beguine', a number that did not require a vocalist, and the CI5 agents went smoothly into the next act of the drama.

Doyle came to meet him, for the first time taking the initiative in their supposed relationship, grasping the lapels of Bodie's jacket and standing very close, their bodies almost touching.

"How did it go?" he asked quietly. Bodie pulled an expressive face.

"Not too bad," he said. "The whole thing was quite civilised in fact. Frightfully British." He folded Doyle into a public embrace, something that would not have been permitted before. "See? Told you not to worry."

"Did he--" he began, and broke off, eyes wide and anxious, searching Bodie's features.

"Mention you? No, lover, he did not. Neither by name or insinuation."

One arm still around the slim waist, Bodie approached the stage and Cavanagh's wryly smiling face. "Sorry I'm late, sir," he said.

"It's all right, Dick. This time. How's your father?"

"Fair to middling."

"And that specialist he visited in Harley Street?"

Bodie looked away and there was a pause.

"They haven't had all the results in yet, sir," he said evenly. "But it looks as if it's malignant."

"I'm sorry." The quiet sympathy in Cavanagh's voice got a muted echo from the rest of the band, and Bodie cleared his throat, tightening his hold on Doyle.

"Thanks," he said. Then, brightly, "Well, the show goes on, I guess. Do you still need a pianist?"

"I do. On stage, lad. And you, Ray."

For the rest of the rehearsal it was business as usual, but once they'd retired to the dressing room for beers and discussion before leaving for their respective homes, Bodie discovered he had acquired an extra shadow. He found it somewhat unnerving after a while.

"What's with the clinging vine imitation?" he demanded on their way back to the flat, safely out of range of any eavesdroppers.

"Duncan. Making the most of Lover-boy while he's still got him around," Doyle said, leaning into Bodie's shoulder. "It's what you wanted, isn't it? More demonstrativeness?"

"Yes."

"So I'm demonstrating. Damn it, there's no pleasing some people."

"Huh," said Bodie, sensing that battle was joined again. "We'll see about that. What's for tea?"

"Spaghetti Bolognese."

"Had chicken in white wine at the Club," he sighed.

"Then you won't want spaghetti. You can make do with a jam buttie. I'll have the Bolognese."

"Like hell!"

"Bloody gannet. So what did Sir Bill have to say?"

"Quite a bit. But I'll tell you later. We're nearly home, and I need a coffee." And they walked in silence the rest of the way.

As Bodie opened the front door, Doyle caught a brief movement on the periphery of his vision. Rourke was on duty in the bed-sit opposite.

Leaving the Bolognese pan to soak, Doyle dried his hands and returned to the living room. Bodie was on the couch, legs stretched out, leafing through a magazine.

"Okay," Doyle said. "So you and Sir Bill have started a mutual admiration society. What did he have to say about Cowley?"

"Make yourself comfortable." Bodie patted the threadbare cushions beside him, and Doyle joined him, kicking his shoes off and curling up, his head on Bodie's shoulder. "You're getting too good at this," he grumbled, arm around the relaxed body.

"Stay in character, 3.7." Doyle snickered. "What about Cowley?"

"A right little tearaway. Devious as they come and bloody-minded to boot."

"What else is new? We already know that. When's the ultimatum being staged?"

"Tuesday, at the Grove. He's booked the table. He did tell me this story about Cowley, Cavanagh, a traction engine and a local inn--"

"So how do we play it? Can't make it too much of a Public Scene."

"It'll be in character for Maitland to blow his top."

"Yes, but not for him to back down afterwards. Which brings us back to the blackmail lever. He's got to make at least a token show of acceptance."

"That's true." Bodie squinted down but could not see Doyle's face, only a mass of auburn hair. "Any ideas?"

"You and Sir William can sort out your bit between you. But the main shouting match should be between you and me--probably in the dressing room. 'Okay, Daddy needs you, but what about me?' and so on. A split and reconciliation, or maybe a faked split, if we can get cooperation from some of the band. Either way, I'll move out of here--try to resign from the band--play the wounded, discarded lover."

"Scarlett O'Doyle," Bodie cackled. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn--it should work pretty well. Where'd you go?"

"Don't know. Cavanagh's place, maybe, or Alan's--how about Harv's?"

"No way!" His reaction was forceful, immediate, and entirely his own. "You keep your anatomy out of that ancient faggot's clutches!"

"Jealous, Dickon?" Doyle chuckled, tilting his head back, the feral amusement in his eyes showing that he knew damned well that Maitland was not the source of that statement.

"Don't be stupid," Bodie growled, discomfited. "Of course not! It's just that you're likely to lose your rag and break his jaw for him. Which will ruin the whole bloody assignment!"

"Me? Lose my temper? That's rich, coming from you!" he snorted. "Okay, not Harv's. I'll book in somewhere. When do we fight? Interval?"

"No. After the show. Sir William's booked the table for eight, so I'll stay with him until the band's on stage, go back to him during the interval, and we can claw each other's eyes out at the end. I'll go on with him, get back to the flat at about three, four, that'll give you chance to clear out. How's that sound?"

"It'll do."

"We'll phone around tomorrow, during the jogging session. Let Cowley, Cavanagh and Sir William in on the scenario. Y'know, Ray," he went on, mournfully, "I'm going to miss you."

"Good. Maybe you'll appreciate me more. Always told you I was too good for you."

"God, you're cruel."

"Yes," said Doyle, bouncing to his feet before he could be caught back. "Want some coffee?"

"Yeah, thanks. Then we should get our Tuesday act sorted out as far as we can. I reckon a course in RADA should be part of CI5's training scheme."

"Suggest it to the Cow next time you see him."

If Sir William was suffering from nerves of any kind it didn't show, and the evening's drama went as per schedule. Even the unexpected sight of Marshall at the next table, within earshot of a raised voice, did not put the older man off his stride.

The early part of the evening was comparatively simple. 'Safe' conversation with his 'son' on general family topics, a catching-up on six years of news, as well as sport and politics. The time he spent alone while the band was on stage he used to great effect, carefully planning his speech of ultimatum while studying the red-haired singer with a wall-eyed wariness that was not entirely feigned. They had previously agreed that emotional rather than financial blackmail would be used by the elder Maitland, and he eased into the run-up with all the skill of a diplomat. Bodie was delighted. And when the crunch came, it was beautifully delivered.

"--so you see, Richard, with results like that, Ralph is going to have to operate, regardless. I'm not complaining. I've had a damn-good run for my money, but--"

"There are new techniques--" Bodie interrupted.

"I know. Which is why I'm staying with Ralph. The man is brilliant. Richard, the past is the past, and the future isn't exactly hopeful. All I have is the present, and I want to fill it with all that I value most. Including my son. We both said a lot of hasty words--but I'd like to think it's water under the bridge, now. Come home, Richard."

"Home?" Bodie said quietly.

"To Cambridge."

"I'd like that." Wistfully. "We used to be pretty good friends, once."

"We can be again. I'll have to cut down on the time I spend with the Unit--doctor's orders--there would be more opportunities for us to get to know each other again. Well, Dick?"

"I--sir, I have a contract with Mr. Cavanagh--"

"Contracts can be bought out."

"Yes, I know, but I couldn't just walk out and drop him in it. The band has to have a pianist."

"I'm glad you've finally learned responsibility," Sir William said quietly. "I'll arrange it with Cavanagh."

"I'll need another job, sir," Bodie pointed out. "Or do you expect me to sponge off you. Again. I've become quite good at being self-sufficient." There was a certain edge to his voice, and Marshall, ears straining on the next tables, was aware of the unspoken name hanging between the two men.

"You can find one. In Cambridge."

"Why not here, sir? There are worse things than playing piano in a dance band, and it's something I do well."

"No, Richard."

"But, sir--"

"No. I need you at home. And there are some aspects of your life here that I cannot and will not tolerate."

"Ray," Bodie said softly, eyes on the snowy linen of the tablecloth.

"Exactly. What you do when I am dead is your affair. While I live, I will not have my son involved with a--"

"Don't say it. You don't know him or anything about him! He's--"

"So you will terminate your liaison, at once, and inform Cavanagh that you're leaving the band."

"No! I can't do--"

"Dick." A husky whisper, and suddenly Sir William's face was that of a tired, frightened and desperately lonely old man, as if he had forgotten for the moment he was speaking to a virtual stranger wearing his son's name. "Please come home. I need you with me, lad."

Startled and shaken, Bodie stared at him, and anger sparked in the weary eyes.

"Damn it, boy! Who means more to you?" Sir William barked. "Your father, dying of cancer, or a mincing homosexual?"

Bodie came clumsily to his feet.

"We'll talk later, after the show," he said. "I have to go."

"Tell him, Richard!"

"Yes, sir." A whisper forced from him, and he retreated from the table, supremely confident of a job well done, deserving of Oscars and laurel wreaths.

However, it was not over yet, and he had cut it fine. The rest of the band were already taking their places. He did not look at Doyle, nor acknowledge the uncertain, "Dickon?"

The dressing room argument had been choreographed down to the last detail, and it flowed along its preset course with the ease of well-oiled clockwork, every word, gesture, and intonation judged to a nicety for maximum impact. Its effect on the band was interesting--dumbfounded amazement, disbelief of eyes and ears, and a general sympathy with Duncan.

"--but you said it didn't matter what happened, you weren't going to be dictated to by him," Doyle said, standing dazed in the middle of the large room. They had started by keeping their voices to a whisper, but Bodie was nearly shouting.

"I know what I said, damn it! He's dying, Ray! He needs me!"

"All of a sudden, he needs you. What about me?" Bitterness and pain in the quiet voice. "You knew about the cancer yesterday. And yesterday you said nothing would change. So what has changed, Dickon?"

"You don't understand!"

"That's for sure."

"He's my father!"

"Who threw you out six years ago! What happens if he's not as ill as he thinks? If surgery and treatment cure him? You'll be out on your ear again! Lover-boy! Or is that what's changed? Suddenly gone straight, have you? What miracle did that? Dad's cancer, or Dad's cash?"

"You bastard!" Fist clenched and raised. But he didn't strike. "Okay. Play the Tragedy Queen. But find yourself another audience. Harv, you want him, he's all yours!" and slammed out of the room. Doyle stared after him, face blank, frozen, then turned and walked, apparently blind, to his corner. Brett was waiting for him, grim of face.

"Here," he said, putting a glass in his hands. "Drink it. All of it. Straight back."

The neat whisky burned his throat, and he gave a convincing coughing fit.

"Ray--" Lowe's voice, anxious, concerned, and he flinched away from the outstretched hand. Someone got hold of the clarinettist and forcibly removed him from the vicinity.

"Okay?" Brett asked quietly.

"I--yes." He managed to put a shake into voice and hands, and wished he could produce an interesting pallor to go with it. No one seemed to notice the omission, though, and he was cynically amused by the support and sympathy offered. He kept his features blank, stunned, as of one in shock, and Brett poured another shot of whisky into the glass, made him drink it, and Doyle decided he'd better show signs of life before he ended up pissed as a newt. As if he'd heard a cue, Cavanagh appeared in front of him.

"Ray?" the bandleader said. "What the devil triggered that?"

He shook his head, and Brett answered for him.

"Sir William, at a guess," the drummer said. "Seems like Dick was given a choice--" He broke off and shrugged.

"That I gathered. I've just been told to find another pianist."

"What?" Brett gasped.

"He was generous enough to tell me he'd work until I found a replacement. But Maitland Junior--and Senior--will find that contracts are not so easily broken."

"S-sir--" Doyle's stammer was beautifully done.

"If you're going to try and break contract as well, Ray, I'm sorry. It's not on." Cavanagh was sympathetic, but firm. "You make sure you're back here at one tomorrow." He gave the hunched shoulders a friendly squeeze. "You'll get over it, son. It's not the end of the world. Chances are it'll blow over anyhow, you know what a hothead Dick is."

"Yes, sir." Head bowed, it was an almost inaudible mumble.

"Want a lift home?" Brett offered. "My car's out back--"

"No--I--thanks, but--" Without stopping to change out of his stage clothes, Doyle pushed past him, running from the dressing room.

He didn't stay more than a few minutes in the flat, long enough to tip clothes, washing and shaving gear into a suitcase, and left again. He flagged down a late cruising taxi, and told the cabbie to take him to the nearest hotel that would give him a room for what was left of the night without emptying his pockets.

He ended up in a plain, Spartan room in the Grosvenor, a place that had seen much better days. But it was clean, not too pricey, and the room was his for as long as he wanted it--cash a week in advance. The springs didn't creak either, and he crawled into bed congratulating himself and Bodie on a fantastic piece of acting.

When Bodie returned to the flat, there was not a lot of evidence of Doyle's rapid departure. Only the empty spaces.

There was an empty space in the bed as well, and Bodie found it difficult to sleep. Some miles away across the city, so too did Doyle.

The next few days started easy, and became more and more difficult. Their public fronts of cool disdain towards each other were not hard to maintain; the problem lay in the tension that grew between them. It should not be there--its cause and the fuel that fed it was rooted partially in boredom, in the day-to-day routine of a case that demanded little of them in the way of swift, hard action, did nothing to pump the adrenalin of danger through their veins.

For three days, while Maitland argued and pleaded with Cavanagh for the release of his contract, and Duncan appeared to exist silent and unhappy behind invisible walls, the tension grew, until it could almost be seen crackling between them. Inevitably the band put its own interpretation on it; George Cowley, if the circumstances permitted, would have sent them on a tough refresher course, an exercise nearly as dangerous as the real thing, to burn off the excess energy. Alan Brett opened a book and took in bets on how much longer the 'ex-lovers' would stay apart.

Sir William was a regular visitor to the clubs, following the band's customary change of venue. He would arrive just before the interval, Bodie would join him at his table during the break, and he'd leave half-an-hour or an hour after the music began again. He made repeated attempts to persuade Cavanagh to release his pianist's contract, but the bandleader would not shift an inch. At the clubs, Marshall and Russell watched developments, and Rourke stayed at his post opposite the flat, but it was the Maitlands who were the focus of attention. They were under almost constant scrutiny, while no one bothered to watch Doyle at all, except CI5.

The two agents had no contact with each other; the hours spent in near proximity could not be called contact, and communication was made virtually impossible by the closeness of the watch on Bodie. The telephone was the only method available, and it would have to be Bodie that made the call, as there was no phone in the apartment house. But no calls came to the Grosvenor for Mr. Duncan.

Their fellow operatives were not so restricted. Bodie had a brief conversation with 8.1 in the park, and at the same time Doyle encountered 3.2 in a department store. The instructions passed on were the same--stage the reunion Saturday afternoon, before, during or after the rehearsals. Doyle was to wait for Bodie to make the first move.

The penultimate phase of the case, and Doyle greeted it with fervent relief mixed with some wariness. Leaving the scenario and script up to Bodie could well be an error of judgment--God knows what the lunatic would stage, and he would be expected to follow right along, forced to make a prat of himself while his head-banger of a partner was laughing himself sick up his sleeve. Well, he, Ray Doyle, would perform a frontal lobotomy with his boot if Bodie went over the top. He'd had about as much as he could stand of Duncan's passiveness, more than enough of Maitland's macho possessiveness, and he was going to start asserting himself before long.

He arrived at The Mandalay ten minutes early, but was not the first-comer. Bodie sat at the bar in desultory conversation with the barman, a large glass of spirit in front of him. He seemed to have been there for some time. Doyle ignored him, heading for the stage and the shortcut to the dressing room via the wings, the tension that quivered in every nerve and tendon tightening up one more notch. (Come on, you bloody-minded sod,) he thought. (Get this over with, for God's sake.) Bodie must have caught the aimed thought.

"Ray." A bark, almost. "Hold on. We have to talk."

He did not hesitate, nor give any sign of having heard.

"Ray! Damn it, will you stop!"

He nearly laughed aloud. (Not bloody likely, sunshine! Come and get me, Lover-boy.)

Footsteps ran across the dance floor as he ducked into the wings and sprinted past Russell's office, automatically registering the quiet murmur of one side of a telephone conversation. Right on cue came Bodie's bellow of 'Ray!' and a hand grabbed his shoulder, slamming him up against the wall.

His reaction was instinctive, lightning-fast and unDuncan-like; a karate stab to Bodie's throat that was only just deflected, and for a brief moment they were poised on the edge of violence. And Bodie knew it, by the feral brilliance of the laughter in his narrowed eyes. It was at times like these that Doyle seriously doubted his partner's sanity. He'd seen that look often enough in wildly inappropriate situations to know it for what it was. But he had never pandered to Bodie's waywardness, and this was no exception. He did not know it, but the same savage amusement was in his own eyes.

"Now, now, 4.5," Bodie mouthed. "Stay in character."

"I am, 3.7, believe me," he hissed back. "Don't push your luck."

"Ray," said Bodie aloud, a note of pleading in his voice at odds with the devil in his eyes. "I've got to talk to you."

"Nothing to say," Doyle snapped, driving his knee at Bodie's groin, the blow