Gilks turned round, looking tired and cross, and was about to go out and up the stairs to meet the newcomers whose voices could be heard up on the ground floor, when he paused and watched the head revolving patiently on its heavy platter for a few seconds.

   “You know,” he said at last, “these smart-alec show-off suicides really make me tired.  They only do it to annoy.”

   “Suicide?” said Dirk.

   Gilks glanced round at him.

   “Windows secured with iron bars half an inch thick,” he said.  “Door locked from the inside with the key still in the lock.  Furniture piled against the inside of the door.  French windows to the patio locked with mortice door bolts.  No signs of a tunnel.  If it was murder then the murderer must have stopped to do a damn fine job of glazing on the way out.  Except that all the putty’s old and painted over.

   “No.  Nobody’s left this room, and nobody’s broken into it except for us, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t do it. 

   “I haven’t time to fiddle around on this one.  Obviously suicide, and just done to be difficult.  I’ve half a mind to do the deceased for wasting police time.  Tell you what,” he said, glancing at his watch, “you’ve got ten minutes.  If you come up with a plausible explanation of how he did it that I can put in my report, I’ll let you keep the evidence in the envelope minus 20 per cent compensation to me for the emotional wear and tear involved in not punching you in the mouth.”

   Dirk wondered for a moment whether or not to mention the visits his client claimed to have received from a strange and violent green-eyed, fur-clad giant who regularly emerged out of nowhere bellowing about contracts and obligations and waving a three foot glittering-edged scythe, but decided, on balance, no.

   “Don’t pick it up, pick it up, pick i-

   “Don’t pick it up, pick it up, pick i-”