The night was foggy and damp. The woman walking along the misty street lugged a large case with her. She turned the corner into Holland Park, endeavouring to take a short-cut. She walked fast, as if fearing that someone was following her. With intervals that became less and less frequent, she turned her head and looked behind her, but there was nothing but the empty London night. Suddenly a sound made her jump, and she dropped her case. It was a cat that had crossed the path before her and meowed. It stopped and looked at her, its amber eyes gleaming in the night.

"Oh, kitty! How you startled me!" She bent down to pet the cat, but was interrupted by the sensation of cold steel on her neck. She froze.

"Is that you? How did you find me?" The stranger said nothing. The cat had fled, sensing the tragedy about to be acted out. Two blocks away, a young policeman out on his nightly beat, heard a single gun shot and ran swiftly in the direction of the sound. He rounded the corner and ran into Holland Park, where he was met by the sight of a body. A young woman was lying on the ground, blood seeping from a small hole in her neck.

In his office, private detective George Quest was on the telephone with his friend at the Met, chief inspector Beaumont.

"Morning, Quest. Could you come down to Holland Park? There's been a murder. So far we've got nothing, so I'd appreciate your view."

"All right, I will meet you there forthwith." George put the receiver back in its place, stood up, and walked over to the window.

"Miss Berryfield," he called.

A striking woman with black hair and icy blue eyes peeped her head through the doorway. "Yes, Sir?"

"My tea, please. Fast as you can. And call me a cab, please."

"Yes, Sir."

He heard her go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. George drummed his fingers on his desk and watched the clock on the wall ticking idly.

"Miss Berryfield!" he called again.

"Yes, Sir?" Miss Berryfield returned to the study with a tray. She walked over to his desk and placed a cup and saucer before him.

"Lovely, thank you. Has the paper come yet?"

"Of course, Sir." She returned momentarily with the Times and placed it before him. "Is it about the murder, then, Sir?"

George looked pensive. "I don't know. But I often find that a murder does not happen unprovoked. There might be a clue in here somewhere." He scanned the front page, which was devoted to the murder. He finished his tea, and made his way to Holland Park.

George stepped out of the cab at the entrance to Holland Park and was met by the Chief Inspector Beaumont.

"Monty," George greeted him.

"Quest," the Chief Inspector replied. He took George by the elbow and walked him a piece into the park.

"The deceased is a Miss Vera Anselm" the Chief Inspector said as they approached the small herd of policemen clustered around what seemed to be the body of a young woman.

"When was she discovered?" asked George.

Chief Inspector Beaumont checked his notes. "A police officer heard a shot at 4 o'clock this morning. He ran in the direction of the sound and found her here." He gestured towards the body on the ground.

"Do we know anything about the victim?" asked George.

The Chief Inspector cleared his throat and leafed through some of his notes. "Hmh. 23 years old, unmarried as far as we know, parents dead. She lived with a friend, a Miss Janey Chevenix. Profession unknown. Killed by a single shot to the neck. Oh, and her hair is bleached."

At this George stopped the Chief Inspector. "Bleached you say? Now, that is interesting!"

Beaumont raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

George walked the inspector over to the body, and pushed the cover aside.

"Look at her, Inspector Beaumont. Hair bleached, dark lips. In my opinion, she's wearing too much makeup."

"Yeah, I see what you mean. She looks a bit cheap, if you ask me."

"Yes. And look at her hands, they're quite coarse, don't you think so? They are the hands of a working woman."

George looked pensive. "You must excuse me, my dear Chief Inspector. I need to return to my office and think about this."

On his way out of the park, George saw a small cat, basking in the morning sun. He bent down and stroked it. "Oh, kitty," he said. "Are you perhaps a dumb witness? Do you know the killer for whom we search?"

The cat looked at him knowingly.

George returned home to his flat in West London, and sat down at his large oak desk. He called for Miss Berryfield and she brought him a cup of tea.

"Do you know, I could use your help on the case I was called out to this morning," George remarked.

Miss Berryfield's face lit up. She had harboured a desire for entering the world of private detection for quite some time, which was why she had taken the job as a secretary with Mr. Quest. "Really, Sir?"

"Yes. You see, a young woman has been murdered, and you being a young woman may be of some assistance to me."

"Oh, Sir! How exciting! What can I do to help?"

George gestured at her to sit down. He leaned forward and looked solemnly at her. "Do you consider yourself an average young lady?"

Miss Berryfield raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose I do, Sir."

"And would you agree that one of the first indicators of personality is appearance?"

"Oh, definitely, Sir. That's why girls like fashion and make-up so much! We want to look nice for the young men!"

"Exactly my point. So when a young lady, a natural brunette, becomes a platinum blonde, this is because she wants to change her appearance, yes?"

"Naturally, Sir. But I don't see how that can help you. She may just like blonde hair better than brown, you know."

"Yes, but this woman, she was very beautiful. But she had on a lot of make-up. Dark lips and eyes. Too much. That caught my interest, you see."

"Yes, that is interesting," echoed Miss Berryfield.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, if she was a beautiful girl she wouldn't need all that make-up. And with the change of hair colour, I'd almost say she was trying to change personality."

"And why would someone do that?"

Miss Berryfield chewed on her lip. "To hide, perhaps?"

George smiled. "Ah, yes! Perhaps our victim was hiding from someone who knew her as a brunette. So she must disguise herself as a made-up blonde. The killer is therefore most likely not amongst her current social circle, but someone from her past."

Miss Berryfield thought about that. "Unless she told some current friend about her past and they killed her. She could have gotten scared, Sir, and confided in a friend."

"A female friend, presumably? She lived with another girl."

"Then you should speak with her, Sir. She'll know all about it."

George stood up and started readying himself to leave. He turned to Miss Berryfield as he left. "Thank you, Miss Berryfield. You have been most helpful!"

Miss Berryfield beamed. "Oh, thank you, Sir!"