A loud thump on the studio door and a Morse dot and dash announcement of identity on the bell just as he had pieced a pack of cards together, filled him with intense resentment.
"Max Kreiling!" he said with a sniff.

And a little later: "Caesare!" He thought perhaps, feeling as he did in a mood for murder, he wouldn't let them in, abuse the door panel and the bell as they would.

Whitaker did it for him.
"They'll come in and play music on my piano," he insisted sulkily, "and sing notes into my air and I repeat I'm in no mood for music." But Kreiling, big, blond and Teutonic, was already striding in with Caesare at his heels.

They filled the air with joyous greetings, thumped upon the intervening wall for Garry and unloaded their pockets and an institutional leather bag.
"Cheese," rumbled Kreiling, "jam, coffee and mince pies." Caesare unsheathed his fiddle and played a preposterous rag-time interpretation of the Valkyrie's battle-cry.

It evoked an instant response from the telephone.
"It's Mac," said Whitaker.