He was on a steel landing. The hall below was crowded with crates, and a large six-wheeler truck, which certainly didn’t look as if it belonged, was parked a yard or two away from the main doors.

The voices came from his left and he went along the landing, passing a small glass-walled office which stood in darkness. There was a light in a room at the very end of the landing and he peered round the edge of the glass partition and found three men playing poker.

He withdrew quietly, went back along the landing and descended the iron stairs to the hall below. The truck was loaded with crates of whisky consigned to London Docks and when he looked inside the cab, the ignition key was in the dashboard.

The main doors were the real snag. They were chained together and secured by a large padlock. He examined it carefully, turned and went back upstairs.

He crouched in the darkness of the little office, the ’phone on the floor beside him, and dialled the number he wanted carefully.

The reply was instant. ‘Police Headquarters. Can I help you?’

‘Central C.I.D. – Detective Sergeant Miller,’ Craig said in a hoarse voice. ‘I think you’ll find he’s on duty tonight.’

Miller was sitting behind his desk listening to a well-known housebreaker indignantly deny the offence with which he was charged when the ’phone rang.

‘All right, Arnold, you can take a breather,’ he said and nodded to Brady, who leaned against the wall cleaning his fingernails with a penknife. ‘Give him a cigarette, Jack, while I see what we’ve got here.’

He picked up the telephone. ‘Detective Sergeant Miller.’

The voice at the other end was strangely hoarse and completely unfamiliar to him. ‘Gibson’s Furniture Factory on the York Road – interesting place – they even make their own booze. You’d better get round here quick and bring the Fire Brigade with you.’ He chuckled harshly. ‘I do hope Vernon’s insured.’

Craig replaced the receiver and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He was running late, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He waited exactly four minutes, went back downstairs and climbed into the cab of the truck.

He pulled out the choke, pressed the starter and the engine burst into life with a shattering roar. There was a cry of alarm from the landing above his head and he rammed the stick into first gear, let in the clutch sharply and accelerated. The doors burst open and the truck rolled out into the yard. Craig swerved sharply, braking to a halt near the outside gates, switched off and jumped to the ground taking the ignition key with him.

He struck a match quickly and tossed it onto the stacked crates, picked up his jerry can, turned and ran into the shadows. Somewhere in the night, the jangle of a police car’s bell sounded ominously.