The stocky man’s face creased into what was, after all, a very attractive grin, in spite of the yellow stumps it revealed. (Why did the canines resist decay longer than the molars or incisors? Charles had often wondered before.)

The stocky man held out a square hand. The finger nails were ragged and black.

‘Ern Ollershaw,’ he said.

Charles took the hand and gravely pronounced his own name. They were partners.

They were to go back to Ern’s lodgings to begin detailed arrangements. Ern moved off to the back of the café, either to go out to the lavatory or to have a word with Harry or some member of his family, and Charles, rather than wait any longer in the greasy atmosphere, stepped outside. His cart was waiting by the kerb, and he moved over towards it. Suddenly a violent shove carried him almost off his feet. Staggering, he crashed into a dark doorway next to the entrance to Harry’s. A huge hand gripped the front of his jacket. A heavy body leaned against him, making it hard to breathe. A bald head gleamed in the lamplight.

‘Just a minute, son. Feel like getting yer bloody neck broke?’

Silence.

‘Answer. D’yer feel like getting yer bloody neck broke?’

Why didn’t Ern come? ‘No.’

‘Then keep yer bloody mouth shut. That’s your cart, ain’t it?’

The second time he had been asked that question! But this time he couldn’t please himself whether to answer or not.

‘Yes, it’s mine.’

‘It’s yours. And yer run a nice little winder-cleaning business, all on yer own. Well, listen to me. See this?’

The hand that was not gripping him was bunched. Something gleamed palely on the fist. It so happened that Charles had never seen a knuckle-duster before, but he recognized it. The bald-headed man considerately turned it this way and that, so that he could get a good look at it. The brass studs reflected dim rays of light from the yellow street-lamp. It made him think of murder.

‘Just keep on takin’ the bread out of other folk’s mouths. The first time I catch up with yer, yer’ll get this. The second time, yer’ll get yer bloody neck broke.’

Footsteps. Someone was coming along the pavement.

‘Keep still.’

The knuckle-duster pressed against Charles’s windpipe. It was dark in the doorway. The man who happened to walk past saw nothing. Either nothing, or just two drunks affectionately leaning in a doorway together.

Where was Ern?