Stan was recovering his wits. “Question? Eh? What question? Look, the thing about questions is, first you’ve got to ask them, you daft ’erbert! Next—a bloke can’t answer while you’re squeezing the breath out of him with your great paw on his gizzard. Give me the blade, Dickie! Ambrose! On your feet, lad. Go and fetch that teapot in. We could all do with a cup.”

“Ambrose, lock the door! Stay where I can see you!” Such was the cold authority behind the snapped orders, Ambrose hurried to obey him rather than his boss.

The victim of the assault gurgled in what might have been interpreted as approval of Stan’s suggestion, staring eyes never leaving the grotesquely half-shaven, angry face that lowered over him.

Again, Stan tried to get a handle on events. “Hear that? He’s agreeing to your terms . . . whatever they are . . . Go on, then, Dickie dear! Ask away! You’ve got everybody’s attention. What do you want him to tell you that’s so urgent? The winner of today’s three-thirty at Newmarket? The name of his tailor? Who killed Cock Robin?”

“Shut it, Stan! He knows the question. He knows the answer.”

He released the pressure he’d been exerting on his victim’s throat, though the blade remained in place.

The answer, when it came, was little more than a croak. “They’re here in town. It’s on for tonight.”

The tramp nodded briefly in acknowledgement.

Sensing a lightening of the atmosphere, Stan leapt in with both feet. “Well, there you are, then, Dickie! You’ve got a green light for the party! Couldn’t you just have asked nicely? Don’t you think you’d better come back to the chair for the second half? You two could go over the guest list and talk about what you’re going to wear . . .”

Dickie ignored him and looked at the wall clock, then addressed the man in the chair. “Listen, you! It’s nearly four. Not much time. I wouldn’t want to contaminate Stan’s nice linoleum with blood spatter. We’ll continue this conversation somewhere more spit and sawdust, and you can explain why you’re trawling around Cambridge dogging my every step. Meet me at the Salvation Army shelter—know where that is?—at five. Be there or you’ll regret it! You wouldn’t want me to come calling for you at the Regent.”

“What shall I tell Edith?” came the wailing complaint.

This was greeted with exasperation, a trace of pity and wilful misunderstanding. “Just say you cut yourself shaving.”

Stonily, at last he removed the razor from the throat and handed him his towel. “Here, tidy yourself up. Get rid of the strawberry sundae—it’s not a good advert for Stan’s business.”

He stood aside as the customer sprang to his feet like a jackrabbit and ran for the door, dabbing at his face.