Crabtree, in fact, about the time that these same papers were being read at countless breakfast tables throughout the country, was standing rather forlornly in the main street of Spellsborough, a small market town in Sussex. At his back was a gaunt ugly building with the words “County Police” on the lamp over its main entrance. Across the road, in the direction in which he was looking, was a garage, where a heavy motor lorry had just pulled up to refuel, and towards this he directed a look of hopeful interest.

The lorry driver paid for his petrol, cranked the engine and climbed up into his seat. As he did so, Crabtree crossed the road and came up on his near side.

“Going to London, mate?” he asked.

The driver was a pale-faced, fleshy man with a permanent frown of discontent. He looked down at Crabtree with eyes that seemed to twinkle with malice.

“Ye’re just out o’ the lock-up, ain’t yer?” he said, jerking his thumb at the building across the road.

“What’s that got to do with you?” said Crabtree defensively.

“That’s all right,” was the answer. “I’ve suffered from the so-called justice of the ruling classes meself. We of the proletariat ’ave got to stick together. Jump in, comrade. Ye’re welcome to a lift to London—if this perishing box o’ tricks will get so far.”

He crashed the engine into gear and the lorry crawled slowly up the steep street and on to the open downs beyond.

“In Soviet Russia”, observed the driver, “the output of motor trucks ’as increased three ’undred per cent in the larst five years. That makes yer think a bit, don’t it?”

Crabtree, who, if he thought at all, was not accustomed to think of such subjects, contented himself with a non-committal grunt. They continued to drive in silence for several miles before his companion spoke again.

“If yer don’t believe me,” he said, as though the one-sided conversation had never been interrupted, “just take a look at this.” He pulled a newspaper from his pocket. “The Daily Toiler,” he added with reverence in his voice. “Yer can believe what yer reads in the Toiler. It’s the truth, comrade—not just lying capitalist propaganda, like some I could mention.”

An emphatic spit over the side emphasized his contempt for the lords of Fleet Street.

Crabtree took the paper, and glanced without much attention at the small print to which the driver’s grubby finger pointed. The statistics of the special correspondent in Moscow promised little entertainment, and it was not long before he turned to the front page. What he saw there interested him a good deal more. Whatever the differences between The Daily Toiler and its capitalist competitors, its standard of news values was fundamentally the same. Politics may differ, but a murder is a murder all the world over.

“’Ere, ’ullo! What’s this?” he exclaimed.