He had such a story now – and such a girl as well.

Stevens knocked back the rest of his drink, and hammered on the bar. “Two Scotch, my good man,” he said to the barman. The barman, pouring the fresh drinks, winked at Harry. No one ever got sore with Al Stevens. It had ensured his ruin.

“What’s new?” asked Al Stevens again.

“Quiet day,” answered Harry. “A knifing in Scollay Square, Tommy Manville got married, Princess Margaret didn’t get engaged. Run-of-the-mill stuff.”

“You were in New York,” said Stevens, out of the blue.

“Yes. Esther Costello.” It was difficult now to pronounce her name simply. “Just got back.”

“Swell girl,” said Stevens vaguely. Then he frowned, at some unrelated thought. “They were talking about a big robbery, back in the newsroom.”

Grant nodded. “Sure. Some old dame at Cambridge. Jack Owen’s covering it. Man walked up the fire escape while the family were at dinner, emptied the old girl’s jewel box, walked right down again. Not a clue, not a print. About twenty thousand dollars’ worth of stuff.”

“She was too rich, anyway … It beats me why that sort of thing doesn’t happen more often.” Stevens looked around him: the bar, deserted, was very silent, the air-cooling system humming gently. “Anyone,” he said – and to Harry Grant his voice seemed to come from a long way away – “anyone living in one of those old houses, with a fire escape at the back, is asking for trouble.”

Harry Grant parked his car up the Avenue, a block away from Mrs Bannister’s apartment building, and settled down to wait.

It was eight o’clock, and getting towards dusk. He might have to move nearer to the front entrance, when it grew dark; but for the moment, he would see clearly enough if Mrs Bannister left the apartment. There was no reason why she should leave tonight – their train from New York had got in at six, and the household might now simply go to bed; but she could go out, for a late dinner or a visit to a friend. If not, he would have to try again next day. He dared not attempt the fire escape route, up to the third floor and Esther’s own room, unless Esther were alone in the house. He was taking a big chance even then, but there was no other way of finding her alone. If Mrs Bannister went out for any reason, she would be sure to lock her front door. The fire escape, leading up to the Bannister apartment – one of six in the small block – was all that was left.

He waited. The traffic thickened up for the late movies, then slacked off again. It grew darker: the street lamps came on, and the couples walking along the Avenue – advancing from one pool of light to another, like men cautiously stalking a hilltop – quickened their pace instead of strolling. The clock on the dash moved slowly: nine o’clock, a quarter past, half past. At nine forty-five, stiff and cramped with waiting, Harry Grant moved his car half a block nearer the entrance.