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exits, but the Circus was left mainly to a few casualties of the previous night’s carousing—either too drunk or too broke to manage the journey home—clinging to the steps of Eros like shipwrecked sailors on a desert island.
    He turned into Coventry Street, passing a huddle of rags in a damp shop doorway—some poor unfortunate who hadn’t made it into the spike for the night. A few yards down a street hawker rummaged through his cardboard suitcase, sorting out the bootlaces and pipe cleaners. The old boy wore a leather patch over one eye and a medal pinned to the breast of his shabby greatcoat.
    ‘Got any matches, pops?’ asked Harley.
    ‘Certainly guv’nor; hang on a second.’ As he searched through the suitcase the old man’s nicotine-stained beard danced around a mouthful of dilapidated teeth. ‘There you go, son.’
    ‘Much obliged,’ said Harley, handing over the money. ‘Which regiment?’
    ‘East Lancashire,’ said the old soldier, pushing back his shoulders. ‘Eleventh Battalion—the Accrington Pals.’
    ‘Saw a bit of the desert then?’
    ‘Aye—and my share of mud too. You?’
    ‘Mostly mud.’
    The old man nodded and rubbed his one, rheumy eye.
    ‘Accrington Pals, eh?’ said Harley, ‘long way from home then.’
    ‘Needs must, son, needs must. After all, look around yer—the streets are paved with gold down ’ere, ain’t they?’
    Harley laughed, tipped his hat and began to walk on.
    ‘Hold on fella!’ shouted the old boy. ‘What about your change?’
    ‘Have a wet on me!’
    As he turned the corner a hand slapped down on Harley’s shoulder.
    ‘Since you’ve got so much dough to spare, how about sending some in this direction?’ The voice was close to his ear, a hammy mid-Atlantic accent, the breath sickly-sweet with stale alcohol.
    Harley slowly pushed his hand into his coat pocket, reaching for his knuckleduster.
    ‘ Easy does it ! No surprises now.’
    An iron grip clamped tight around his wrist and something hard pushed into the small of his back.
    ‘Turn around— slowly … ’
    It was pointless calling out—the street was empty. A few hours earlier it would have been filled with janes and their punters, and groups of boisterous drunks tipping out of the clubs; but now there was no one except for a brewery drayman driving his nag lazily up towards Shaftesbury Avenue—too far out of earshot to be of any help. He tensed his muscles—still stiff from the brawl at the Tilbury docks—and slowly turned around.
    ‘ Smokey ! You bastard! I should have guessed from the dodgy Edward G. Robinson impression.’
    One-time British middleweight champion, Solly “the smoke” Rosen—aka “The Yiddish Thunderbolt”—stood with a huge drunken grin on his face, pointing a half-empty bottle of Worthington’s beer at the private detective.
    ‘Stick ’em up!’ he said, reverting to his native cockney, before draining the bottle and flinging it into the gutter.
    ‘You wanna be careful, Solly—sneaking up on a bloke like that. You might’ve got hurt.’
    Rosen sprayed his mouthful of beer out and doubled over in laughter. He came back up with an enormous belch and wiped the tears from his eyes.
    ‘You’re priceless, Georgie boy … But seriously, you gotta sharpen up your act—I could see you going for those brass knuckles of yours a mile away. And I’ve been on the skimish all night.’
    ‘Well, to tell you the truth, Sol, I wasn’t really expecting any trouble at half-six on a Saturday morning.’
    ‘You should always expect trouble, George; always expect trouble—that’s my motto.’
    ‘Yeah well, that’s stone-ginger with you around, Solly. You’re one big trouble-magnet—always ’ave been.’
    Harley checked his watch.
    ‘What you banging your kettle for?’ said Rosen. ‘You on a promise? You won’t find any janes out on the bash at this time in the morning—they’re all tucked up in bed.’
    ‘Either that or in Alberto’s,’ said Harley,