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since he woke up. But after about twenty minutes he suddenly looked around as if he had only just realized where he was. “Nick . . . ?” he said.
    “Yes?”
    “You don’t think the police think I had anything to do with what happened to the dwarf, do you?” he asked.
    “No,” I replied soothingly. “You went up to see him. There was a gunshot. You were found holding a smoking gun. The dwarf was dead. Why would the police think you’re involved?”
    At that moment there was a rattle as a key was turned in the lock and the door swung open. Herbert groaned. The man who had just come in didn’t look too happy either.
    “Herbert Simple,” he said.
    “Inspector Snape,” Herbert muttered in a strangled voice.
    “Chief Inspector Snape,” the man growled. “No thanks to you.”
    The chief inspector was blond-haired and built like a football player, with those slightly squashed shoulders that come from too many tackles. His skin was the color of raw bacon and he spoke with a northern accent. He was wearing an off-white shirt that had probably been pure white when he put it on, and a tie that had slipped over his collar in its struggle to get away from his bulging neck. He was followed by a smaller, squatter version of himself with black, permed hair, an open-neck shirt, and a gold medallion glittering in the forest of his chest. The assistant—if that’s what he was—stood there, pounding one fist into the palm of his hand, looking at us with unfriendly, muddy brown eyes. Well, if these are the cops, I thought, I’d hate to meet the robbers.
    “Herbert Simple,” Snape repeated, drawing up a chair.
    “Can I hit him?” the other policeman asked.
    “No, Boyle.” The chief inspector smiled unpleasantly. “Herbert Simple.” He said the name a third time, chewing on the words like they were stuck in his teeth. “The worst police constable that ever served in my station. In two months you did more damage than the Kray brothers managed in twenty years. The day you left, I cried like a baby. Tears of pleasure. I never thought . . . I hoped, I prayed that I would never see you again.” His piglike eyes were turned on me. “And who are you, laddie?” he asked.
    “His brother,” I said.
    “Bad luck, son. Bad luck.”
    “Can I hit him ?” Boyle asked.
    “Relax, Boyle.” The chief inspector took out a cigarette and lit it. “Now, the question I’m asking myself is, why should a luckless, hopeless, brainless ex-policeman like Herbert Simple be mixed up with a man like Johnny Naples?”
    “I didn’t shoot him!” Herbert cried.
    “I believe you.” Snape’s nostrils quivered as they blew out two streams of smoke. “If you’d wanted to shoot the dwarf, you’d have probably missed and shot yourself in the foot. After all, when we sent you for target practice, you managed to shoot the instructor. But the fact still remains that your fingerprints are on the gun—and nobody else’s. So perhaps you’d better tell me what you were doing there.”
    “Naples was my client,” Herbert squeaked.
    “Your client?”
    “He’s a private detective,” I explained.
    “A private detective?” Chief Inspector Snape began to laugh. He laughed until the tears trickled down his checks. At last he managed to calm himself down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. Boyle handed him a handkerchief and he blew his nose noisily. “Now I’ve heard everything!” he said. “A private detective. And your client’s dead. That makes sense. The moment he came to you he was a marked man. But what private detection did Naples want?”
    “It’s private,” I said.
    That wiped the smile off Snape’s face. At the same time, Boyle grunted and lumbered toward me. I’d seen prettier sights in the London Zoo. Fortunately for me, Snape held up a hand. “Forget it, Boyle,” he snapped.
    “But, Chief . . .”
    “He’s underage.”
    Boyle grunted again and punched the air. But he hung back.
    “You should watch yourself,