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His untidy sandy-grey hair seemed to be standing on end; the large ears, that stood out at right angles to his face, gave the illusion of quivering movement.
    Lew Kohl’s hand was on the doorknob.
    ‘Womp!
    It was the sound of a dull weight striking a board; something winged past his cheek, before his eyes a deep hole showed in the wall, and his face was stung by flying grains of plaster. He spun round with a whine of rage.
    Mr Reeder had a long-barrelled Browning in his hand, with a barrel-shaped silencer over the muzzle, and he was staring at the weapon open-mouthed.
    ‘Now how on earth did that happen?’ he asked in wonder.
    Lew Kohl stood trembling with rage and fear, his face yellow-white.
    ‘You – you swine!’ he breathed. ‘You tried to shoot me!’
    Mr Reeder stared at him over his glasses.
    ‘Good gracious – you think that? Still thinking of killing me, Kohl?’
    Kohl tried to speak but found no words. He flung open the door, strode down the stairs and through the front entrance. His foot was on the first step when something came hurtling past him and crashed to fragments at his feet. It was a large stone vase that had decorated the windowsill of Mr Reeder’s bedroom. Leaping over the debris of stone and flower mould, he glared up into the surprised face of Mr J G Reeder.
    ‘I’ll get you!’ he spluttered.
    ‘I hope you’re not hurt?’ asked the man at the window in a tone of concern. ‘These things happen. Some day and some hour–’
    As Lew Kohl strode down the street, the detective was still talking.
    Mr Stan Bride was at his morning ablutions when his friend and sometime prison associate came into the little room that overlooked Fitzroy Square.
    Stan Bride, who bore no resemblance to anything virginal, being a stout and stumpy man with a huge red face and many chins, stopped in the act of drying himself and gazed over the edge of the towel.
    ‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked sharply. ‘You look as if you’d been chased by a busy. What did you go out so early for?’
    Lew told him, and the jovial countenance of his room-mate grew longer and longer.
    ‘You poor fish!’ he hissed. ‘To go after Reeder with that stuff! Don’t you think he was waiting for you? Do you suppose he didn’t know the very moment you left the Moor?’
    ‘I’ve scared him, anyway,’ said the other, and Mr Bride laughed.
    ‘Good scout!’ he sneered. ‘Scare that old perisher! If he’s as white as you, he is scared! But he’s not. Of course he shot past you – if he’d wanted to shoot you, you’d have been stiff by now. But he didn’t. Thinker, eh – he’s given you somep’n’ to think about.’
    ‘Where that gun came from I don’t–’
    There was a knock at the door and the two men exchanged glances.
    ‘Who’s there?’ asked Bride, and a familiar voice answered.
    ‘It’s that busy from the Yard,’ whispered Bride, and opened the door.
    The ‘busy’ was Sergeant Allford, CID, an affable and portly man and a detective of some promise.
    ‘’Morning, boys – not been to church, Stan?’
    Stan grinned politely.
    ‘How’s trade, Lew?’
    ‘Not so bad.’ The forger was alert, suspicious. ‘Come to see you about a gun – got an idea you’re carrying one, Lew – Colt automatic R.7/94318. That’s not right, Lew – guns don’t belong to this country.’
    ‘I’ve got no gun,’ said Lew sullenly.
    ‘Will you come for a little walk to the station, or will you let me go over you?’
    ‘Go over me,’ said Lew, and put out his arms stiffly whilst the detective rubbed him down.
    ‘I’ll have a look round,’ said the detective, and his ‘look round’ was very thorough.
    ‘Must have been mistaken,’ said Sergeant Allford. And then, suddenly: ‘Was that what you chucked into the river as you were walking along the Embankment?’
    Lew started. It was the first intimation he had received that he had been ‘tailed’ that morning.
    Bride waited till the detective was visible