sitting, half lying in a hammock deck-chair in the same little hut in which Ikey Cohen had witnessed the murder of poor little Tommy. There was a burning taste of raw brandy in his mouth and throat, and his head was aching terribly. He looked up and saw a man, with a black cloth mask over the upper part of his face, sitting astride a wooden chair in front of him, with his arms across the back, looking at him through the eyeholes of his mask. Even in the first moments of returning consciousness he seemed to recognise something familiar in him, and the seeming soon became certainty.
"Evenin', inspector. Comin' round a bit? That's right. Been waitin' quite a time to have a bit of a chat with you. Feel up to it now? Have another nip?"
There was no mistaking the drawling tone, or the clip of the word ends. The inspector's rallying thoughts went back to that night at
