barman's attention and ordered a plate of corned beef and pickles.
"What are you having?"
Harry said he would have the same, and ordered two pints of beer.
"Well, here's luck," Ron said, when the beer arrived. "Here's to Mooney and Ricks: may they make a fortune!"
"What are you doing tonight?" Harry asked as they began their meal. "Did you say you were working?"
"That's right. I think I'm on to something interesting: something that'll make a good article for my series," Ron said with his mouth full. "I don't suppose you know, but there's a gang working the West End, picking pockets. It's been at it now for the past year, and the police haven't been able to catch any of them. Believe it or not, twenty to thirty people lose something of value every night in the West End. No one quite knows how the system works. I was talking to your pal Inspector Parkins about it, and he thinks they work in pairs. His idea is that girls are doing the actual stealing, and pass the stuff to an accomplice. Several girls have been taken to the police station and charged by men who have picked them up, but the missing articles are never found on them, and of course the charge doesn't stick.”
"I've been nosing around for some time trying to get the inside dope on this gang, and I think I've found a chap who's willing to talk. I'm meeting him tonight at the Red Circle cafe in Athens Street.”
But Harry was too preoccupied with his partnership plans to be interested in pickpockets, and he didn't pay much attention to what Ron was saying. At the back of his mind he was wondering if he should tell Clair what he had done or whether to wait and see if the partnership proved successful or not He decided to wait
After they had finished their meal they parted, Ron going off to the West End, and Harry reluctantly returning to Lannock Street.
He spent an hour or so making rough sketches of the studio, plotting his lights, marking on the sketch plan where he would need new switches and plugs. He would get an electrician to tackle the job first thing in the morning. If only he could persuade some famous actress to sit for him, he thought, as he undressed; someone like Anna Neagle or Gertrude Lawrence. With a photograph like that in the window he was sure business would roll in.
As he lay in bed, racking his brains how to solve this problem, it suddenly occurred to him that a portrait of Clair might do as well. He knew just how he would fight her, and could see the effect in his mind as clearly as if he had already taken the photograph. He decided he would talk to her about it the next night
With so much on his mind he didn't get off to sleep until past midnight, and then it seemed to him he had slept only for a few minutes when he woke with a start at the sound of someone knocking at the door.
Sleepily he groped for the light switch and turned it on. He looked at his watch: it was after half past one. The double knock sounded again, and then the door opened.
Harry scrambled out of bed and grabbed up his dressing gown as Mrs. Westerham, also in a dressing gown, looking very odd with two plaits hanging over her shoulders, and her eyes big and alarmed, entered the room. Behind her loomed a man in a trench coat and homburg hat.
"What's up?" Harry asked, startled, then he recognized Inspector Parkins, and his heart gave a lurch of alarm.
"Right-ho," Parkins said to Mrs. Westerham. "You get back to bed. Sorry to have disturbed you. And sorry to have disturbed you too, Mr. Ricks."
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, gaping at Parkins as he gently but firmly shepherded Mrs. Westerham from the room.
"Well, young man," Parkins said, coming over and standing before Harry. "I have a bit of bad news for you. Your friend Ronald Fisher's had an accident."
"Ron?" Harry exclaimed, starting up. "What's happened?"
Parkins pulled up a chair and sat down, facing Harry.
"Same thing that happened to you. We picked him up in Dean Street about an hour ago. He's been
"What are you having?"
Harry said he would have the same, and ordered two pints of beer.
"Well, here's luck," Ron said, when the beer arrived. "Here's to Mooney and Ricks: may they make a fortune!"
"What are you doing tonight?" Harry asked as they began their meal. "Did you say you were working?"
"That's right. I think I'm on to something interesting: something that'll make a good article for my series," Ron said with his mouth full. "I don't suppose you know, but there's a gang working the West End, picking pockets. It's been at it now for the past year, and the police haven't been able to catch any of them. Believe it or not, twenty to thirty people lose something of value every night in the West End. No one quite knows how the system works. I was talking to your pal Inspector Parkins about it, and he thinks they work in pairs. His idea is that girls are doing the actual stealing, and pass the stuff to an accomplice. Several girls have been taken to the police station and charged by men who have picked them up, but the missing articles are never found on them, and of course the charge doesn't stick.”
"I've been nosing around for some time trying to get the inside dope on this gang, and I think I've found a chap who's willing to talk. I'm meeting him tonight at the Red Circle cafe in Athens Street.”
But Harry was too preoccupied with his partnership plans to be interested in pickpockets, and he didn't pay much attention to what Ron was saying. At the back of his mind he was wondering if he should tell Clair what he had done or whether to wait and see if the partnership proved successful or not He decided to wait
After they had finished their meal they parted, Ron going off to the West End, and Harry reluctantly returning to Lannock Street.
He spent an hour or so making rough sketches of the studio, plotting his lights, marking on the sketch plan where he would need new switches and plugs. He would get an electrician to tackle the job first thing in the morning. If only he could persuade some famous actress to sit for him, he thought, as he undressed; someone like Anna Neagle or Gertrude Lawrence. With a photograph like that in the window he was sure business would roll in.
As he lay in bed, racking his brains how to solve this problem, it suddenly occurred to him that a portrait of Clair might do as well. He knew just how he would fight her, and could see the effect in his mind as clearly as if he had already taken the photograph. He decided he would talk to her about it the next night
With so much on his mind he didn't get off to sleep until past midnight, and then it seemed to him he had slept only for a few minutes when he woke with a start at the sound of someone knocking at the door.
Sleepily he groped for the light switch and turned it on. He looked at his watch: it was after half past one. The double knock sounded again, and then the door opened.
Harry scrambled out of bed and grabbed up his dressing gown as Mrs. Westerham, also in a dressing gown, looking very odd with two plaits hanging over her shoulders, and her eyes big and alarmed, entered the room. Behind her loomed a man in a trench coat and homburg hat.
"What's up?" Harry asked, startled, then he recognized Inspector Parkins, and his heart gave a lurch of alarm.
"Right-ho," Parkins said to Mrs. Westerham. "You get back to bed. Sorry to have disturbed you. And sorry to have disturbed you too, Mr. Ricks."
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, gaping at Parkins as he gently but firmly shepherded Mrs. Westerham from the room.
"Well, young man," Parkins said, coming over and standing before Harry. "I have a bit of bad news for you. Your friend Ronald Fisher's had an accident."
"Ron?" Harry exclaimed, starting up. "What's happened?"
Parkins pulled up a chair and sat down, facing Harry.
"Same thing that happened to you. We picked him up in Dean Street about an hour ago. He's been
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