Fear to Tread by Michael Gilbert Page B

It was whilst he was putting them on that he first became aware of the state of his face. His right ear was numb, but felt enormous.
    “I saw them,” said the woman. “The brutes.” Mr. Wetherall blinked up at her. She had a fat, good-natured, sketchily painted face.
    “You ought to get home, you know,” she went on. “You let a copper take one sniff at you and he’ll run you in just as quick as he’ll swear your character away next morning.”
    Mr. Wetherall had not associated the smell of spirits with himself. He had imagined it came from the woman. Now he noticed his sodden reeking shirt front.
    “Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh, dear. What shall I do?”
    “You ought to get a taxi and go off home.”
    “Yes. That’s right.” Home seemed infinitely desirable. “Would you be so kind—I wonder if you could find me one?”
    “Oh, I’ll find you one all right,” said the woman. “Have you got any money to pay for it, that’s the thing.”
    It was then that he discovered that his wallet was gone. The loss suddenly unnerved him completely. He started to shiver.
    “Money gone too,” said the woman. “Well, that’s a fix and no mistake.”
    He forced his undamaged hand into his trouser pocket.
    There were a few coppers and some silver. He could hardly hold them for the shaking. “That won’t get you far. Have you got a friend who could lend you some?”
    Mr. Wetherall took hold of himself with an effort.
    “Yes,” he said. “If you can find me a taxi I shall be all right. Just as far as Fleet Street. Then I can borrow some more money.”
    “All right,” said the woman. “I won’t be a minute. There’s always a cab behind the Casino.” She looked at him doubtfully. Mr. Wetherall had begun to shiver again.
    “Hold on to yourself,” she said. “I won’t be a jiffy.”

 
     
6
NIGHT OVER FLEET STREET
     
    Alastair todd was playing cards with two friends. He was in his office on the first floor of the chocolate-box building towards the south-east corner of Fleet Street that houses that great and justly celebrated daily newspaper, the Kite.
    He was a round, cheerful person with a fringe of brown curly hair lying like a halo of camel’s wool above a chubby face. He looked a little younger than he really was. How he had attained to the responsible office of a sub-editor on the Kite was a bit of a mystery to his friends.
    He had come to journalism by curious by-paths; as do most members of that exciting, disorganised profession. At the age of twenty he had been ranked as the second best squash player in England and (in the opinion of many) the greatest racquets player in the world. He had a small allowance, dispensed to him by a guardian, and no desire to do anything other than play those two particular games. It was the tiresome recurrence of summer which had defeated his programme. Finding that his keenest opponents fell off as the temperature rose into the eighties, he had started to fill in the lengthening intervals between matches by writing about them; and he had very soon been signed up by the Morning Toast, which specialised, as you will remember, in accurate and informed accounts of all gentlemanly sports.
    On the decease of that paper he had joined the Kite, and its editor (a man from Newcastle who believed in no game but football) had suggested that he turn his attention to crime. He could, if he wished, said the editor, continue to write a short, seasonable column about squash and racquets, but crime, as he pointed out, had the advantage of being an all-weather activity. So Todd turned placidly to crime and employing some of the finesse which had kept his opponents guessing on the court, had turned out to be a moderately successful reporter.
    After the war, which he spent in the Air Force, he had been welcomed back to the paper by the new editor (a Yorkshireman who believed in no game but cricket) and had been put as assistant to the man in charge of the feature page. On the retirement of