The Figure in the Dusk by John Creasey

Sloan didn’t miss much; but unless there was an early clue, he’d have to handle the lot himself. He yawned.
    Janet brought the supper-tray in.
    They’d finished, and were listening to a quiz on the radio when the telephone went.
    â€œHallo,” said Roger, into it.
    â€œWe’ve traced one of the pound-notes he stole from Aden’s pockets,” said Sloan. “A café in Soho. I thought you’d like to know. Shall I go, or will you?”
    â€œI’ll go,” said Roger. “Send Peel round, with all the photographs, will you? I’ll meet him there.”
    Â 
    It was a dingy side street in Soho, and might have been a thousand miles from the bright fights of Piccadilly Circus and the roar of London’s traffic. Near the café, which was open, was a small and exclusive restaurant, where Roger would take Janet on anniversaries. Peel was standing nearby. They met and went into the café, which was near a street lamp, so that they could read the sign: ‘Salvatore’s’. Inside, half a dozen men and several girls were sitting at small tables, obviously foreign, almost as obviously Italians. A red Cinzano sign hung on one wall. A man was eating spaghetti, crouching over the table and gulping it down, digging his fork into the big heap and twisting it round expertly. A little man with a round, oily face and thick dark hair which was combed back from his forehead in deep waves was standing behind a counter. He had a high colour, needed a shave, and his brown eyes had a velvety softness.
    Roger and Peel stopped at the counter, near the hissing, bubbling coffee-urn, and the little Italian behind it smiled at them nervously.
    â€œ You polizia? ”
    â€œYes,” said Roger, and showed his card. “Are you Salvatore?”
    â€œSure thing—come thissa way, mister.” He opened a flap in the counter; a buxom woman, even shorter than he, took his place by the urn. He led the way into a small back room, crammed with furniture and cardboard boxes. A double bed was in one corner, and there was only just room to stand alongside it. Rickety chairs dotted that space. “Sitta down, pliz,” said Salvatore, “I wanta to help da polizia ”
    They sat down.
    â€œAbout this pound-note,” Roger said, and Peel took the note from his pocket. “How did you come to give it to the police?”
    â€œMister?”
    Peel said: “His English isn’t too good. Two of our men sometimes come in here for a cup of good coffee, and did this evening. They asked him to show them his one-pound notes, and this was among them. It’s the only new one of the lot. He said he paid in to the bank this afternoon, and only changed three pound-notes up to the time he was questioned.”
    â€œ Si, si, I am da truth,” broke in Salvatore. He held up three fingers. “One, two, dree. And thatta one, he was bad man. Ver’ bad man; he looked like dis.” He scowled and hunched his shoulders, shot out an arm and whipped a trilby hat from a chair, jammed it on his head, pulled it low over his eyes, and glared round. “So! But he was not fat, no. Thin.”
    â€œWould you recognise him again?”
    Salvatore looked blank.
    â€œWould you know him again?” asked Roger patiently.
    â€œ Si, si, signore! ”
    Roger took the photographs, which Peel had in a large envelope, and handed one to Salvatore; the man shook his head. He tried two more, before showing the picture of Latimer. For the first time, Salvatore paused.
    Neither of the Yard men prompted him.
    â€œCould be, yes; could be, no,” said Salvatore, pursing his lips as he finished. “Yes, no. I dunno!” He waved his hands. “Could be da man, could not be da man, yes?”
    Roger showed three more photographs, and Salvatore brushed them all aside impatiently.
    â€œWas he alone?”
    â€œBy himself, yes.”
    â€œHad he ever been here