“Quiet,” he thought. “Very quiet, this stretch.”

By a strange coincidence (as he was afterwards and repeatedly to point out) he was startled at this very moment by a harsh mewing cry.

“Funny,” he thought. “You don’t often seem to hear seagulls at night. I suppose they go to sleep like Christians.”

The cry sounded again, but shortly, as if somebody had lifted the needle from a record. Moir couldn’t really tell from what direction the sound had come, but he fancied it was from somewhere along the Cape Company’s wharf. He had arrived at the farthest point of his beat and he now returned. The sounds of activity about the Cape Farewell grew clear again. She was still loading.

When he got back to the passageway he found a stationary taxi wreathed in fog and looking desolate. It quite surprised him on drawing nearer to see the driver motionless over the wheel. He was so still that Moir wondered if he was asleep. However, he turned his head and peered out.

“Evening, mate,” Moir said. “Nice night to get lost in.”

“And that’s no error,” the driver agreed hoarsely. “ ’Ere!” he continued, leaning out and looking fixedly at the policeman. “You seen anybody?”

“How d’you mean, seen?”

“A skirt. Wiv a boxerflahs.”

“No,” Moir said. “Your fare, would it be?”

“Ah! My fare! ’Alf a minute at the outside, she says, and nips off lively. ’Alf a minute! ’Alf a bloody ar, more likely.”

“Where’d she go? Ship?” asked Moir, jerking his head in the direction of the Cape Farewell.

“ ’’Course. Works at a flah shop. Cartin’ rahnd bokays to some silly bitch wot’ll frow ’em to the fishes, like as not. Look at the time: arpas eleven. Flahs!”