‘MY NAME IS HARRY CLIFTON.’

‘Sure, and I’m Babe Ruth,’ said Detective Kolowski as he lit a cigarette.

‘No,’ said Harry, ‘you don’t understand, there’s been a terrible mistake. I’m Harry Clifton, an Englishman from Bristol. I served on the same ship as Tom Bradshaw.’

‘Save it for your lawyer,’ said the detective, exhaling deeply and filling the small cell with a cloud of smoke.

‘I don’t have a lawyer,’ protested Harry.

‘If I was in the trouble you’re in, kid, I’d consider having Sefton Jelks on my side to be about my only hope.’

‘Who’s Sefton Jelks?’

‘You may not have heard of the sharpest lawyer in New York,’ said the detective as he blew out another plume of smoke, ‘but he has an appointment to see you at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and Jelks don’t leave his office unless his bill has been paid in advance.’

‘But-’ began Harry, as Kolowski banged the palm of his hand on the cell door.

‘So when Jelks turns up tomorrow morning,’ Kolowski continued, ignoring Harry’s interruption, ‘you’d better come up with a more convincing story than we’ve arrested the wrong man. You told the immigration officer that you were Tom Bradshaw, and if it was good enough for him, it’s going to be good enough for the judge.’