And now it was clear that the young man in the blue serge suit, a white scarf at his throat like the other men, was the main point of interest for the crowd. He was leaning with his back against the wall below a street-level window. His hands were thrust deep in his trouser pockets and he answered questions quickly and incisively as they were put to him. He looked very young, with sleek black hair and a thick powerful body which caused the too-tight blue suit to have a corrugated appearance. His face was sullen, the lips thick and sensual, and his small gray eyes suspicious. Although the crowd made no move to interfere with him, he had the look of an animal at bay, his shoulders rounded against the wall and his heavy hands clenched in his pockets causing his trousers to bulge at the thighs. A half-smoked cigarette, unlit, hung from the corner of his mouth. He answered questions quickly but impatiently, without moving his cigarette. He seemed to be interested in those at the fringes of the crowd rather than in those close to him, or perhaps in something beyond the fringes, for as the men appeared from time to time, sidling from the closes along the street, his eyes narrowed and he watched them guardedly.

Suddenly, from a window far above his head, a metal object fell. It struck the pavement with a sharp crack and ricocheted close to his feet. A hush came over the crowd and all eyes were focused on the open razor towards which his hand, after a moment's hesitation, moved. He seemed to be fascinated by the broad blue blade. He tested its edge with his thumb, his head tilted to one side like a bird's, almost as though he were listening to music, and then, very slowly, almost cautiously, he closed it within its white bone handle and looked up to see who had thrown it. The crowd followed his gaze. The girl at the window on the third story pointed twice at him.