Without appearing to notice, he knew that one expert cracksman, one well-known shop-lifter and a man who made his living by stealing fruit from the wholesale markets, was in the saloon. Two were alone, one was with his wife. In a far corner were two detective-sergeants from the Thames Division, and one raised his hand. Lemaitre gave him the thumbs-up sign, and began to hum:

“I’m half-crazy, all for the love of you! . . . Half of light, Joe . . .  It won’t be a stylish marriage, I can’t afford a carnage .., My old dutch been in?” he wasn’t expecting his wife, but he wanted the barman and everyone within earshot to think that he was. “. . . upon the seat of a bicycle built for two . . . ! Ta.”

“Ain’t seen her,” grunted the barman.

“Out with her latest and finest, I suppose,” said Lemaitre. “Women!” He tossed down half of the beer. “Cheers.”

He looked about the crowded room at fifty or sixty faces, but could not find the man he had come to see: the ‘accidental’ meeting had been arranged by telephone. He had no doubt that his informant, a man named Charlie Blake, knew what he was talking about. And tonight he was to pass on the names of the people planning the doping of Derby runners.

Charlie wasn’t among the crowd, now clapping and cheering as the pianist took first a bow and then a drink from a pewter tankard on top of the old, burl walnut piano. People were calling out:

“Give us another, Tommy!”

“How about a bit of pop, for a change?”

“Never heard of the Beatles, Tommy?”

“Give us ‘My Old Dutch’,” one old woman called. “Me and me old china’s bin married fifty years.”

“You never got married in your life!” another oldish woman yelled, and the resultant roar of laughter was almost deafening. A man’s voice sounded above the din.

“Her six kids’ve got something to complain about, then!”