The man’s mouth dropped open and he tried to back further against the wall but only succeeded in knocking the back of his head against it. The Toff moved the cosh again, not violently, but close to his frightened eyes. The man was undersized, round-faced with a broken nose and an ugly scar over his right eye. From his cauliflower ears the Toff classed him as an ex-prize fighter. He was a man of perhaps forty and, in spite of his fear, there was a cunning glint in his eyes.

He drew in a hiss of breath.

“I—I just ‘appened to be—”

“You just happened to meet a friend and you were walking along with him when all of a sudden he jumped out at someone in front of him,” said Rollison, sarcastically. “I know all about that one, I’ve heard it before. I’d followed you far enough to know that you were both involved, so don’t lie. Who told you to . . .”

“I dunno!” squealed the man.

“You dunno, don’t you,” said Rollison. “Kemp, I’m going to give you a lesson in how to make a stubborn man talk. You might find it useful but don’t say who taught you!” He raised the cosh as if he meant business and Kemp actually put out a hand to restrain him.

“I’ll tell you!” gasped the little man, rearing up against the wall, “ ’Arry Keller gimme a quid to come along wiv Spike!”

Rollison glanced at the man on the floor.

“And is he Spike?”