He reached Number 24 a little after a quarter past seven, and pressed the bell although he had his key in his hand; Mrs. Blake liked him to ring, so that she knew who had come in. She would be approaching from the kitchen doorway as he opened the door, with her pleasant welcome, and her invariable:

“I expect you’re starved, I’ll soon have something ready for you. Just go up and have a little wash.”

He would go up . . .

He opened the door with his key, and was surprised because there was no movement from the kitchen, and only silence in the house.

If she was going to be out, Mrs. Blake usually told him before he left in the morning; she was remarkably a creature of habit, and since she had acquired a television set, had seldom gone out in the evening.

Ah. It was later than usual, and the television was on. Jim grinned to himself, but a moment later decided that he was wrong; he would have heard voices or music, had that been the case.

He called out: “You home, Mrs. Blake?” There was no answer.

*     *     *

Had he gone upstairs then, as he usually did, and into his front room bed-sitter, he would probably have looked out of the window, and seen the tall man in brown meet the small man in the neat grey suit and the trilby pulled over one eye; but instead, he went along to the kitchen.

*     *     *

The television set, in a corner, was as blank as an empty window. The large kitchen was scrupulously clean and tidy, there was a green chenille table cloth over the large deal table, the wooden chairs were all varnished; and there was an appetising smell coming from the stove. On the dark green cloth was a note:

The telly’s out of order so I’ve  popped next door to see the play,  dinner’s in the oven and help yourself to anything you feel like. Mrs. B. There are some of those new rock  cakes you like in the big red tin in the larder.

Jim grinned.