“Any idea why they do it?”

“The gospel truth is that I dunno,” confessed Ebbutt, and looked as if he meant it, for he rubbed one cauliflower ear. “I don’t even know that they work for anyone in particular, they just hire themselves out.”

“Do you know who they’ve been working for lately?”

“No, Mr. Ar, I don’t. I ‘eard they’d done a job for old Donny Sampson a couple’ve weeks ago, but that’s as far as I know.”

“I knew that a barber had been attacked,” Rollison said, “but I didn’t think Sampson was in any racket.”

“Well, Donny’s made it pretty clear that he don’t want no one muscling in on his business. Too rich, that’s Donny’s trouble, money’s gone to ‘is ‘ead.” Ebbutt ran his hand over what little hair he had, most of it bristly. “That reminds me, I ought to have a n’aircut. He’s got several branches now, and there’s a manager in each; most of the hair-dressing trade around here is cornered by Donny Sampson. When a barber retires or wants to sell out, Donny buys the business, and he pays a fair price, too. But he won’t allow anyone else to take over any business if he can stop it. The people who’ve been established here for years is okay, he doesn’t attempt to take away their trade, but there’s no room for newcomers.” Ebbutt sniffed. “Okay, provided you don’t beat-up anyone to make ‘em sell.”

“Bill,” said Rollison, very mildly, “do you think I need a hair-cut, too?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Bill Ebbutt, earnestly, “I’ve always thought there was room for another Sweeney Todd. Why don’t you go and see if Donny’s trying to hemmulate Sweeney, Mr. Ar? The worst ‘e can do is cut your froat.”

“Which of the shops does he work at?” asked Rollison.

“Oh, the big one, proper posh place that is, up in the Whitechapel Road. You musta seen it. Ladies and gents like all of them, wigs and toupees and scalp treatment, the whole works. You really going, Mr. Ar?”