The West End was gay with its last flicker of
life before the streets were given over to the night birds. Sky signs tumbled
and danced their chromatic electric dances, commissionaires called cabs, people
with voices unnaturally loud took emphatically affectionate farewells, bums
walked around with despair in their hearts, wide boys looked out for a chance
to nick a wallet or buzz a moll. Among the crowd, walking with bent, out-thrust
head, was a man with his hands deep in his raincoat pockets. A magnet was
luring him to Bond Street. After all, why not? The police were incompetent
idiots. How could they be expected to catch a Master Mind like the Lone Wolf
even if they dared lay their sacrilegious hands on him? So the police had
arrested Big Harry, had they? Who was Big Harry? He must be that wretched
creature's bully. Despicable, loathsome. To think that a woman should sell her
favours, insult a man by asking him for money, and then hand the money over to
some oily brute. Good God, it was disgraceful. A pang of joy ran through him at
the thought of this Big Harry in the clutches of the police. Triumph. Revenge.
So clever, but beaten at last. It would be funny if they hanged Big Harry.
Very, very funny.
