looked furtively over his shoulder, and quickened his pace. It was the kind of clever, ruthless trick they would stage: a murder that looked like an accident. Of course, the dead man might not be Sydney, and in that case he was getting alarmed over nothing. But he wouldn't rest until he knew for certain. He supposed the body would be in some mortuary, but he hadn't the vaguest idea which one. He was scared to go to a police station. The memory of Crispin now filled him with nervous dread.
Farther up the road he saw a policeman coming towards him He forced down his natural fear of the uniform and with misgivings planted himself in the policeman's path.
'I think I know this man,' he blurted out, pushing the newspaper at the policeman. 'I believe he's a friend of mine.'
The policeman gave him a quick, inquisitive glance, and then looked down at the newspaper. He frowned, chewing his moustache.
'What man's that, sir?' he asked patiently.
George pointed to the paragraph. His finger danced on the page.
The policeman ponderously read the item, then he glanced at George. 'You think you know 'im, do you, sir?'
George nodded. 'I suppose I ought to do something,' he said helplessly. 'I thought you could advise me.'
The policeman brooded. 'If you think you know 'im,' he said at last, 'it'd he your duty to—er—view the remains.' He shook his head sympathetically. 'Unpleasant job, sir, at the best of times, but seeing as 'ow you might identify 'im . . .'
' Where should I go?' George asked. The word 'remains' made him feel sick.
'Well, the accident 'appened at Belsize Park Station,' the policeman said. ' 'E'd be at the 'Ampstead mortuary as like as not. If you come with me, sir, I'll 'phone. There's a police box just round the corner.'
A few minutes later George was on his way to the Hampstead mortuary. It took him some time to screw up enough courage to ring the hell outside the double gates. After what seemed to him an interminable wait, a small door in the gate opened and a whitecoated attendant looked at him inquiringly.
'I think I know this man,' George said, offering the newspaper. 'The man who fell under the train this morning.'
'Then you'll 'ave come to identify 'im,' the attendant said cheerfully. 'This way, if you please, sir.'
George ducked through the doorway, and found himself in a small yard. A low brick building faced him, and with a tight feeling in his stomach he followed the attendant across the yard into the building.
'If you'll wait 'ere a moment, sir,' the attendant said, 'I'll get PC White.'
Left alone in the white-tiled passage, George looked round uneasily. There was a door at the end of the passage through which the attendant had disappeared. Near where George was standing he noticed a small window covered by a yellowing blind. He thought the place looked exactly like a public convenience, and because of the familiar association, his fears began to subside.
The door at the end of the passage opened, and the attendant beckoned. George entered a box-like room which served as an office. A police constable rose from behind a desk as George came in.
'Good morning, sir,' the police constable said. He had a kind, understanding face, and he was obviously anxious to set George at ease. 'Sit down, will you? You think you can identify the unfortunate gentleman who died this morning?'
George nodded. He was glad to sit down. He took off his hat and began to twirl it round between his sweating fingers.
'Distressing business, sir,' PC White said, settling down in his chair again. 'But you've nothing to worry about, sir. There won't be anything unpleasant. Perhaps you'd give me a little information; just to keep our records straight.' He drew a sheet of paper towards him. 'Your name, sir?'
George's mind went blank with fright. He hadn't thought they'd ask questions about himself. It would be madness to let them know that he had anything to do with Sydney. If they ever found Crispin . . .
A name jumped into his confused mind. 'Thomas Grant,' he blurted out, and then, tightening his control over himself, he volunteered, '247, North Circular Road, Finchley.' He had once stayed at that address, a boardinghouse, when he first came to London.
PC White wrote for a moment, his head on one side, taking pride in his neat, copper-plate handwriting. 'And what makes you think you know the deceased?'
'It's the description,' George said, slowly recovering from his first fright. 'The burn. I had a friend once who was fair and had a burn on the right of his face. I haven't seen him for some months. He used to live at my address—it's a guest house. Timson was his name. Fred Timson.'
PC White did a little more writing. 'You haven't seen him for some time?' he repeated.
'Well, no. Of course, I may be mistaken. But, I thought. . .'
'Very good of you, I'm sure. We're grateful for any help.
The gentleman had no papers nor anything to tell us who he is.' He got slowly to his feet. 'Well, sir, if you'll come along with me.'
George suddenly felt that he couldn't go through with this ghastly business. PC White noticed how pale he had gone.
'Now, don't worry, sir,' he said. 'We try to make this sad business as pleasant as circumstances allow. You'll only need to take a quick look at 'is face. You won't see anything unpleasant.'
George did not trust his legs. He sat still, gripping the arms of his chair, uneasy, frightened that he was going to be sick.
