Detective Sergeant Joseph Bragg of the City of London Police strode along Cheapside towards his office. He was conscious of being out of tune with his surroundings. The cloud and rain that made June miserable had hung on till the middle of July, but today the sun was shining from a placid blue sky, and everyone was smiling. A street orderly darted into the traffic and scooped up some horse droppings with a flourish; then, pirouetting like a matador betwk~n the lumbering vehicles, gained the pave- ment again. Perhaps it was because the case at the Old Bailey had gone on well into the lunch hour; or maybe it was the stricken look on the face of the accused s wife when the guilty verdict had been given. So far as he could remember he d felt content enough that morning. One thing was for sure: he d never go to the Saracen again. The pint of beer he d been served was flat and stale; and they d charged him tuppence for it. And their sausages had more bread than pork in them. Funny how the newspaper reporters managed to take over the Magpie and Stump. If you weren t there by one o clock you could never get near the bar. God knows where they got their money from. But at least the girls had forsaken their coats. A chattering group of them came towards him, wearing high-necked white blouses and long black skirts. Some of them were even without their hats. Probably typewriters from the Gresham Assurance. They glanced provocatively at him as he was forced to step into the gutter to let them pass, then burst into giggles as they scampered up the steps and through a doorway. Pretty, young and shapely: in ten years they d look work-worn and defeated. //
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