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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