He listened out of curiosity, and was suddenly sweating. He caught mumbled phrases, and pieced the rest together.

Boat on the river… two a.m. at Black Wharf… Cudgels has a personal stake in this lot… worth a good half-million, I’d say… little diversion lore the Snake, keep his men busy other side of town…no problem with fuzz, bought the sergeant off…

The men grinned at each other. The late-comer got up and went back to the lavatory; before he returned and headed to his former seat elsewhere in the theatre, the man in brown had put his topcoat over his arm and headed for the exit. Howson sat frozen, the chance of being important handed to him at the very moment when he was wishing for it.

Cudgels: the Snake: yes, it was certain. He’d never mixed in such business, but you couldn’t live in this broken-down quarter of the city without hearing those names occasionally and learning that they were gang-bosses and rivals. A club would be smashed up, a store’s biggest plate-glass window broken, a young tough carried to hospital from an alley lined with garbage-cans and floored with his blood — then, one heard mention of Cudgels Lister and Horace “Snake” Hampton. Also a car would be pointed out by a knowing youth: “The smart way to the top — I’m going that way one day!”

Painful, to the accompaniment of hard breathing, Howson forced himself to the crucial decision.

The street was still called Grand Avenue, but it had been one of the focal points of the crisis period. Afterwards people shied away from it, beginning the decline which had now reduced the side streets near by to a status barely above slums. Even so, it was well lit, and the garish stores had glaring windows, and Howson would normally have avoided it. He preferred the darker side of any street, and night to day.

Now, heart hammering, he braved it. There was a place at the far end — a club and bar — which served as the Snake’s front for tax and other purposes. It was no use trying to make his ill-formed face look severe for the menacing encounter he was bound to; a mirror on the door of a barber’s told him that as he passed. The best he could hope to do would be to look — well—casual.

The hell. It was what he had to say that mattered.

He hobbled clear past his destination the first time, because his mouth was so dry and his guts were so tense. He stopped a few yards farther on, and deliberately evened his breathing until he had some semblance of control. Then he plunged.

The bar was chromed, mirrored, neoned. Music blasted from high speakers on the wall. At tables early drinkers were grouped in twos and threes, but there was no one at the bar yet. A bored “tender leaned on his elbows and eyed the short stranger with the limp.

He said, “What’ll it be?”

Howson didn’t drink — had never tried alcohol. He’d seen shambling drunks and wondered why the hell anyone gifted with ordinary physical control should want to throw it away. The thought of being still worse co-coordinated filled him with disgust. In any case, he had no spare money.

He said,” Is — uh — Mr Hampton here?’

The bartender took his elbows off the counter. He said, “What’s that to you, crooky? He’s not for public show!”

“I have something he’ll want to hear,” Howson said, mentally cursing the reedy pipe which had to serve him for a voice.

“He knows everything he wants to know,” the bartender said curtly. “There’s the door. Use it.”

He picked up a damp cloth and began to swab beer-rings off the bar.

Howson looked around and licked his lips. The customers had decided not to stare at him any more. Encouraged, he went the sidewise pace necessary to confront the “tender again.

“It’s about some business of Cudgel’s,” he whispered. His whisper was better than his ordinary voice — less distinctive.

“Since when did Cudgels tell you his stories?” the bartender said sourly. But he thought it over, and after a pause gave a shrug. Reaching under the bar, he seemed to grope for something — a bell-push, maybe. Shortly, a door behind the bar opened and a man with oily black hair appeared.

“Crooky here,” the barman said. “Wants to sell news about Cudgels to Mr Hampton.”

The oily-haired man stared unbelieving at Howson. Then he too shrugged, gestured; the flap of the bar was raised for Howson to limp through.

In back was the stockroom of the bar. Oily-hair escorted Howson through there, through a door lined with red baize, down a badly-lit corridor to another similar door. And beyond that, sat him down in a room furnished with four identical red velvet lounges, decorated with gilt pillars and pretty abstract paintings.

“Wait,” oily-hair said curtly, and went out.

Howson sat, very tense on the edge of the velvet cushions, eyes roving as he tried to figure out what went on back here. He fancied he caught a clicking noise, and recalled a shot from a favorite movie. Roulette. The air smelt of anxiety, and that would be why.

Shortly, oily-hair returned, beckoned him, and this time took him into a business-like office where a lean man with pale hands presided behind a telephone-laden desk, tall youths like guards at either side of him. At Howson’s entrance the looks on their faces changed; they had been wary, and became astonished.

Looking at the man behind the desk, Howson could see why he was called the Snake. His mere presence was devious; cunning lit the dark irises of his eyes.

He studied Howson for a long moment, then lifted an eyebrow in wordless inquiry to oily-hair.

“Crooky here wants to sell information about Cudgels,” was the condensed explanation. “That’s all I know.”

“Hmmm…” The Snake rubbed his smooth chin. “And walks in unannounced. Interesting. Who are you, crook?’

It didn’t seem to be as unkindly meant as it usually was; it was simply a label. Maybe a man who was called Snake was casual about such things. Howson cleared his throat.

“My name’s Gerry Howson,” he said. “I was down the movie theatre an hour back. There was this guy waiting for someone to move to the next seat while the picture was playing. They whispered together, and I overheard them.”

“Uh-huh,” the Snake commented. “So-o-o?”

“This is where we get to the price,” oily-hair suggested.

“Shut up, Collar,” the Snake said. He kept his eyes on Howson.

“A boat’s coming up-river to Black Wharf at 2 a.m. I don’t know for sure it’s tonight, but I think so. It has half a million worth of stuff on it.”

Howson waited, thinking belatedly that Collar was probably right — he should have named a price, at least, or fed the news by stages. Then he caught himself. No, he’d done it the right way. There was total silence. And it was lasting.

“So that’s how he does it,” the Snake said finally. “Hear that, Collar? Well, if you heard it, what are you doing standing there?”

Collar gulped audibly and snatched at one of the phones on the desk. There was another silence, during which the two guards stared with interest at Howson.

“Gizmo?” Collar said in a low voice to the phone. “Collar. You can talk? General call. We have some night work… Yes, okay. Not more than two hours. Smooth!’

He cradled the phone. The Snake was getting to his feet. The process appeared to be complete. Howson felt a stab of panic at its speed. He said, “Uh — I guess it’s worth something, isn’t it?”

“Possibly.” The Snake gave him a sleepy smile. “We’ll know soon enough, won’t we? Right now what its worth is—oh, let’s say a few drinks, a square meal which you look like you could do with, and some company. Hear me, Lots?’

One of the youthful guards nodded and stepped forward.

“Look after him. He may be valuable, he may not — we’ll see. Dingus!”

The other guard responded.