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have to come and see you somewhere less agreeable—and less private.” He stood up, and without looking backwards, head down, he pushed his way through the drinkers and out into the street.
    Thirty-five minutes later he was in the more salubrious parlor of the Dog and Duck, with a mug of cider, bright and clear as an Indian summer, in front of him, when the Stoat crept in nervously, ran his fingers round his grimy collar as if easing it from his neck, and wriggled onto the seat opposite him. He glanced round once or twice, but saw only dull, respectable minor traders and clerks; no one he knew.
    “Steak and kidney pudding?” Pitt offered unnecessarily.
    “Wotcher want orf of me first?” the Stoat said suspiciously, but his nostrils were wide, sucking in the delicious aroma of fresh, sweet food. It was almost as if the steam itself fed him. “ ’Oo’re yer after?”
    “Someone who robbed a house in Hanover Close three years ago,” Pitt replied, nodding over the Stoat’s head to the landlord.
    The Stoat swiveled round furiously, his face suddenly creasing with outrage. “ ’Oo’re yer signin’ at?” he snarled. “ ’Oozat?”
    “The landlord.” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Don’t you want to eat?”
    The Stoat subsided, vaguely pink under the gray of his skin.
    “A robbery three years ago in Hanover Close,” Pitt repeated.
    The Stoat sneered. “Free years ago? Bit slow, incher? Runnin’ be’ind vese days, are we? Wot was took?”
    Pitt described the articles in some detail.
    The Stoat’s lip curled. “ Yer in’t after vem fings! Ye’re after ’oo croaked ve geezer wot caught ’em at it!”
    “I’d be interested,” Pitt conceded. “But primarily I’m concerned to prove someone innocent.”
    “Vat’s a turnup!” the Stoat said cynically. “Friend o’ yours?”
    “Hungry?” Pitt smiled. The landlord appeared with two steaming dishes piled high with meat, gravy, and feather-light suet crust. A few green vegetables decorated the side, and a maid stood by with an earthenware jug of cider sweet as ripe apples.
    The Stoat’s eyes glazed a little.
    “Murder’s not good for business,” Pitt said very quietiy. “Gives robbery a bad name.”
    “Bring on the scran!” the little man snapped, then licked his lips and smiled. “Yer right—it’s clumsy and it in’t necessary.” He watched with rapture as his plate was set in front of him, inhaling the delicate steam and sucking his teeth as the cider was poured, eyeing it right to the brim of the tankard.
    “What do you know about it, Stoat?” Pitt asked before he took the first mournful.
    The Stoat’s eyes opened very wide. They were a clear gray; the redeeming feature of a cramped face, they must once have been handsome. He filled his mouth with food and chewed slowly, rolling it round his tongue.
    “Nuffin’,” he said at last. “And that in’t nuffin’, if yer sees wot I mean. Usual yer ’ears a word, if not straight orf, men in a munf er two. Or if ’e’s in lavender ’cos it turned a bit nasty, men a year, mebbe. But vis ’un clean mizzled!”
    “If he was in lavender in some nethersken, you’d know?” Pitt pressed. “In lavender” meant in a hiding place from the police, but the Stoat was indicating that this particular thief had vanished.
    The Stoat filled his mouth again and spoke round the food with difficulty. “ ’Course I’d know!” he said contemptuously. “Know every slapbang, lurk, nethersken, flash ’ouse, and paddyken fer miles.”
    Pitt understood him. He was referring to cheap eating houses, hiding places, low lodging houses, criminal pubs, and taprooms.
    “An’ I tell yer vis,” the Stoat went on, sipping his cider appreciatively. “ ’E weren’t no professional. From wot I ’ear ’e got no crow, no snakesman, and ’oo but a fool’d go in the front like ’e did in a place like ’anover Close? Yer gotta know the crushers’d be rahnd every bleedin’ twenty minutes!”
    A snakesman