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so blatantly open that something was bound to fall out, in which case Dodger would nimbly grab it before it hit the ground. That wasn’t stealing: that was keeping the place tidy, and after all, it only happened . . . what? Once or twice a week? It was a kind of tidiness, after all, but nevertheless some short-sighted people might hang you just because of a misunderstanding. But they never had a chance of misunderstanding Dodger, oh dear no, because he was quick, and slick, and certainly brighter than the stupid old woman who got her words wrong (after all, what was an ‘author of the storm’? That was barmy! Somebody who wrote down storms for a living?). Nice work if you could get it, although strictly speaking Dodger always avoided anything that might be considered as being work. Of course, there was the toshing; oh, how he loved that. Toshing wasn’t work: toshing was living, toshing was coming alive. If he wasn’t being so bloody stupid he would be down in the sewers now, waiting for the storm to stop and a new world of opportunity to open. He treasured those times on the tosh, but right now Charlie had his hand firmly on Dodger’s shoulder.

‘Hear that, my friend; this lady has you bang to rights, and if you emulate Genghis Khan in this household and I hear of it, then I will set some people I know onto your tail. Understand? And I will wield a weapon that Genghis himself never dreamed of and aim it straight at you, my friend. Now I must leave the stricken young lady in the care of yourself, and the care of you to Mrs Sharples, upon whose word your life depends.’ Charlie smiled and went on, ‘“Author of the storm”, indeed; I must make a note of that.’ To the surprise of Dodger, and presumably to the surprise of Mrs Sharples, Charlie took out a very small notebook and a very short pencil and quickly wrote something down.

The housekeeper’s eyes gleamed with a cheerful malignance as she regarded Dodger. ‘You can trust me, sir, indeed you can. If this young clamp gets up to any tricks, I shall have him out of here and in front of the magistrates in very short order, indeed I will.’ Then she screamed and pointed. ‘He has stolen something of hers already, sir; see!’

Dodger froze, his hand halfway to the floor. There was a very anxious moment.

‘Ah, Mrs Sharples, you indeed have the eyes of – how can I say . . . Argos Panoptes,’ Charlie said smoothly. ‘I happened to notice what the young man was picking up and it has been by the bed for some time – the girl had been clutching them in her hand. No doubt Mister Dodger was concerned that it should not be overlooked. So, Dodger, hand it over, if you please?’

Wishing earnestly for a piss, Dodger handed over his find. It was a very cheap pack of cards, but there had been no time to look at it with Charlie’s eyes on him.

Charlie got on Dodger’s nerves, but now the man said, ‘A children’s card game, Mrs Sharples; rather damp and rather juvenile, I would consider, for a young lady of her age. “Happy Families” – I have heard of it.’ He turned the pack over and over in his fingers and said at last, ‘This is a mystery, my dear Mrs Sharples, and I shall put it back into the hands of someone who will move heaven and earth to take that mystery by its tail and drag it into the light of day; to wit, Mister Dodger here.’ With that, he handed the cards back to the astonished Dodger, saying cheerfully, ‘Do not cross me, Dodger, for I know every inch of you, I will take my oath on it. Now, I really must go. Business awaits!’

And Dodger was certain that Charlie winked at him as he went out of the door.

The night passed fairly quickly because so much of it had already slid away into yesterday. Dodger sat on the floor, listening to the slow breathing of the girl and the snoring of Mrs Sharples, who managed to sleep with one eye open and fixed on Dodger like a compass needle that steadily points north. Why had he done this? Why was he freezing on this floor when he could have been snug and curled up by Solomon’s stove (a marvellous contraption, which