‘I found a stiff in there once, down at the back just behind the arch,’ said Stanislaus Oates, pausing before the shop-window and peering in apparently to inspect a display of baby clothes. ‘I always recollect it because as I bent down and flashed my bull’s-eye—we had to carry oil lanterns in those days—it suddenly raised its arms and its cold hands closed round my throat. There was no power there, fortunately. He was just on gone and died while I clawed him off. It made me sweat, though. I was a Sergeant Detective, Second Class, then.’
He swung away from the window and swept on down the crowded pavement. His raincoat, which was blackish with flecks of grey in it, billowed out behind him like a schoolmaster’s gown.
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