The Paw in the Bottle

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Rain pounded down on the pavements, and water, inches deep, ran in the gutters as Harry Gleb came up the escalator of New Bond Street underground. He paused at the station exit and surveyed the night sky, heavy with sullen black clouds in dismayed disgust.

‘My infernal luck,’ he thought angrily. ‘Not a hope of a taxi. Damn and blast it! I’ll have to walk. The old mare’ll be livid if I’m late.’ He shot his cuff to look at his gold wrist-watch. ‘If this perisher’s right, I’m late already.’

After hesitating for a few minutes, he turned up his coat collar and, still swearing under his breath, set off quickly along the wet, greasy pavement, his head bent against the driving rain.

‘This about rounds off a mucking awful day,’ he told himself as he hurried along, rain dripping from the brim of his hat and splashing against his legs. ‘Cigarette deal falls through, blasted dog comes in fourth, forty quid down the drain, and now this mucking rain.’

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