Obviously, he had to send the man on a wrong trail, while he sent for Hawke

Blair was hesitant, but finally agreed. Consequently, at half-past eight that night, when Lake closed his shop and went towards the Marble Arch, Tommy was on his heels. But he was a very different Tommy from the youngster who had been inside the shop for a few minutes earlier in the evening. He was dressed in an old suit, threadbare at the elbows and knees, with a slouch cap which had seen better days.

His shoes were down-at-the-heel and he looked like an East End tough. Hawke had put the finishing touches to the disguise and few people would have recognised the youngster.

Lake walked jauntily along to a bus stop, then waited for a bus going to Aldgate. Tommy boarded the same bus.

Then just before the bus moved off, another man jumped on – breathing heavily, as if he had been running. Tommy saw with a start of surprise that it was the tobacconist whom he had seen earlier in the day complaining to the police constable.

“This is going to warm up,” thought Tommy hopefully.

The two tobacconists left the bus at Aldgate, and went down Shoreditch. Half-way along, Lake turned into a narrow side street. The other man followed.

Tommy just reached the corner behind them when he heard Lake’s voice sound out along the street. “What the blazes are you doin’ ’ere, rat-face?” The other man’s voice snarled.

“I’ve a right to go where I like!”

“Well, keep orf my huntin’ ground!” snapped Lake. “This’ll help yer!”

Stagger

He delivered a punch to the other’s stomach. Tommy saw “rat-face” gasp and stagger back, while Lake took to his heels and ran, without looking back.

Tommy followed; the winded man was not badly hurt, and would soon be on his feet.

Tommy slowed down at the corner. There were several narrow alleys, high warehouse walls, and several doors leading to the warehouses.

Lake opened one of these doors after a quick look behind him.

Tommy, slouching with his hands in his pockets, did not attract particular attention and Lake disappeared.

Tommy felt tremendously excited as he hurried after Lake. The warehouse door read: “Quick Service, Ltd.”

He was reading it when a sharp voice said behind him: “Here you – did you see a little man come along here just now? Fellow wearing a blue muffler?”

“Er – might ha’ done,” said Tommy, remembering at the last minute that he was acting the part of an EastEnder. “Me, I minds me own bisness, see?”

The other was the man Lake had attacked. He put a hand to his pocket, and showed a half-crown.

“Come on, spill it,” he said. “It won’t do you any harm.”

Tommy certainly was not going to give Lake away, to this man or anyone else, but on the other hand he did not want to offer a direct refusal.

Obviously, he had to send the man on a wrong trail, while he sent for Hawke.

“Okay, okay,” he said, taking the half-crown with a mental reservation to make sure he paid it back, “He went into one o’ these warehouses.”

“This one?”

“Nope. Two or three doors along.”

“Now, look here,” snapped the other, “You don’t put that across me. You must have seen which one it was – spill it, or I’ll break your blinkin’ neck!” Tommy backed away quickly, clenching his fists. “Two can play that game,” he retorted. “I told you all I know, see?”

Discretion

For a moment he thought the other would fly at him, but discretion must have proved itself stronger than his rage.

Tommy walked on, with many a glance behind him, while the tobacconist hesitated, and then hung about at a corner, apparently determined to wait for Lake to reappear.

Tommy had one thought in mind – to get back to Dixon Hawke, or at least to telephone a report. He turned the first comer, and found that it was a deadend street.

Then he saw a small van being loaded, and he realised that it was big cartons of cigarettes that were being placed inside.

Lake was standing near, hands in his pockets, obviously keeping his eyes open for anyone who came by. He glanced at Tommy, but appeared to accept him as an ordinary passer-by.

Tommy hurried on, after making a mental note of the van’s number. He was lucky in finding a telephone kiosk, and quickly called Hawke.

Tommy told his story, and Hawke said: “All right, Tommy – nice work. I’ll come at once. Then we’ll get back to Lake’s shop in a hurry.”

“You won’t lose any time, will you?” asked Tommy.

He left the telephone kiosk, but before long he realised that he was being watched.

Two hefty men were approaching grimly and it flashed through his mind that Lake had, after all, suspected him.

The odds were heavy, and obviously he had to run for safety, but, as he started, one of the men slung a stone.

His aim was good; the stone caught Tommy behind the knee, and threw him off his balance. Before he had recovered himself, the men were on him.

Tommy knew it was a desperate situation, but he managed to land a hefty punch square on the first ruffian’s nose.

That gave the young man some more confidence, and also gave him a few seconds with only one man to deal with.

He feinted, avoided a wild swing, and rammed a punch to the tough’s stomach.

But he knew that against such odds – for they were hefty men – he could not last long.

Vicious

“Help!” he shouted. “Help, help!” “We’ll give yer ’elp, yer young snake!” snarled the man with the punched nose. “We’ll break yer ruddy neck, see if we don’t!”

He shot out a vicious straight left, but Tommy moved his head quickly enough to avoid it.

Then the other man caught him one to his chin, which made his head reel. Another punch made him stagger and he went back against the wall, fighting desperately but groggily.

Then he heard other footsteps!

The two men swung round, finding themselves faced with another man – Dixon Hawke had arrived at the right moment!

Hawke was always at his best when Tommy was in danger, but Tommy had rarely seen Hawke weigh in with such speed and power.

Tommy took a hand again and for a few minutes there was a melee, a heavy exchange of blows, vicious oaths from the toughs.

But then other footsteps sounded, and the two attackers took to their heels.

Tommy, breathing hard, saw the tobacconist who couldn’t get cigarettes.

More tomorrow.