Val, however, slid away, and went downstairs behind the men.

There were two policemen in the bar, and they were soon writing down the address of the shop's owner in their notebooks.

"Lives just round the corner,” said Mr Porlock. "What's happened, sergeant?"

“Lady across the road phoned the station. Said she saw two boys on the roof and thought something must be wrong as she knew the shop was shut."

The police, Mr Porlock and most of the customers went out of the bar and into the small alley that ran up between the “Cock" and the shops. These shops were the kind that are built in front of ordinary houses. They were just one storey high. The burgled shop sold junk. In the narrow alley there was a ladder propped against the house wall.

"That's my ladder!" cried Mr Porlock. "It was in my yard. How did they get it out of there?"

"Those boys climb like monkeys," said the sergeant.

"Bates, you'd better go down and fetch the owner." The constable went off while the sergeant and Mr Porlock went up on the roof. In the darkness, Val went up the ladder too, but was sent down again. So he wandered round the front of the shop and had a look into the window there. Already a suspicion was forming in his mind. By the light of the street lamps, he peered in at the queer assortment of objects for sale. There were old radios, shoes tied up in pairs, gas stoves, but not the object for which Val searched. He was almost certain that during the last week he had noticed-a rifle in the window. Now it wasn't there.

Roof, gun. The words reminded Val of the words that George had overheard spoken by Nap. It must have been Shorty's lot who had broken into the shop. They had known somehow about the ladder at the "Cock" — of course. Nap's mum cleaned there.

"What'll I do?" thought Val. Much as he disliked Shorty and Co, he did not care to turn informer. He did not want to hand anyone over to the cops. Besides, if the boys knew he had sneaked, they would half kill him. Gosh, what was he to do?

He stood there on the pavement, trying to decide.

Mr Crabbe, the shop owner, had arrived by now, and was unlocking the shop door and talking to the police and Mr Porlock. The rest of the men wandered back to their drinks in the bar.

Val waited, still watching, while Mr Crabbe switched on the lights and began to look round the shop to see what was missing. Val held his breath when men approached the window, and he saw Mr Crabbe pointing out the spot where the rifle had been. Val knew that he was right. The rifle had been stolen.

The police, having written everything down in their notebooks, were now leaving the shop. The sergeant was saying: "We'll see what we can do about this, sir. Sure nothing else is missing?"

Mr Crabbe shook his head. "No, sergeant, just that rifle. and the revolver."

"That woman was right. It's probably boys. And I've got some suspicions about the gang that did it." Then he noticed Val. "Here, you, what are you doing, still hanging about? You ought to be in bed, son." For Val had no longer resembled a smart wedding guest.

"I'll help you with the ladder," he said to Mr Porlock.

Perhaps he could tell his story to the innkeeper. That would not be like informing the police.

The sergeant began to eye Val suspiciously. "I suppose you don't know anything about this?" he asked.

The direct question put Val in a fix. So he didn't reply, but just looked guilty.

"Speak up! You in with them?"

"No, sir. I've been at the wedding. My auntie's wedding at the "Cock". You ask my Dad. He's in the bar. He'll tell you."

The sergeant looked even more unbelieving. "You don't look much like a wedding," he said.