“Well, the accident ’appened at Belsize Park Station,” the policeman said. “’E’d be at the ’Ampstead mortuary as like as not. If you come with me, sir, I’ll ’phone. There’s a police box just round the corner.”
A few minutes later George was on his way to the Hampstead mortuary. It took him some time to screw up enough courage to ring the hell outside the double gates. After what seemed to him an interminable wait, a small door in the gate opened and a whitecoated attendant looked at him inquiringly.
“I think I know this man,” George said, offering the newspaper. “The man who fell under the train this morning.”
“Then you’ll ’ave come to identify ’im,” the attendant said cheerfully. “This way, if you please, sir.”
George ducked through the doorway, and found himself in a small yard. A low brick building faced him, and with a tight feeling in his stomach he followed the attendant across the yard into the building.
“If you’ll wait ’ere a moment, sir,” the attendant said, “I’ll get PC White.”
Left alone in the white-tiled passage, George looked round uneasily. There was a door at the end of the passage through which the attendant had disappeared. Near where George was standing he noticed a small window covered by a yellowing blind. He thought the place looked exactly like a public convenience, and because of the familiar association, his fears began to subside.
The door at the end of the passage opened, and the attendant beckoned. George entered a box-like room which served as an office. A police constable rose from behind a desk as George came in.
“Good morning, sir,” the police constable said. He had a kind, understanding face, and he was obviously anxious to set George at ease. “Sit down, will you? You think you can identify the unfortunate gentleman who died this morning?”
George nodded. He was glad to sit down. He took off his hat and began to twirl it round between his sweating fingers.