CHAPTER THREEI
When he left the Mortuary, Macdonald made his way to the Marylebone Road and turned up York Gate. The night was intensely dark and the streets were deserted; the buses were no longer running and not a single car was in sight as the Chief Inspector crossed the wide roadway opposite Marylebone Parish Church. London was silent, with a silence which had no quality of peacefulness: in its shroud of darkness the place seemed tense, uneasy, as though waiting for the first banshee howl of sirens which seemed a fitting accompaniment to the listening darkness. Had Macdonald not known his way very well he would never have found the entrance to the little bridge. He had not turned his torch on because he liked finding his way in the dark, steering by reason since the sky was so overcas
