They Never Looked Inside by Michael Gilbert

Problem Child wearily. “My father’s name was Smith too,” he added.
    As if overcome by this startling information, the Major closed his eyes and settled down to sleep once more. His gaoler, however, had other ideas. He seemed to be in a talkative mood.
    “You was in the Commandos, weren’t you?” he said. The first animation he had yet shown flickered up behind his pale eyes. “Some mob, eh? You ought to hear Curly gabbing about them.”
    This calculated indiscretion set the Major’s wits working. Evidently they had already connected him with Curly White – and they knew that he knew that Curly was one of the mob – and they didn’t mind him knowing that they knew.
    There were two obvious explanations of this. The first was that they hadn’t connected him with the police, and thought him a casual and fairly harmless intruder.
    The second – but he wouldn’t think about that just at the moment.
    “I suppose,” he said, “that you couldn’t tell me why someone had to hit me on the head. I mean—so far as I know the war in Europe ended last May.”
    “Sure,” said the Child obligingly (McCann noticed that he had a good deal of “Film American” – most of it some years out of date). “Curly said you’d bin following him so he sent word ahead, and we had the reception committee waiting. Of course, it was money for old rope when you walked straight into the joint and started asking questions about upstairs.”
    “I see,” said McCann slowly.
    “There wasn’t much time to count the change – you might have been a slop and you might not – so bonko, out you went.”
    “Quite so,” said the Major. “Bonko.”
    “Then Curly comes and gets a good look at you and says: ‘You haven’t half been and gone and done it,’ he says.
    ‘That’s not a rozzer, that’s one of my—officers.’ So we ran the hand over you, just in case you were toting a rod or anything funny, but we didn’t find a sausage. Then we carried you up here – see?”
    “You’ll excuse me seeming inquisitive,” said the Major, “but do you—er—’bonko’ everyone who comes round asking if you’ve got an upper floor flat to let?”
    “No,” said the Child (actually he said something usually represented as “Not —ing likely but his meaning was clearly negative). “It just looked a bit off, you following Curly, and this being the day of the move and all.”
    “I see,” said the Major. He was, in fact, beginning to see a good deal. He thought that whilst the Child was in a chatty mood there was no harm in keeping the ball rolling.
    “You’ll excuse my mentioning it,” he said. “It’s just that I did a good deal of co-operating with our American Allies in the closing stages of the battle – it’s not now correct to refer to a pistol as a ‘rod’. That went out altogether at about the time of Al Capone. The more modern expression is ‘Luger’ or just ‘Loogue’, or possibly ‘Heater’.”
    “Thanks,” said the Child.
    He appeared genuinely grateful for the information. He did not, however, come the desired step nearer.
    After another little pause he embarked on a fresh line of thought.
    “Look,” he said. “You’re going into a room. You’ve got a rod – a heater, I should say – in your hand. Inside the room there’s three guys sitting at a table, and you’re gonner shoot them all – see? Well, when you pokes around the door, these three guys sees you, and they sees you’ve got a heater, and you looks dirty. One guy, he starts to shout out. The second guy, he starts to get to his feet. The third guy, he says nothing, and doesn’t move at all. Now which of them three are you going to shoot first?”
    He propounded this little problem in ethics as seriously as any doctor conducting a viva voce of medical students; indeed, there was something almost professional about the dispassionate gleam in his pale eyes.
    “You shoot the man who’s sitting still,” said McCann.
    “That’s the