?’

‘Well, in the evenings he “superintends” the cleaners in the town hall. When the offices are deserted, Herr Schabbelt!’

‘And . . . ?’

‘Well, there are a couple of young women among them, easy on the eye. You can imagine, when they’re on their hands and knees scrubbing, you might get the odd eyeful—’

‘You may imagine that, Stuff.’

‘Well, of course, it isn’t just Kallene who gets ideas.’

‘Get to the point, Stuff. Who caught him?’

‘The Red mayor!’ cries Stuff. ‘Fatty Gareis in person. They were doing it on his desk.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘Now, Herr Schabbelt! What a question! Kallene’s got his Party book back.’

‘Interesting story,’ says Schabbelt. ‘But not for us. Maybe the KPD. Tredup can talk it up.’

‘Herr Schabbelt!’

‘I can’t help you, Stuff. You’ll have to try and fill your column with local news.’

‘But if we’re not allowed to shake things up! The paper’s losing class. We’ve been called a fish-and-chip paper.’

‘Who by?’

‘Isn’t that right, Tredup?’

Tredup takes a step forward out of the shadows and affirms: ‘Bumf paper, the daily smear, swastika sell-out, shithouse squares. All under exclusion of the public.’

Stuff chimes in: ‘Aunt from the cow-village. The bore on all four walls. Fart in a phone-box. Scandal sheet. The weevil. Read it and sleep.’

Tredup again: ‘I swear, Herr Schabbelt. Only this morning, a potential advertiser told me—’

The proprietor has gone back to his zinc plates. ‘So who is it you want to dump on?’

Both together: ‘the Circus Monte.’

And Schabbelt: ‘Well, if you must. To put the fear of God into the non-advertisers. And to reward you for the fine grid.’

‘Thank you, Herr Schabbelt.’

‘That’s OK. But leave me alone for the rest of the week. I’m busy.’

‘We won’t bother you again. Good morning to you.’

V

Stuff is sitting at his desk looking at the still-sleeping woman.