A Baker Street Wedding by Michael Robertson

Author:Michael Robertson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

16

LONDON, THE NEXT DAY

It was all one structure, all the way from the corner to midway up the block. It was a polished limestone building, modern (by London standards), with wide glass doors at the main entrance, and an engraved copper placard above them that read BAKER STREET HOUSE.

A tall fiftyish man in a worn full-length mac and carrying a violin case walked up to the entrance. He knew this was the right place, but he was delayed when he got to the doors, because tourists, mostly American and Japanese, were milling about in front of him, with puzzled expressions and mobile phone cameras at the ready, walking back and forth between these doors and the door of the next establishment up the block.

As the tall man began to open one of the heavy glass doors, one of the American tourists turned toward him.

“Is this where—”

“No.”

“But the next door up is the Beatles store at 233 Baker Street, and there are no other address numbers between here and the beginning of the block. So this must be where—”

“It isn’t, he doesn’t, and he’d be long since dead even if he ever did. Excuse me, please.”

“But—”

“Please, you are blocking the door,” said the tall man as he finally pushed through and into the wide marble-floored lobby.

He shook his head, annoyed with himself. He should not have been rude. He especially, because he, more than most people, fully understood.

But he hadn’t much time.

In the lobby, the employees of Dorset Bank, which had offices on the main floor, were arriving at work in proper business attire, walking back and forth with cups of cappuccino from the sandwich shop across the street.

One of them gave the tall man a sideways look, followed by a glance at the security guard to get the guard’s attention.

The tall man didn’t mind. If he had seen a man in a full raincoat and carrying a worn black musician’s case containing God knows what, he would have said something, too. Especially having been a bank teller at one time himself.

The security guard, a white-haired man, elderly but in seemingly excellent physical condition for his age, was seated at the security desk at the center of the lobby. From the way he was blinking and putting his glasses on and off, it was obvious that his eyesight was not the best. The tall man helpfully went directly up to him.

“Good morning, Hendricks,” he said.

“Ah, good morning, sir,” said the security guard. He took his glasses off now and began to clean the lenses. “Haven’t seen you here in quite a while.”

“Hasn’t been necessary in quite a while,” said the tall man.

“I’m afraid none of the leasing committee is in at the moment,” said the guard. “Or the board of directors, either. Although Mr. Rafferty is expected back soon.”

“That’s all right. Today I’ll just pay a visit to the second floor.”

“Very good, sir.”

The tall man went to the lift. The directory there listed only one name for the second floor. It was for a sublet tenant—something calling itself Baker Street Chambers.

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