Billionaire Suicide Club by Guy Winter

Author:Guy Winter [Winter, Guy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798644204908
Publisher: Guy Winter
Published: 2020-06-07T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 31

ST JAMES’S, LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM

It was a filthy morning in the West End. The rain was already soaking through the delicate leather soles of Newman’s black Church’s brogues, lifting spatters of dirt off the St James’s pavements. Julian’s Brioni suit also seemed better equipped for a fragrant Roman spring than a London rainstorm. Ben was still glad that Laura had forced him to borrow her brother’s clothes though, Hermès jacquard tie, Longmire cuff-links and all, when he reached the yellow brick and Portland Stone façade of the Bohemian Sports Club. Florizel opened the imposing, gull’s egg blue-coloured door and appraised him. This was no place to be ill-dressed.

“Time to start thinking like a billionaire…” Ben muttered to himself.

“Mr Makepeace?” said Florizel.

“You were expecting me?” said Ben.

“Of course, sir. We know all of our members here. This isn’t a restaurant-or the RAC Club.”

“No. They tell me it’s the most exclusive club in London,” said Ben.

“Oh, it’s more than a club, sir,” said Florizel.

“But I’m not a member yet.”

“No, sir. And indeed Mr Bezique asked me to pass you a message- before you do cross this threshold.”

“Go on.”

Florizel cleared his throat.

“He said: ‘There is still time to make good your escape into thraldom. Reflect well before you take another step: and if your heart says no- here are the cross-roads.’”

“Thanks for the message,” said Makepeace. “Now take me to him. I am not the man to go back from a thing once said. I’m here to join the Club, not to haggle over the terms.”

Florizel inclined his head.

“That’s what Mr Bezique told me you would say, sir,” he said. “He has been conducting his own due diligence on you- as you would expect, given the discretion that our membership demands.”

“Of course,” said Ben. “This is no place for tourists.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Florizel. “And if you’ll permit me: I have met many men at this door in forty years, and yet I have never seen anyone enter it so calmly as you do.”

“Vogue la galère!” said Ben. “I follow the game…”

“Then follow me, sir,” said Florizel, leading Makepeace down an oak-panelled corridor, lined with brown leather chesterfield sofas. “The Game is this way.”

The walls of the club were lined with oil portraits from all over the world, Japanese Samurai, red-coated East India Company officers, dead Kennedys, leather-clad rock-stars and pin-striped businessmen.

“There is but one brotherhood, sir,” said Florizel. “Drawn from the whole world around us. The cards fall where they fall.”

Ben studied the portrait of a hard-bitten Victorian gent sporting a frock coat, lamb-chop whiskers and a monstrous cheroot. The plaque simply read: ‘To The Most Corrupt Rogue In Christendom’.

“It was meant as a compliment, sir,” said Florizel, following Ben’s glance. “And graciously accepted as such. He was the president of the Club in Robert Louis Stevenson’s time. Mr Stevenson was rather an indiscreet gentleman- an author, you see. But Mr Raffles there was the president who refined the Game to the pitch of perfection that we know today.”

“And Stevenson himself survived their meeting?”

“He had just been diagnosed with tuberculosis, sir.

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