Spectres in the Smoke by Tony Broadbent

Author:Tony Broadbent [Broadbent, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781849822565
Publisher: M P Publishing Limited

GOD IS IN THE BOODLES

I told Joanie and Bubs as much of the truth as I dared, then quietly put the word round Church Street that I was disappearing up North for a few weeks, to help out an old china I’d known on the boats. Ray had me write out a stack of postcards with messages like “Wish you were here” and “Weather awful; food awful; reminds me of home,” which he’d have posted for me, from places like Scarborough and Harrogate. “It’s always best to give people something to chew on,” he said, “they’ll swallow anything, then, but just you go careful. And Walsingham or no Walsingham, make sure you don’t get dropped in the cart.” And I’d nodded and told him to keep his chess-board set up. Then I took my leave and made my way over to the lock-up. I changed into the appropriate clothes and slipped across to Paddington Station. I retrieved the two suitcases I’d left earlier at the Left-Luggage Office, took a taxi to Victoria Station and waited for the boat train to come in. Then I joined the crowd and took a cab into the West End.

I took a room at the Mayfair Hotel, under the name of Jeffrey Hannay, paid a month in advance, using a Canadian bank account set up for me by Walsingham. I was profuse with my thanks for the hotel having held all the cables and telexes that’d come in for me from Canada and then even more profuse with tips for the staff. And by the following morning I was well on my way to being one of the Mayfair’s favourite guests. After breakfast, I walked round to Trumpers, on Curzon Street, for a trim and a shave, and then went back to the hotel. I decided on the dark-blue suit Sol had made for me and even if I say so myself I looked a million dollars. And with my handmade shoes polished to perfection and sporting the tie Walsingham had chosen for me, I had the Mayfair doorman hail a cab to take me to Boodles. The cabbie gave me a funny look; it was barely a two-block walk from the hotel. So I told him to go along Piccadilly, down Haymarket, and back round, via Pall Mall and St. James’s Street, and he needn’t bother taking the short cut down Duke Street, past Fortnum’s. And he nodded, tipped his cap, and without any more ado, off we sped. I wasn’t being flash; going the long way round gave me time to get into character.

I recognised the doorman, though he’d have a hard time placing me as the old cabbie he’d once threatened with bodily mischief. He opened the cab door with a “Good morning, sir,” and I got out and paid the fare; feeling the doorman’s eyes measuring me, as well as the size of the tip I gave the taxi-driver. I turned and glanced at the cream-coloured columns and bow-fronted window; it certainly was a nice- looking building, once you stopped to look at it.

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