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Authors: Michael Gilbert
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times by vendors of black-market produce, twice by gentlemen with offers of hashish in cigarette form, and once each by a vendor of suggestive photographs and a motherly looking lady whose offers we shall not here repeat in detail.
All of whom accepted their rebuffs with the greatest of good humour.
At eleven o’clock the café put up its shutters and Nap found himself in the street. There were still lights and sounds of activity in the Mogador; but of Mr Brandison no sign at all.
Discovering that both his bicycle lamps had been stolen, Nap wheeled his machine slowly home through the emptying streets.
On reflection, he was not ill pleased with his night’s work.
4
Dinner at the Mogador
It went on like this for three weeks.
Every Friday the Chief Cashier of the Stalagmite followed a routine which was uncannily the same. Observed by Nap, he left the head office, always at the same hour; walked along High Holborn and New Oxford Street; called at the same little shop (subsequent inspection had shown it to be a hairdressing saloon); stayed there about half an hour, then emerged and made straight for the Mogador.
At what hour he left this gilded haunt Nap had as yet been unable to discover, though he waited on the two Fridays following, first in the café opposite and when that closed, in the street, until well after midnight. There was, however, no sign of Brandison on either occasion.
On other nights of the week, the cashier seemed to lead an outstandingly normal existence. Paddy followed him to his suburban home at Warbridge and discovered that he possessed a villa, a garden, a dog and a pallid wife. There were no children in evidence; but there was a maid called Maria, supposed in the neighbourhood to be an Italian. Nap cultivated her acquaintance and spent an evening with her at the Crooked Billet. He soon came to the conclusion that, though her parents or grandparents might have come from Italy, she herself was plain Borough.
It was from her, when a surprising quantity of pink gins had unlocked her pearly lips, that Nap got most of his information about the Brandison household.
It appeared that Mr Brandison was a well-known and respected resident of Warbridge. A vice-president of the Bowls Club and a pillar of the Methodist Church. Later in the evening, becoming more outspoken, she stated openly what she had previously hinted. She did not really like him. He was odd. He had moods. Sometimes very nice, but more often rather “difficult”.
Difficult in what way, Nap asked. Did he perhaps make a nuisance of himself to Maria?
Nothing of the sort, said Maria. Why, she wouldn’t stay for a minute in a house where that sort of thing went on. Just generally difficult. Frachitty. Irritable. She thought that perhaps Mrs B was the trouble. Anyway, whenever he took a night off in town, which he did regularly every Friday, it always seemed to put him in a better humour – for a day or two. Maria had her own explanation of how Mr Brandison spent his Friday nights and Nap thought it might easily be the right one.
By the time the fourth Friday came round, he had his plan ready. The Mogador, he had discovered, though described as a club, was really an exclusive restaurant of a type not uncommon in Soho: being public to the extent that anyone, in theory, could patronize it, but in reality private, as a place well may be when all tables are reserved by name and in advance.
After some thought, Nap called on an uncle whom he knew to be one of those almost extinct creatures, a man about town, and asked him to reserve a table for him.
“For two, of course, my boy,” said his uncle.
“Well, yes – certainly.” The cost of the extra cover would be a small price to pay for not having to explain his affairs to Uncle Ambrose. He could always pretend that the girl had stood him up.
“For what time?”
Well, that was the difficulty. How long could one sit over a solitary dinner in a Soho restaurant? If he made it too
All of whom accepted their rebuffs with the greatest of good humour.
At eleven o’clock the café put up its shutters and Nap found himself in the street. There were still lights and sounds of activity in the Mogador; but of Mr Brandison no sign at all.
Discovering that both his bicycle lamps had been stolen, Nap wheeled his machine slowly home through the emptying streets.
On reflection, he was not ill pleased with his night’s work.
4
Dinner at the Mogador
It went on like this for three weeks.
Every Friday the Chief Cashier of the Stalagmite followed a routine which was uncannily the same. Observed by Nap, he left the head office, always at the same hour; walked along High Holborn and New Oxford Street; called at the same little shop (subsequent inspection had shown it to be a hairdressing saloon); stayed there about half an hour, then emerged and made straight for the Mogador.
At what hour he left this gilded haunt Nap had as yet been unable to discover, though he waited on the two Fridays following, first in the café opposite and when that closed, in the street, until well after midnight. There was, however, no sign of Brandison on either occasion.
On other nights of the week, the cashier seemed to lead an outstandingly normal existence. Paddy followed him to his suburban home at Warbridge and discovered that he possessed a villa, a garden, a dog and a pallid wife. There were no children in evidence; but there was a maid called Maria, supposed in the neighbourhood to be an Italian. Nap cultivated her acquaintance and spent an evening with her at the Crooked Billet. He soon came to the conclusion that, though her parents or grandparents might have come from Italy, she herself was plain Borough.
It was from her, when a surprising quantity of pink gins had unlocked her pearly lips, that Nap got most of his information about the Brandison household.
It appeared that Mr Brandison was a well-known and respected resident of Warbridge. A vice-president of the Bowls Club and a pillar of the Methodist Church. Later in the evening, becoming more outspoken, she stated openly what she had previously hinted. She did not really like him. He was odd. He had moods. Sometimes very nice, but more often rather “difficult”.
Difficult in what way, Nap asked. Did he perhaps make a nuisance of himself to Maria?
Nothing of the sort, said Maria. Why, she wouldn’t stay for a minute in a house where that sort of thing went on. Just generally difficult. Frachitty. Irritable. She thought that perhaps Mrs B was the trouble. Anyway, whenever he took a night off in town, which he did regularly every Friday, it always seemed to put him in a better humour – for a day or two. Maria had her own explanation of how Mr Brandison spent his Friday nights and Nap thought it might easily be the right one.
By the time the fourth Friday came round, he had his plan ready. The Mogador, he had discovered, though described as a club, was really an exclusive restaurant of a type not uncommon in Soho: being public to the extent that anyone, in theory, could patronize it, but in reality private, as a place well may be when all tables are reserved by name and in advance.
After some thought, Nap called on an uncle whom he knew to be one of those almost extinct creatures, a man about town, and asked him to reserve a table for him.
“For two, of course, my boy,” said his uncle.
“Well, yes – certainly.” The cost of the extra cover would be a small price to pay for not having to explain his affairs to Uncle Ambrose. He could always pretend that the girl had stood him up.
“For what time?”
Well, that was the difficulty. How long could one sit over a solitary dinner in a Soho restaurant? If he made it too
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