Riptide

§ 28

Stilton’s three hours had become half a day. It was close to three in the afternoon before he returned to Claridge’s. Cal had sat in the lobby, watched Lord Beaverbrook’s entourage breeze in and out like visiting pashas, read every newspaper he could get his hands on and drunk coffee till he felt he was floating on the stuff.

‘Jesus Christ, Walter. Do you know what time it is?’

‘Aye, aye. Couldn’t be helped. Might’ve known it would be a waste of time in daylight. But I had to look for my Czech-Hudge. The sooner we find him the better.’

‘But you didn’t find him? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No-a bit of a night owl really. Still. There’s always tonight.’

Cal looked at his watch.

‘You’re not telling me we have to wait for darkness-in May, in double summertime? I’ve been stuck on my butt all day.’

‘Oh-there’s things to do, don’t you worry. Now, did Poppy-that is, Miss Payne-get done?’

Cal handed over the sketch that had cost three pots of coffee, a morning of his time, a stream of London gossip and much of his tolerance of flirtatious upper-crust English women with names like Poppy. Stilton looked at it.

‘Is it him?’

‘Oh, it’s very him.’

‘Good-let’s nip over to the Yard shall we?’