Morse turned to Lewis. 'We'd better do as Mrs. Gibbs says, sergeant, and get the tube.'
On the steps outside Morse thanked the good lady profusely and, almost as an afterthought it seemed, turned to speak to her once more.
'Just one more thing, Mrs. Gibbs. It may be lunchtime before we get up there. Have you any idea where Mr. Maguire will be if he's not at work?'
'Like as not the Angel — I know 'e often 'as a drink in there.'
As they walked to the car Lewis decided to get it off his chest. 'Couldn't you just have asked her straight out where he worked?'
'I didn't want her to think I was fishing,' replied Morse. Lewis thought she must be educationally subnormal if she hadn't realized that by now. But he let it go. They drove down to Putney Bridge, parked the car on a TAXIS ONLY plot, and caught the tube to Piccadilly Circus.
Somewhat to Lewis's surprise, Morse appeared to be fairly intimately conversant with the geography of Soho, and two minutes after emerging from the tube in Shaftesbury Avenue they found themselves standing in Brewer Street.
'There we are then,' said Morse, pointing to the Angel, Bass House, only thirty yards away to their left. 'Might as well combine business with a little pleasure, don't you think?'
'As you wish, sir.'
Over the beer, Morse asked the barman if the manager was around, and learned that the barman was the manager. Morse introduced himself, and said he was looking for a Mr. J. Maguire.
'Not in any trouble, is he?' asked the barman.
'Nothing serious.'
'Johnny Maguire, you say. He works over the way at the strip club — the Penthouse. On the door, mostly.'
Morse thanked him, and he and Lewis walked over to the window and looked outside. The Penthouse was almost directly opposite.
'Ever been to a strip club, Lewis?'
'No. But I've read about 'em, of course.'
'Nothing like first-hand experience, you know. C'mon, drink up.'
Outside the club Morse surveyed the pictorial preview of the erotic delights to be savoured within. 18 GORGEOUS GIRLS. The sexiest show in London. 95p only. NO OTHER ADMISSION CHARGE.
'The real thing this is, gentlemen. Continuous performance. No G-strings.' The speaker was a ginger-haired youth, dressed in a dark green blazer and grey slacks, who sat in a small booth at the entrance lobby.
'Bit expensive, isn't it?' asked Morse.
'When you've seen the show, sir, you'll think it's cheap at the price.'
Morse looked at him carefully, and thought there was something approaching honesty in the dark eyes. Maguire — almost certainly; but he wouldn't run away. Morse handed over two pound-notes and took the tickets. To the young tout the policemen were just another couple of frustrated middle-aged voyeurs, and he had already spotted another potential customer studying the stills outside.
'The real thing this is, sir. Continuous performance. No G-strings.'
'You owe me 10p,' said Morse.
They walked through a gloomy passage-way and heard the music blaring from behind a screened partition, where sat a smallish, swarthy gentleman (Maltese, thought Morse) with a huge chest and bulging forearms.
He took the tickets and tore them across. 'Can I see membership cards, please?'
'What membership cards?'
'You must be members of the club, sir.' He reached for a small pad, and tore off two forms. 'Fill in, please.'
'Just a minute,' protested Morse. 'It says outside that there's no other admission charge and. .'
'One pown each, please.'
'. . We've paid our 95p and that's all we're paying.'
The small man looked mean and dangerous. He rose to his meagre height and moved a thick arm to Morse's jacket. 'Fill in, please. That will be one pown each.'
'Will it buggery!' said Morse.
The Maltese advanced slightly and his hands glided towards Morse's wallet-pocket.
Neither Morse nor Lewis were big men, and the last thing that Morse wanted at this juncture was a rough- house. He wasn't in very good condition anyway. . But he knew the type well. Courage, Morse! He brushed the man's hand forcibly from his jacket and stepped a menacing pace forward.
'Look, you miserable wog. You want a fight? That's fine. I wouldn't want to bruise my fist against your ugly chops, myself, but this pal of mine here will do it with the greatest pleasure. Just up his street. Army middleweight champion till a year ago. Where shall we go, you dirty little squit?'
The little man sat back and sagged in his chair like a wilting balloon, and his voice was a punctured whine.
