Mark kept a straight face. “Lucky I came back from my lecture in the Americas in time. You’re making a pretty fine mess of things. You even suspect dark doings at a respectable club like the Silver Kettle, which is strictly lawful.”
“Nothing Raeburn owns is strictly lawful,” Roger said.
“I doubt that,” responded Mark. “This place is hedged about by rules and regulations, all based on instructions from the police. Five hundred pounds wouldn’t buy you a membership if you weren’t properly introduced. You two certainly couldn’t have got in without my member’s ticket. Entering here is lily white.”
“As mud,” retorted Roger.
“That’s the trouble when you get a bee in your bonnet,” Mark complained. “A man must be all black or all white. Raeburn can’t afford to be openly associated with anything that isn’t properly run, and you know it.”
Roger picked up his glass. “Here’s to the day when we close the Silver Kettle down.” He drank.
“That’s sheer vindictiveness.”
“I am vindictive,” admitted Roger, lazily, but his eyes were hard.”
“I have a nasty feeling that if he gets too powerful, he’ll hurt a lot of people when he falls.” He was looking towards the corner where Raeburn and Eve Franklin were sitting. “Given a nice long piece of rope, he’ll hang himself.”
“When he does, I hope you’ll acknowledge your debt to amateur criminologists,” said Mark. “What have you discovered about this Eve?”
Roger lit a cigarette and continued to stare at Raeburn’s table; Raeburn pretended not to notice.
“She’s always looked for the big chance, and seems to have thrown over a faithful boy friend, one Tony Brown.
Turnbull’s been checking on him. He’s a gambler, racing tipster, Smart Alec and lady-killer, the type you’d rather expect Eve to fancy, always with a few pounds to fling about. But he hasn’t a chance against Raeburn, and might turn sour on her.”
“I’ll turn sour on you two, unless someone asks me to dance,” Janet interpolated.
“My turn!” Mark jumped up.
He was tall and good-looking, and Janet stood out as really something to look at in twenty-three of Roger’s hard-earned guineas. Mark was probably now pleading earnestly with Janet to persuade him, Roger, to tell him more about the Raeburn case. It would be worth doing, too. Mark might see an angle which the Yard had missed; it had happened before. He was a serious student of criminology, had written three books which were on the desk or the shelves of any really progressive police office, and he had just returned from twelve months’ lecturing in the States, his most popular lecture being: ‘Police in the USA and Great Britain: A Comparison.’ His hobbies were music and old china, and he had money enough to live as he liked.
Janet looked as if she wanted this dance to go on for a long time.
Roger inspected the people about him. The City and the Mayfair Set were about equally represented in this mixed gathering of the upper crust of commerce and society, an upper crust which remained thick and unyielding in parts. The people present could put up more millions than he could hundreds of pounds; some were fabulously wealthy. One plump old harridan, with a tall, miserable-looking man, was loaded with diamonds; a dozen others carried fortunes on their fingers, at their ears or on their breasts.
Eve Franklin, on the other hand, was wearing little jewellery. She wore a long-sleeved gown of bottle green, and a green chiffon stole. When Raeburn led her to the floor, her body moved with easy grace, but she seemed to have difficulty in turning her head.
He was a head taller than Eve, very broad-shouldered, particularly distinguished in evening dress. His hair was dark, with a touch of iron grey at the temples; he wore it rather long. He had an unusually striking profile, with a good chin and a high forehead; it was easy to imagine him to be an intellectual. Full face, he was handsome enough; add his money to his looks, and he had everything.
Roger saw a small, dapper man wearing a dark lounge suit come in, nod to the headwaiter, and walk to Raeburn’s table. He was noticeable because he was the only man not in evening dress. He walked with his shoulders squared and his back very straight, and was looking towards the crowded dance floor.
It was George Warrender, Raeburn’s chief aide in all his activities.
Raeburn spoke to Eve, and they left the floor at once. The band played on, the dancers were circling in a slow waltz; no one else seemed to notice Raeburn.
Warrender glanced towards Roger, and Raeburn did the same. Roger did not look away.
Eve was speaking, and when she finished, Raeburn shook his head. Then Warrender put what seemed to be a restraining hand on Raeburn’s shoulder.
Raeburn laughed, shrugged it off, and came towards Roger. He stood by the table as Roger started to get to his feet.
“Don’t get up, please,” said Raeburn. “I’m very glad to see you here, and sorry I hadn’t recognised you before. Are you with friends?”
“With my wife and a friend.”
“I’d very much like to meet your wife,” said Raeburn. “May I?”
The band had stopped, and couples sauntered back to their tables. Mark and Janet, still on the dance floor, looked across undecidedly, until Roger beckoned.
Whatever she felt, Janet’s smile was bright as she came up.
“Darling, Mr Paul Raeburn would like to meet you,” Roger said. “My wife . .. and Mr Mark Lessing.”
“I have heard so much about Chief Inspector West’s professional activities,” murmured Raeburn. “One forgets
