There had been one sighting, but so far only one. A guest at Claridge’s last month returning unexpectedly to her room had found a man standing inside. He was wearing evening dress and was very well spoken. A gentleman, she had said. Charming and attractive. He had apologized for mistaking the room, explaining that his own was on the floor below, and had left offering to buy her a drink in the bar to make up for the intrusion. It was some time before she realized that a hundred pounds was missing from her bag.
‘And good luck to you, my lad!’ thought Armitage mutinously. He was perfectly aware of a fellow feeling for anyone who had the nerve and the skill to pluck a living from these fat birds and yet he knew that if the occasion offered and he found himself feeling the collar of one of the light-fingered sportsmen he had been assigned to track down he would stifle his sympathy, bounce him off down to the clink and take all the credit that was going. ‘Felix! Felix, the Cat Burglar! Are you here now? Mingling with the crowd, unremarkable behind a fashionably languid voice and the right evening suit? Stalking your victim and preparing to nip off upstairs and do out a room? Waste of time, mate! I could tell you that. The jewel cases are lying open and empty on the dressing tables. It’s all down here . . . must be ten thousand quid’s worth of sparklers hanging round the undeserving necks of these toffee-nosed tabbies.’
He looked again at the three young men who had caught his attention earlier. They were deep in serious conversation at the other end of the room. They were still sober, they were lithe and looked keen and clever. Were they up to something? It was just possible . . . He didn’t want any amateurs fouling up his evening. Better be certain. He strolled around the perimeter of the room and edged within earshot of their table. So oblivious of his presence were they, their earnest debate continued without hesitation: a debate on the new backless, double-breasted waistcoats – could one possibly wear these things? Snooty Felbrigg had been seen in one . . . but, on the other hand, Fruity Featherstonehaugh had been heard to declare them ‘flashy’. Armitage was interested enough to linger close by until they delivered their decision – a decided thumbs down.
‘Where are you, Felix?’ he wondered. ‘Not at this table, I think.’
He moved around towards the door, staying on the fringes of the party, confident that the official Ritz security staff uniform he had put on for the occasion would render him invisible. If they noticed him at all, the toffs would be mildly reassured by his presence. But the guests were paying him no more attention than they paid the waiter who served them their consommé en gelée. Apart, that is, from two young girls who had been eyeing him for some minutes now, giggling to each other behind their hands. Both were a little the worse for drink. Drink? The worse for something anyway.
The sergeant gave them his reproving police stare which usually did the trick. He knew that he was a good-looking man and he came in for his share of female appreciation. It wasn’t always unwelcome but he wanted no attention from this pair. Underdressed, in his opinion, for a family do – those wisps of dresses were a plain incitement to crime – and their eyes were too bright. They’d spent quite a long time out of the room – in the ladies’ cloakroom perhaps? – and Armitage’s suspicious mind conjured up activities more often associated with nightclubs. Not Ciro’s, he thought – the Embassy, more like. They said you could get anything at the Embassy. People of this class spent more on an evening’s shot of cocaine than he spent on his week’s rent. His stare grew more deadly.
The girls walked flirtily in front of him, turned and walked back again, passing more closely. The small evening bag one had been carrying suddenly slipped and fell at his feet. Automatically he bent and picked it up. Clicking his heels smartly, he held it out. ‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, vous avez laissé tomber ce petit sac.’
Disconcerted, the girl took it from him. ‘Ooh, er, thank you,’ she mumbled.
‘De rien, mademoiselle. De rien.’
Wide-eyed and giggling, the girls scurried back to the flock.
He smiled with satisfaction. It never failed. He could always put people on the wrong footing by addressing them in French or German. The English would run a mile rather than deal face to face with a foreigner. He decided that if anyone else approached him he would give them a burst of Russian. He continued to survey the crowd. The three waistcoat fanciers were still at it and presenting no problems. No, if there was to be any suggestion of disorder arising from this group it was more likely to come from the women.