‘Is he good looking?’
Lily considered. ‘I’d say so … if you don’t mind the scar.’
‘Scar?’
Lily put up a hand and mimed raking it across her brow. ‘Tiger claw is what they say in the canteen. Silvery against the tanned skin.’
Phyl stared. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’d mind the scar. Is he much liked?’
‘Oh, yes, he is!’ Lily stopped short. Her response had been too ready and too warm. She tempered it with: ‘Well – as far as any of the upper echelons are ever popular with the men. Here’s your cocoa, Phyl. They like him, first because they actually think they know him – he goes out on the beat with them sometimes and talks to them. Remembers their wife’s name next time they meet and all that rot. And then – he’s active. Gets things done.’
‘You’ve got to admire that.’ Phyl spoke grudgingly. ‘What’s he stirring up at the moment?’
‘Several irons in the fire. He’s all in favour of getting the motorized division going and he’s running experiments – I’m not kidding – with radio telephone systems to install in the pursuit cars. They think soon they’ll be able to direct the drivers from the top floor of the Yard! I talked to one of the sergeants who’s training as a driver for the Flying Squad. He was full of information. Sandilands prides himself on what he calls his “hands-on” style. A bit too literally, according to the sergeant, when the hands in question are on the steering wheel of a car doing fifty miles an hour down Oxford Street. “Terrible driver but halfway human” seems to be the verdict.’
‘And what do you make of him, this half-human Jehu who likes to get his hands on things?’
‘Oh, he presents himself well. Good tailoring but nothing flamboyant. Neat haircut, army wrist-watch. Looks like a soldier in civvies.’ And, reprimanded by Phyl’s arched eyebrow, she added: ‘Well, he has a very nice smile.’
‘So, they say, did Brides-in-the-bath Smith. Is that it? Could be any of ten thousand men in London. He doesn’t seem to have made much of an impression.’
‘He does make an impression. He looks crisp and energetic … you know … fresh out of the shower and looking for trouble.’
‘How tiring!’
‘He eats three gypsy creams in as many minutes.’
‘Well, you’ve got something in common at least. But you can add to your picture manipulative and up to no good,’ Phyl said. ‘All things considered, though, I’d say this toff was worth our attention.’ Her eyes gleamed with intent. ‘But he doesn’t know what he’s taking on. We’ll have him on toast, shall we, Lil? Listen – if he was an officer in the last lot, he’s probably got something to hide. I’ll ask Albert. Albert’s a member of a rather seditious old soldiers’ drinking club in Soho. He can ask about. Follow him. See where he goes after dark. If there’s anything to know to your boss’s discredit, he’ll know it within the hour.’
Albert was Phyl’s chauffeur and debt-collector. His magnificent physique, combined with his deceptively sweet smile, secured instant cooperation from Phyl’s defaulting clients. People seemed to understand at once that, should they demur or cause a moment’s distress for Phyllis Wentworth, his loyalty to his employer would compel him, against all his pacific instincts, to ‘take steps’. Albert’s ‘steps’ were known to be earthshaking.
‘But first I’ll take a quick look through this month’s Society and Entertainment pages … see if I can’t outguess him. Pass it over, will you?’ She settled to thumb her way down the columns. ‘Now, if I were an energetic gent on mischief bent where would I be planning to spend my Saturday night in evening dress?’
Phyl worked her way patiently through the listed entertainments. ‘I see their majesties have opted for the Wagner at Covent Garden. But you say opera’s out. Well then, there’s early keyboard music at the Royal Institution. No? How about a trip down the Mile End Road to the People’s Palace of Delight? They’re staging a variety performance for the Excelsior Philanthropic Society in front of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk. Ouch! Poor dears. Spending their Saturday night down the Mile End – now that’s philanthropy for you.’
Lily snatched the pages from her. ‘Let’s be serious. Theatre – that’s my best hope. What have we got on offer? … Oh, I say. We could be going to see The Man in Dress Clothes at the Garrick or Partners of Fate with Louise Lovely. Of course, there’s any number of balls on at the moment. One or two charity suppers. Let’s pray it’s not a charity dinner-dance – how dull. Only one of those promises to be the least bit interesting – the Russian émigrés one. At least it’s on at Claridges. Well, where else? Not short of a bob or two, these Russians.’