“The square root of nothing is fuck all!”
Gregory spun. He had heard that raucous tone before, Henrik.
The young man stood behind Gregory beaming broadly on his friendly face, but Gregory knew, Henrik was an agent of The Rabbit.
Pretending bonhomie, he engaged the charming young Swede in conversation, wondering as always, where the devil had Stiletto got to?
Lord Stiletto was sat with his pipe in a comfortable arm chair in the lounge at the Savoy, watching with wry amusement the conversation going on at the bar. He had no concern for his friend, but he was still troubled by the unanswered question, “who was it that had knifed Gregory at the Fitzwilliam, and removed the package from his waistcoat pocket?” Surely not Henrik!
“And what brings you to London?” Gregory was politely enquiring.
“Oh, just here to catch a show,” the young man beamed. “Wicked is still playing, and I’m hoping to catch the Matisse exhibition at Tate Modern before it finishes.”
Gregory had caught sight of his friend across the lounge, and steered young Henrik into a rather smart looking armchair.
“How’s the girl?” asked Stiletto evenly of Henrik.
“Well she had a hell of a headache and was out of action for a few days, but she’s around,” replied the debonair dandy.
Stiletto was always surprised, even here at the Savoy, at the curious and sometimes mocking glance their Victorian dress code initiated. Still he leant across to brush some fluff from his own trouser crease and leant forward a fraction more to do likewise to young Henrik. The needle on his finger was so fine he didn’t even feel it, but within seconds the Swede was unconscious. Leaving a broadsheet to cover his recumbent form, he looked like an old gent who had dozed reading the paper. The friends made their exit.
Waiting outside at the wheel of a vintage Bentley was Haydrift Eaglebeard. No sooner had Gregory and Stiletto settled in the rear seats than Eaglebeard shot out into the Strand, horn blaring, as he weaved between the early afternoon traffic. Lady Bane as normal was riding shotgun, restored to her normal silk and bustled self, but with a rather strange metallic contraption cradled in her arms that most peoples, wherever they are in the universe, would recognise as a gun of some sort.
“What’s that?” enquired Gregory.
“It’s a gun of some sort,” Sarah replied with a smile.