“The square root of nothing is fuck all!”
Gregory spun around. He had heard that raucous tone before. Henrik.
The young man stood behind Gregory, a big smile 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 their 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 said, beaming. “Wicked is still playing, and I’m hoping to catch the Matisse exhibition at Tate Modern before it finishes.”
Gregory had finally caught sight of his friend across the lounge, and steered young Henrik into a rather smart looking armchair next to him.
“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 glances their Victorian dress instigated. Still, he leant across to brush some fluff from his own trouser crease, then forward a fraction more to do likewise to young Henrik. The needle on his finger was so fine Henrik didn’t even feel it, but within seconds the Swede was unconscious. With a broadsheet to cover his recumbent form, he looked like an old gent who had dozed off whilst reading the paper. The two 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 the car out into the Strand, horn blaring, as he wove between the early afternoon traffic. Lady Bane as usual 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 might be 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.