with as I ran out without paying, but at least I was able to rustle up a decent breakfast for Herbert and me, and a cup of tea for Mrs. Charlady.
After breakfast, Herbert rang the Casablanca Club and I discovered that it would be open that night—although to members only. Betty Charlady was screwing a chair back together in the office at the time and she must have overheard the call, because when she came into the kitchen she was scowling.
“Wassis Casablanca Club?” she asked.
“It’s in Charing Cross,” I said. “We’re going there tonight.”
“You shouldn’t do it, Master Nicholas,” Betty muttered. “At your age.”
I handed her a cup of tea. She took it and sat down, her eyes searching across the table for a biscuit. “It’s part of our investigation,” I explained. “A client of ours may have gone there, so we have to go there, too.”
But Mrs. Charlady wasn’t impressed. “These London clubs,” she said. “They’re just dens of innik-witty.” She shook her head and the gray curls of her hair tumbled like lemmings off a cliff. “You go if you have to. But I’m sure no good will come of it . . .”
Nonetheless, Herbert and I made our way to the Casablanca Club that same night, arriving just after twelve. There’s a corner of Charing Cross, just behind the station, that comes straight out of the nineteenth century. As the road slopes down toward the river, you leave the traffic and the bright lights behind you and suddenly the night seems to creep up on you and grab you by the collar. Listen carefully and you’ll hear the Thames water gurgling in the distance, and as you squint into the shadows you’ll see figures shuffling slowly past like zombies. For this is down-and-out territory. Old tramps and winos wander down and pass out underneath the arches at the bottom, wrapped in filthy raincoats and the day’s headlines.
The Casablanca Club was in the middle of all this. A flight of steps led down underneath a dimmed green bulb, and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, there was no way you’d find it. There was no name, no fancy sign. Only the tinkle of piano music that seemed to seep out of the cracks in the pavement hinted that in the dirt and the dust and the darkness of Charing Cross, somebody might be having a good time.
We climbed down to a plain wooden door about fifteen feet below the level of the pavement. Somebody must have been watching through the spyhole because it opened before we had time to knock.
“Yes?” a voice said.
Friendly place, I thought.
“Can we come in?” Herbert asked.
“You members?”
“No.”
“Then beat it!”
The door swung shut. At the last moment, Herbert managed to get his foot in the crack. There was a nasty crunching sound as his shoe, and possibly his foot, too, got chewed up in the woodwork, but then the door swung open again and I managed to push my way through and into the hall. A bald man in a dinner jacket gave me an ugly look. If he ever wanted to give anyone a pretty look, he’d need major plastic surgery.
“We’re friends of Johnny Naples,” I said.
The man shrugged. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he asked.
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
He opened the door again. Herbert was writhing on the concrete outside, clutching his mangled foot. “Instant membership—ten bucks,” the bald man said. He glanced at me. “You’re underage,” he muttered.
“You don’t look too good yourself,” I replied.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five?” He sneered. “You got a driver’s license?”
“No. I got a chauffeur.”
I walked on, leaving Herbert to find the money and pay. In the dim light I could have been any age. Anyway, I was taller than Johnny Naples had ever been and they’d allowed him in.
Funnily enough, the first waiter who saw me mistook me for the dwarf in the half-light. “Mr. Naples!” The words were two drops of oil squeezed into my ear and I was led
After breakfast, Herbert rang the Casablanca Club and I discovered that it would be open that night—although to members only. Betty Charlady was screwing a chair back together in the office at the time and she must have overheard the call, because when she came into the kitchen she was scowling.
“Wassis Casablanca Club?” she asked.
“It’s in Charing Cross,” I said. “We’re going there tonight.”
“You shouldn’t do it, Master Nicholas,” Betty muttered. “At your age.”
I handed her a cup of tea. She took it and sat down, her eyes searching across the table for a biscuit. “It’s part of our investigation,” I explained. “A client of ours may have gone there, so we have to go there, too.”
But Mrs. Charlady wasn’t impressed. “These London clubs,” she said. “They’re just dens of innik-witty.” She shook her head and the gray curls of her hair tumbled like lemmings off a cliff. “You go if you have to. But I’m sure no good will come of it . . .”
Nonetheless, Herbert and I made our way to the Casablanca Club that same night, arriving just after twelve. There’s a corner of Charing Cross, just behind the station, that comes straight out of the nineteenth century. As the road slopes down toward the river, you leave the traffic and the bright lights behind you and suddenly the night seems to creep up on you and grab you by the collar. Listen carefully and you’ll hear the Thames water gurgling in the distance, and as you squint into the shadows you’ll see figures shuffling slowly past like zombies. For this is down-and-out territory. Old tramps and winos wander down and pass out underneath the arches at the bottom, wrapped in filthy raincoats and the day’s headlines.
The Casablanca Club was in the middle of all this. A flight of steps led down underneath a dimmed green bulb, and if you didn’t know what you were looking for, there was no way you’d find it. There was no name, no fancy sign. Only the tinkle of piano music that seemed to seep out of the cracks in the pavement hinted that in the dirt and the dust and the darkness of Charing Cross, somebody might be having a good time.
We climbed down to a plain wooden door about fifteen feet below the level of the pavement. Somebody must have been watching through the spyhole because it opened before we had time to knock.
“Yes?” a voice said.
Friendly place, I thought.
“Can we come in?” Herbert asked.
“You members?”
“No.”
“Then beat it!”
The door swung shut. At the last moment, Herbert managed to get his foot in the crack. There was a nasty crunching sound as his shoe, and possibly his foot, too, got chewed up in the woodwork, but then the door swung open again and I managed to push my way through and into the hall. A bald man in a dinner jacket gave me an ugly look. If he ever wanted to give anyone a pretty look, he’d need major plastic surgery.
“We’re friends of Johnny Naples,” I said.
The man shrugged. “Why didn’t you say so before?” he asked.
“You didn’t ask,” I said.
He opened the door again. Herbert was writhing on the concrete outside, clutching his mangled foot. “Instant membership—ten bucks,” the bald man said. He glanced at me. “You’re underage,” he muttered.
“You don’t look too good yourself,” I replied.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five?” He sneered. “You got a driver’s license?”
“No. I got a chauffeur.”
I walked on, leaving Herbert to find the money and pay. In the dim light I could have been any age. Anyway, I was taller than Johnny Naples had ever been and they’d allowed him in.
Funnily enough, the first waiter who saw me mistook me for the dwarf in the half-light. “Mr. Naples!” The words were two drops of oil squeezed into my ear and I was led
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