Free Last Seen Wearing by Colin Dexter Page B

That's fine. I wouldn't want to bruise my fist against your ugly chops, myself, but this pal of mine here will do it with the greatest pleasure. Just up his street. Army middleweight champion till a year ago. Where shall we go, you dirty little squit?'
   The little man sat back and sagged in his chair like a wilting balloon, and his voice was a punctured whine.
   'You got to be members of the club. If you not I get prosecuted by police.'
   'F—off,' said Morse, and with the ex-boxing champion behind him walked through the screen partition.
   In the small auditorium beyond sat a sprinkling of males, dotted around on the three rows of seats facing the small, raised stage, on which a buxom blonde stripper had just, climactically, removed her G-string. At least one of the management's promises had been honoured. The curtains closed and there was a polite smatter of half-hearted applause.
   'How did you know I was a boxing champion?' whispered Lewis.
   'I didn't,' said Morse, with genuine surprise.
   'You might get it right, though, sir. Light middleweight.'
   Morse grinned happily, and a disembodied voice from the wings announced the advent of The Fabulous Fiona. The curtains opened jerkily to reveal a fully-clothed Fiona; but it was immediately apparent that her fabulous body, whatever delights were soon to be unveiled, was signally bereft of any rhythmic suppleness as she struggled amateurishly to synchronize a few elementary dance steps with the languorously suggestive music.
   After The Sexy Susan and The Sensational Sandra even Morse was feeling a trifle blase; but, as he explained to an unenthusiastic Lewis, there might be better things to come. And indeed The Voluptuous Vera and The Kinky Kate certainly did something to raise the general standard of the entertainment. There were gimmicks aplenty: fans, whips, bananas and rubber spiders; and Morse dug Lewis in the ribs as an extraordinarily shapely girl, dressed for a fancy-dress ball, titillatingly and tantalizingly divested herself of all but an incongruously ugly mask.
   'Bit of class there, Lewis.'
   But Lewis remained unimpressed; and when the turn came round for the reappearance of The Fabulous Fiona Morse reluctantly decided they had better go. The little gorilla was fleecing a thin, spotty-faced young man of his one pown membership fee as they walked out of the club into the dazzling sunshine of the London street. After a few breaths of comparatively clean air, Morse returned to the entrance and stood by the young man.
   'What's your name, lad?'
   'William Shakespeare. What's yours?' He looked at Morse with considerable surprise. Who the hell did he think he was? It was over two years ago since anyone had spoken to him in that tone of voice. At school, in Kidlington.
   'Can we go and talk somewhere?'
   'What is this?'
   'John Maguire, if I'm not mistaken? I want to talk to you about Miss Valerie Taylor—I think you may have heard of her. Now we can do it quietly and sensibly, or you can come along with me and the sergeant here to the nearest police station. Up to you.'
   Maguire was obviously worried. 'Look. Not here, please. I've got half an hour off at four o'clock. I'll meet you then. I'll be in there.' He pointed anxiously to a sleazy-looking snack bar across the road next to the Angel.
   Morse pondered what to do.
   'Please,' urged Maguire. I'll be there. Honest, I will.'
   It was a difficult decision, but Morse finally agreed. He thought it would be foolish to antagonize Maguire before he'd even started on him.
   Morse gave quick instructions to Lewis as they walked away. He was to take a taxi back to Southampton Terrace and wait until Morse returned. If Maguire did decide to scuttle (it seemed unlikely, though) he would almost certainly go back there for some of his things.
   At the end of the street Lewis found a cab almost immediately, and Morse guiltily strolled back to the Penthouse.