Free Assault on Soho by Don Pendleton Page B

appreciative of intrigue; the time had come to make the cut between friend and enemy, to determine precisely where Ann Franklin and the Sades stood in that separation, and to engage the enemy—whoever they might be—in open combat. As he entered the club, the two men behind him started across the street.
    An immaculately dressed older man stood just inside the door at a foyer desk. A quiet sign announced that only members were allowed on the premises. Bolan went immediately to the desk and told the man, "I'm meeting a young woman here. Maybe you—"
    The doorman interrupted. "You'll still be required to purchase a membership, sir. It's the bloody law here-abouts. It takes three quid, sir, plus another ten bob entry fee."
    Bolan dug for his wallet and asked, "How much is that in pounds and ounces?"
    The man chuckled. "Bloody confusing for you Americans, I know sir. Never mind, we're shifting to the decimal system ourselves by and by. Then well all be bloody well confused."
    The two men had come in from the street and were hovering near the door, trying their best to look disinterested in the proceedings at the desk.
    Bolan fingered the bills in his wallet and asked, "How much?"
    The doorman was looking at something on a note pad. He said, "Would that be Miss Franklin you're meeting, sir?"
    "That's the one."
    "Then I'll beg your pardon, your entry is all piped up. Sorry sir, I just took the carpet at eleven, and I 'adn't time to read me notes."
    "Does that mean I go on in?" Bolan asked.
    "Oh yes sir, to be sure sir. You proceed on through the bar, down the stairs, across the clubroom, and up again to the mezzanine. Room number three, sir."
    Bolan dropped a tenner on the desk and said, "Let's keep our little secret."
    The ten pound note disappeared immediately beneath the doorman's hand. He said, "We're the soul of discretion, sir. By the by, are those two gentlemen at the door accompanying you?"
    Bolan said, "Not hardly."
    "I'd say that's a bit unfortunate then, sir. Those chaps are Scotland Yard."
    Bolan's eyebrows rose. He murmured, "Thanks," and went on into the spider's den.
    The game had changed, disconcertingly so, but there was no turning back now. The only way out led straight into the jungle.

Chapter Nine
Trap play
    Soho Psych was fairly representative of the rock music clubs that proliferate upon the London scene, most of them appearing and disappearing with amazing rapidity. This one was unique chiefly because of its seeming permanence. It had remained on the "in" list for several seasons, drawing locals and tourists alike and packing the house nightly while competitors rose and fell in cycles typical of the new mod culture of swinging Londontown. The club had become a favorite watering hole for local musicians as well as visiting ones, and thus was also a favorite of the "groupies"— the young girls who followed the rock groups about.
    The bar itself offered no live entertainment, unless the nude models who posed in glass cases, tall tubes, really, all about the place could be classed as entertainment. The bar was overflowing with a standing room crowd and the conversational level was about equivalent to roaring surf on a rocky shore. The only light came from the glass tubes of the living mannequins, in varying and changing shades, each girl changing her pose with each alteration of the lights. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them.
    Bolan paused in front of a statuesque blonde mannequin to light a cigarette, wondering why the two cops had not moved on him out there in the lobby. Perhaps, Bolan surmised, they were under orders to attempt no immediate apprehension—perhaps Bolan had popped up before they'd had time to get set the way they wanted to be. So now they would be getting set, and with jaws of steel.
    He lingered at the girl's tube, wating to see if the two would come in from the lobby. As a matter of idle curiosity he tried to catch the mannequin's eye but she seemed totally oblivious of his