Free Flashpoint by Michael Gilbert

do for me.”
    “Anything, Mr Winstanley.”
    “I have been trying for some time to locate a man, a Mr Stukely. He used to work for our organization. We would very much like to get in touch with him again.”
    “Stukely. No. I don’t think–”
    “You might not know his name, but I think you might recognize him if I described him. He is tallish, distinguished-looking, has grey hair, which he wears rather long, and swept back. He has a small grey beard – of the type which used to be called an imperial. Also, he sometimes uses a monocle.”
    “Ah, yes. Certainly I have seen him here. But not recently.”
    “How recently?”
    “Not for several months. Nevertheless, I may be able to help you. If it is the man I am thinking of, he was usually accompanied on his visits here by – a female.” With a quick gesture, employing both hands, he sketched the outlines of an hourglass figure.
    “A female,” agreed Benz-Fisher. “And let us not be too delicate about the matter – a female of a certain class–”
    “Yes. Indeed. Perhaps I make myself clear if I say that had she appeared alone I could not have admitted her.”
    “You could hardly make yourself clearer. And you think you can help me to locate her?”
    “The gentleman referred to her by the name of Aileen. And unless she has changed her job in the last few weeks, you will find her at the Extravaganza in Barnaby Street. I should, however, warn monsieur that it is not quite the sort of establishment to which monsieur is accustomed.”
    “When on duty, one must go where duty calls.” As he said this, Benz-Fisher smiled. The proprietor, a student of human nature, thought he had never seen a smile so genial, so meaningless, and so curiously disturbing. But Benz-Fisher was only smiling because he was happy. The food had not been sensational, but the wine had been. A Chambertin was always a toss-up. A vineyard which was divided between eighteen owners could produce, under the same label, a wine which varied from ordinary to superb, and this had been very high up the scale. He guessed that it was not the wine of that name on the wine list, but came from the proprietor’s private cellar.
    The entrance to the Club Extravaganza was a narrow doorway between a shop which sold books and magazines to the public and a shop which sold glassware to the trade. Over the door an illuminated sign said, ‘Non-Stop Striptease. Double and Treble Acts. Sophisticated Fun.’ Benz-Fisher stood in front of the doorway. Rocking gently, from his heels, forward on to his toes, and back again, he studied the announcement with the care of an Egyptologist deciphering an inscription. A sad-looking man in a hussar uniform studied Benz-Fisher with like care. Eventually he said, “Make your mind up, sir. Lovely girls. None of them over fifty.”
    “I appreciate the matronly figure.”
    “Lots of them inside. Ever so matronly.”
    Benz-Fisher completed one oscillation, came to rest and said sharply, “You’re not touting for business, are you?”
    “Certainly not, sir. Just passing the time of day.”
    “Because you appreciate, I hope, that touting for business in the open street is contrary to London Licensing Regulations.”
    “I’m not in the street.”
    “No,” said Benz-Fisher with sinister emphasis, “but I am.”
    “If you don’t want to come in, sir–”
    “I do. And I wish to see the proprietor.”
    “I’m afraid Mr Carlotti isn’t here just now.”
    “There must be someone in charge. If you don’t produce him quickly, I shall fetch a policeman.”
    The doorman looked at him speculatively. He had stood outside this and similar doorways for a long time and prided himself that he could place any visitor at sight. The drunk, the bashful, the furtive, the plain-clothes policeman, the social visitor, the newspaper man. But he had to confess that this one had him beat.
    However, the first and the last rule was, no fuss. He said, “Come this way, sir.”
    Halfway down the