Free Flashpoint by Michael Gilbert Page A

stairs was a small lighted landing. On the left of this landing was a door marked Private. The doorman knocked and went inside, shutting it behind him. Benz-Fisher stood on the landing, perfectly still, with his head bent forward, listening.
    From the curtained foot of the stairs came the sound of music, recorded and amplified. The curtains were pushed aside and a young man came out and ran up the steps. He saw Benz-Fisher at the last moment, managed to avoid bumping into him and said, “It’s a bloody swindle. The girls won’t take off – oh. Sorry. I thought you were the commissionaire.”
    “I’m a detective superintendent,” said Benz-Fisher. “If you have a complaint to make–”
    “It doesn’t matter,” muttered the young man. He ran up the second flight of stairs and out into the street. He seemed anxious to get into the open air.
    The office door opened and the doorman looked out. He said, “The boss wants to know who you are.”
    “I’ll tell him myself,” said Benz-Fisher. It was difficult to see how he managed it, but one moment he was outside the office door, which was blocked by the doorman. The next moment he was inside.
    The man standing behind the desk could have been no one else but Mr Carlotti.
    He was a Mediterranean islander, Maltese or Sicilian. Advancing years and prosperity, which had added a layer of fat, could not conceal the broad shoulders and thick thighs of an athlete.
    He stared at Benz-Fisher, and Benz-Fisher stared back at him. It was a conflict of wills. Mr Carlotti conceded a point by being the first to break the silence. He said, “Well, what is it?”
    “You are Mr Carlotti?”
    “I believe so.”
    “Then I think we had better continue this conversation in private. In any event, your man had better get back on the door. While I was outside three men came in without paying.”
    “No one pays at the door. This is a members’ club.”
    “That was one of the things I wanted to find out,” said Benz-Fisher. He took out a small book and made a note in it.
    “What is all this?”
    “I have come to inspect your premises.”
    “Inspect!”
    “Pursuant to the powers vested in me by the Licensing Regulations for Members’ Clubs issued by the Greater London Council. I imagine you have a copy?”
    A shade of indecision showed for the first time on Mr Carlotti’s face.
    Benz-Fisher said, “Not only should you have a copy, but the rules in the First Schedule should be displayed prominently on your premises.”
    Mr Carlotti gestured to the commissionaire, who slid out of the room. He said, “You have some identification?”
    “Certainly.”
    From his capacious wallet Benz-Fisher selected a card and handed it to Mr Carlotti who studied it carefully. He said, “This seems an odd hour for you to be making an inspection, Mr Benskin.”
    Benz-Fisher swung round on him. His face had gone red, almost livid. “If you doubt my credentials,” he blared, “telephone the police. West End Central. You know the number. Ask for Superintendent Falk.”
    It was like a door of a furnace swinging open to let out the stored up heat within. Mr Carlotti said, “I am not doubting your credentials, sir. I only said that inspections usually take place during the day.”
    “My inspections take place whenever I bloody well choose to make them. Now, if you’ll be so good–”
    “You wish to see the girls?”
    “Sweat, tits and five o’clock shadow! I’m not interested in your girls. I wish to see the lavatories, the washing accommodation, the changing rooms and the fire precautions. I should particularly draw your attention to rules which were promulgated last year about the flame-proofing of curtains.”
    “It is not always easy to do these things at once,” said Mr Carlotti. He sounded subdued.
    He led the way by a further door, and down a flight of stone steps. They were in the backstage area and the noise of the music and voices came to them faintly.
    Benz-Fisher’s inspection was