James bolted out of the gallery and barged in front of a woman who had just hailed a taxi, a thing he had never done before.
“The Dorchester,” he hollered, “as fast as you can go.”
The taxi shot off.
“Stephen, James has gone and I’m sending Robin to follow Harvey so he can keep you briefed and guide you to the Dorchester. I’m staying put. Everything else O.K?”
“No,” said Stephen, “start praying. I’ve reached Berkeley Square. Where now?”
“Across the garden then continue down Hill Street.”
Robin left the gallery and ran all the way to Bruton Street until he was only 50 yards behind Harvey.
“Now about the Henry Moore,” said the well-corseted lady.
“Screw Henry Moore,” said Jean-Pierre, not even looking around.
The steel-reinforced bosom heaved.
“Young man, I have never been spoken to in…”
But Jean-Pierre had already reached the lavatory, and closed the door.
“You’re crossing South Audley Street now, then continue into Deanery Street. Keep going, don’t turn right or left and don’t whatever you do look back. Harvey is still about 50 yards behind you. I’m a little more than 50 yards behind him,” said Robin. Passersby stared at the man talking into his little instrument.
“Is Room 120 free?”
“Yes, sir, they checked out this morning, but I’m not sure if it’s ready for occupancy yet. I think the maid may still be clearing the room. I’ll have to check, sir,” said the tall receptionist in the morning suit, which indicated that he was a senior member of the floor staff.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said James, his German accent far better than Stephen’s. “I always have that room. Can you book me in for one night? Name’s Drosser, Herr—um—Helmut Drosser.”
He slipped a pound over the counter.
“Certainly, sir.”
“That’s Park Lane, Stephen. Look right—the big hotel on the corner straight in front of you is the Dorchester. The semicircle facing you is the main entrance. Go up the steps, past the big man in the green overcoat, and through the revolving door and you’ll find reception on your right. James ought to be there waiting for you.”
Robin was grateful that the annual dinner of the Royal Society for Medicine had been held at the Dorchester last year.
“Where’s Harvey?” bleated Stephen.
“Only 40 yards behind you.”
Stephen quickened his pace, ran up the steps of the Dorchester and pushed through the revolving door so hard that the other residents coming out found themselves on the street faster than they had planned. Thank God, James was standing there holding a key.
“The lift’s over there,” said James, pointing. “You’ve only chosen one of the most expensive suites in the hotel.”
Stephen glanced in the direction James had indicated and turned back to thank him. But James was already heading off to the American Bar to be sure he was well out of sight when Harvey arrived.
Stephen left the lift at the first floor and found that the Dorchester, which he had never entered before, was as traditional as Claridge’s, its thick royal blue and golden carpets leading to a magnificently appointed corner suite which overlooked Hyde Park. He collapsed into an easy chair, not quite sure what to expect next. Nothing had gone as planned.
Jean-Pierre waited at the gallery, James sat in the American Bar and Robin loitered by the side of Barclays Bank, Park Lane, a mock-Tudor building fifty yards from the entrance of the Dorchester.
“Have you a Mr. Drosser staying at this hotel? I think it’s room 120,” barked Harvey.
The receptionist looked through the card index.
“Yes, sir. Is he expecting you?”