‘The soup spoon lad? I’m not sure where we’d find him now. He was probably laid low by a ladle in the mess and all his fears were realized.’
Skins shook his head. ‘You’re an idiot. Let’s go and find Danny.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Skins. ‘Why don’t we have a bit of a nose-round “on the way”? See if we can see any sign of this treasure vault. If anyone challenges us, we can just say we’re lost.’
Dunn smiled and shook his head. ‘So you reckon the two of us can just walk round a corner and solve a puzzle that’s baffled everyone for a hundred and twenty years?’
Skins frowned. ‘At the very least, we could get a better idea of what the place looks like.’
‘Come on then, Adventurer Jim. You reckon they’ve got some safari jackets and pith helmets we could borrow?’
They set off in the direction of the smoking room, as indicated by the signs on the wall, but turned off down another corridor before they got there.
‘What are we looking for, then?’ said Dunn.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Skins. ‘There’s not going to be a big sign up saying “Hidden Treasure This Way”, is there?’
‘Exactly. And so why—’
‘Just shut up moaning and keep your eyes open. It could be anything. Look at all this old tat on the walls, for a start. And all them paintings on the other side. What are they telling us?’
‘That rich blokes like to have their portraits painted?’
‘Well, that’s a given. But who are they?’
Dunn looked at the tiny brass plaques on a couple of the pictures.
‘Club presidents,’ he said.
‘Didn’t Sunderland say the Mayfair Murderer was club president?’
‘Something like that. Sir Dionisius Something-or-other.’
Skins scanned along the wall, travelling backwards in time through the club’s history.
‘Here you go,’ he said. ‘Sir Dionisius Fitzwarren-Garvie. That’s a big old cravat if I ever saw one. He doesn’t look like a murderer, though.’
‘I think it’s the same as with hidden treasure – they don’t wear signs.’
‘What’s he got in his hand?’ said Skins.
Dunn looked closely. ‘A key?’ he suggested. ‘A big gold key? They’ve all got it, look.’
On closer inspection, the other club presidents were, indeed, holding the same golden key.
‘The key to the secret vault,’ said Skins.
‘No one’s ever thought of that, I bet,’ said Dunn. ‘Come on, you ’nana, let’s go and see Danny like we planned.’
They turned back.
Eventually, they reached the smoking room. Tastefully decorated with green silk wallpaper on the walls and a luxurious Axminster rug on the floor, the smoking room was where the older members of the club went to doze away the afternoon. With a fug of pipe and cigar smoke hanging above them, and portraits of long-dead club members looking down from the walls, the old men sat in overstuffed armchairs of dark brown leather in silent companionship, and snoozed through the long hours between lunch and dinner. Bookshelves lined the walls, and tables were piled high with newspapers and periodicals of all types, but only one member was reading – Dudley ‘Danny’ Daniels.
Skins and Dunn looked uncertainly at each other. They had played manor houses and public houses, jazz clubs, gentlemen’s clubs, and working men’s clubs. They were at home anywhere, but despite their cheerful confidence, there were always one or two places where they knew they didn’t belong. And the smoking room of the Aristippus Club in Mayfair was just such a place. Somehow neither of them could summon the will to step across the threshold and into the hallowed sanctum. It was as though the hand of some invisible guardian were pushing them back, telling them that their sort wasn’t welcome here. Oiks.
Danny must have seen them out of the corner of his eye. He put down his book and waved at them to come in. Still they hesitated. He smiled. He waved them in again and mouthed, ‘It’s all right – come on in.’
Almost on tiptoes, the two musicians crept into the room. A sleeping man near the door – bald but for two unruly tufts of white hair above his ears – snored suddenly, making one of his neighbours wake with a start. The newly awakened man regarded them suspiciously.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded croakily. ‘You the chaps from the War Office come to measure the horses for their ball gowns?’
‘Don’t worry, Sir Edgar,’ said Danny. ‘They’re guests of mine.’
‘Just you make sure they don’t get any axle grease on the boiled mutton,’ said the man, and he settled back to sleep.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Danny as they approached. ‘Were you looking for me?’
‘Actually, yes,’ said Skins. He hadn’t given any thought as to how they were going to approach this interview. Were they going to casually chat? Would there be any profit in a direct approach? Should they construct an elaborate ruse? Or just come straight out and tell him what they were up to?
Dunn came to the rescue. ‘We arrived early for this evening’s lesson and we thought it would be nice to get to know a few of you blokes a bit better. Seems a shame to come here three times a week and not know anybody. Especially when we’re so involved in helping you with your dance contest.’
‘How very decent of you,’ said Danny. ‘Why don’t we retire to the bar – leave the chaps in here to their rest?’
‘We’ve just come from there,’ said Skins. ‘It’s a bit lively. The police are asking questions about the night Blanche died.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Terrible business. How are you coping?’
‘Well enough,’ said Dunn.
‘One can only imagine. Come on, I know a place.’
He stood up and led them out. They followed him back to the portrait corridor and on to a closed door, the sign upon which proclaimed it to be the ‘Theodorus Room’. Danny opened it and ushered them inside.
It was a smallish committee room, with a table set for six attendees and with four armchairs arranged around a low table beside the unlit fire on the other side of the room. As elsewhere in the club, a marble bust on a plinth in the corner surveyed the proceedings.
‘This room’s almost never used,’ said Danny. ‘I often come in here when I want a bit of peace and quiet. Make yourselves comfortable. I was thinking of ordering a pot of tea just before you arrived. Would you care to join me? I can get you something stronger if you prefer.’
‘Tea would be nice,’ said Skins. ‘Ta very much.’
Danny pressed the electric bell push beside the fireplace and sat in one of the armchairs opposite the musicians.
‘It’s really rather splendid of you to come and try to mix with the hoi polloi, you know,’ said Danny. ‘We look on in wonderment as musicians array themselves on our stage for our entertainment. What’s the word you jazz types use? You’re “cool”, that’s it. Stylish, fashionable – everything we duffers aren’t. We’re quite in awe of you, we really are.’
‘I never thought of it like that,’ said Skins. ‘I thought members of clubs like this were all public-school confidence and “yah boo” to the rest of us.’