‘You look like you’d like to buy a girl a pint,’ she said.
They found a pub on a side street a couple of hundred yards from the hotel. A narrow frontage, one bow window, blacked out. A heavy, narrow door set back in an alcove.
Cook bought two pints of best. Eleanor had been very insistent – whatever he was drinking. He carried themthrough the fog of cigarette smoke to the window seat – a broad bench set in the curving bay. The pub was busy. She’d done well to find a space. Looking at the expanse of glass at her back, Cook realised why. Thin strips of tape, criss-crossed across the windows, peeling off in curls, defeated by the humidity generated by the crowd. If a bomb landed in the street, the window would be death for anyone near it.
Eleanor sat in the window seat, nodded to him as she took her drink. They clinked glasses as he took his place next to her. Awkward, sitting side by side, facing the interior of the pub.
‘Cheers!’ she said.
‘Cheers,’ he reciprocated. He was somewhat unsure why he was here. Like being ordered by your sergeant major. You didn’t stop to think, you just did. In the absence of a way forward, it wasn’t the worst detour.
The beer was excellent. He savoured it.
‘I gather you’ve become persona non grata at the hotel,’ she said.
He must have looked surprised, because she smiled, like she’d admitted to knowing a secret.
‘I keep my eyes open,’ she said. ‘Hard not to pick up on what’s going on if you watch for long enough.’
‘Whatisgoing on?’ he asked.
‘The usual, for a big hotel,’ she said. ‘Prostitution, of course. Extortion. Several long-running scams working their way through the process.’
‘Seems like it’s a family business,’ Cook said. ‘All those brothers.’
She nodded.
‘A fascinating twist,’ she said. ‘When I arrived it was all Italians. Then Mussolini declared war on Britain and suddenly the Italians had to be rounded up, sent to concentration camps.’
‘Internment,’ Cook said.
She made a face. ‘You say tomahto, I say tomayto.’
‘Then what?’
‘It was chaos. Half the staff gone. You couldn’t get a decent drink for love nor money. And then the next morning, nine o’clock sharp, a whole new crew. Doorman. Front desk. Maître d’. Bartender. The lot. All of them related, if you ask me. New girls, too. A complete regime change, overnight. Very impressive.’
Cook thought of Mr Jones in his jazz club, seeing an opportunity, sending his boys in.
‘Now, you’ve pumped me for information, time for me to ask some questions,’ she said.
Cook sipped his beer.
‘What areyoudoing here?’ she asked. She took a notepad from her inside pocket. Pulled a pencil from the same pocket.
‘Remember I’m a journalist,’ she added. ‘So you’ve been warned.’
She put pencil to paper.
‘What do you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m a farmer.’
‘Not many farms around here,’ she said. ‘What brings you to the big, bad city?’
‘It’s a long story,’ he said.
She put her pencil down. Took a long draught of her pint.
