Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [48]
When he had rung off, Hamish rang Elspeth. ‘We’re just about to leave,’ she said.
‘I want the services of your make-up artist,’ said Hamish. He rapidly told her his plan.
‘That sounds exciting. We’ll hang on. I’ll tell them it’s for amateur theatricals.’
At the hotel, he spoke to the manager first. ‘Does Priscilla’s uncle, Bartholomew Smythe, still keep some of his stuff here?’
‘Aye, it’s in a trunk in the basement.’
‘Priscilla,’ lied Hamish, ‘said it would be all right if I borrowed a few things.’
‘Go ahead. Here’s the key to the cellar. It’s the big black steamer trunk in the corner. What are you up to?’
‘I’ll tell you when it’s all over.’
In the cellar, Hamish selected two suits and a tuxedo, two shirts, and two pairs of shoes, grateful that the uncle took the same size in footwear. He left them all in reception, then phoned Elspeth and said he was ready. He finally emerged from the ministrations of the make-up artist with black hair, a thin black moustache, a large pair of spectacles, and pads to pump up his cheeks.
Back at the police station, he phoned Willie at the restaurant and begged him to take care of Sonsie and Lugs on the following day.
The next day, with his now black hair carefully brushed and then pads making his face look fatter and with a pair of glasses with plain glass, he put on a beautifully cut tweed suit and brogues. The suit looked as if it had been tailored for him. Now for Edinburgh, he thought.
David Harrison stared in amazement at Hamish. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you! Now, what’s it all about?’
As Hamish told him, his eyes ranged over the other diners. The club was situated in Charlotte Square in the New Town. Expensive men in expensive suits, Rolex watches, well-fed faces, discreet murmur of voices.
‘See anyone?’ asked David.
‘No,’ said Hamish, thinking miserably that it had all been a waste of time and effort.
‘You keep talking about four men. Why don’t you give me their names? I might recognize one of them.’
‘John Sanders, Charles Prosser, Thomas Bromley, and Ferdinand Castle.’
‘One of those names rings a bell. Stop looking so miserable and eat your steak and let me think.’
David was a very small man, just five feet tall, with thick brown hair and a clever face: shrewd little black eyes with deep pouches under them, a sharp beak of a nose, and a long mouth.
‘I’ve got it! Bromley. The men’s outfitters. He’s just opened a store in Frederick Street. You know the street. It cuts across Herriot Row.’
‘How can I meet him? I can’t spend too much time away from my station.’
‘Trouble is, I don’t know the man.’
‘Can you find out where his office is?’
‘Wait. I see Johnny Heather over there. He knows everyone and everything.’
David was gone only a few minutes.
‘His office, as far as Johnny knows, is in his shop. He doesn’t know the number of the shop but if you take a walk along Frederick Street, he says you can’t miss it. What will you do?’
‘I’ll go and talk to him. Say I own fish farms in Canada and I am bursting with wealth to invest. See what happens. I might need to stay overnight.’
‘I’ve got a wee flat in Abercrombie Place. I’ll take you round there after lunch. You can use it if you’re stuck in town. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. It might be a lady.’
‘Aha, that’s why you’ve got a wee flat in town. Does the wife know?’
‘God forbid.’
When lunch was over, they walked to Abercrombie Place. Hamish had brought an overnight bag just in case. David handed him the keys. ‘Let’s have a look at you again. Hamish, that’s a cheap watch.’
‘So? I’m an eccentric billionaire.’
‘Borrow my Rolex and don’t lose it. It’s an oyster and you could buy a wee house for the price o’ that. Good hunting and let me know how you get on.’
The day was fine. Hamish suddenly thought of Priscilla and wished they were walking together through this most beautiful of cities. Hard to imagine, here in the centre, that there were grim crime-ridden housing estates on the outside of the charmed Georgian New Town.
He found the