Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [49]
‘Just looking around,’ said Hamish. Because of the pads in his cheeks, his voice did not sound like his own.
‘Do look at our new suede jackets,’ urged the assistant. ‘They’re to die for.’
‘I hear you’ve just opened,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m over from Canada and I’m looking for good investments. I heard Mr Bromley was a shrewd businessman. I just had lunch at the Merlin Club and his name was mentioned.’
‘As a matter of fact, Mr Bromley is in his office. I’ll call him.’
After a few minutes, Thomas Bromley bustled in, as fat and cheerful as Hamish remembered him, the smile on his small mouth, however, never reaching his watchful, assessing eyes. Like his assistant, he was dressed in a kilt and ruffled shirt under a velvet jacket. The kilt, reflected Hamish, only looked good when worn by sturdy men with good legs. Chubby as he was, Bromley had stick-like legs.
He rubbed his hands. ‘I hear you are interested in investing. Why don’t we go over to the pub and have a chat.’ His eyes swept over Hamish’s expensive suit and flicked a glance at the expensive Rolex on his wrist.
They walked to a pub and entered into the beer-smelling gloom. Hamish ordered whisky and Bromley said he would have the same.
‘And who do I have the honour of addressing?’ he asked.
‘I’m Diarmuid Jenkins the Third,’ said Hamish. ‘My mother was highland and my father was Canadian. I own several fish farms and other businesses. I always regard Scotland as my home country.’
‘That’s fine. Are you interested in the clothing business?’
‘Not really. I was thinking more of something like the restaurant business.’
‘Now, there’s a thing. I happen to have an interest in restaurants. I am the main shareholder in a chain of restaurants.’
‘In Scotland?’
‘Not yet. But thinking of expanding. My company is called Britfood. My restaurants are very successful. Look, a friend of mine has a better head for business than I have. Why don’t we all meet up for dinner at the Merlin Club tonight and discuss things over a good bottle of wine? Say, eight o’clock?’
‘I’d like that,’ said Hamish. He gave a rather vacant laugh. ‘Back home I’ve a good manager although he annoys me by saying that if the running of things was left to me, we’d be broke tomorrow. I want to show him I can do things for myself.’
‘That’s the ticket!’ said Bromley, rubbing his chubby hands. ‘You’ll show him by the time I’m finished with you.’
As he got ready for the evening, Hamish thought he would be glad when the masquerade was over. The pads in his cheeks were uncomfortable and the glasses were pinching his nose. He put on Priscilla’s uncle’s evening suit and set out for the Merlin Club, phoning Willie Lamont before he left to say that he’d been delayed.
He had not been frightened before in his dealings with Bromley, but when he walked into the club and saw Charles Prosser sitting there he suddenly felt a frisson of fear. His highland sixth sense picked up danger. Prosser hailed him, all bluff and hearty and with a crushing handshake. Hamish proceeded to play the rather pompous idiot very well, carefully instilling into their brains that his excellent manager was the one with the business acumen. Then Prosser said, if ‘Diarmuid’ didn’t mind, he had some papers to leave at his office. As they approached Prosser’s office, Hamish noticed a burglar alarm box over the door. Bromley poured Hamish a drink from a bar in the corner. At one point, Prosser excused himself and opened a safe in the wall. Hamish had turned on a little tape recorder in his pocket and recorded the clicks.
‘The best idea is for you to come round to my office tomorrow at noon,’ said Prosser, putting some papers in the safe and shutting it again, ‘and we can all go through the business then. Here’s my card. But tonight’s for fun.’
When they moved to a pub after dinner, Hamish insisted on buying the first