Sowerbutt had chosen a table near a side wall in the
Cafe de Paris to relax for an hour or so before the journey home.
He had no wish to encourage small talk with any of the pampered party set and
he was always happier with a wall behind him. Waving away the house champagne
which he suspected was cheap Spanish white blown with gas, he sipped a pricey
glass of Old Bushmills. He was pleased with the deal he had just reached
with Martin Poulson, the maitre d’, swapping two
cases of 1924 Chateau Latour for a large handful of notes. He smiled at
the thought of their previous owner, a notorious socialite, paying an
extortionate price at the club when he visited for a glass or three
of his own wine. The silly bastard should have burglar-proofed his
townhouse in Grosvenor Square long ago. The often-empty residence was asking to
be knocked off. During his
nocturnal visit, Sowerbutt had taken some notes of the wine
cellar in case of further orders from his
well-heeled clients.
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