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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