Death on the Pont Noir - By Adrian Magson Page 0,63

to remain free pending investigations into the man’s involvement in anti-government threats and arms supplies. The clear intimation had been that it would be in Rocco’s career interests to give way. Broissard had lost the argument, and had clearly not forgiven or forgotten him.

‘Broissard.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Broissard stared hard at Rocco, then at Nialls, as if they were at the centre of some kind of conspiracy. ‘And on whose authority?’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Rocco wondered if he would get away with tossing this little Napoleon down the stairs. Broissard was strutting and ambitious, dismissive of anyone outside his own department, especially of policemen. Fond of hinting at friends with influence, in reality, his authority was limited.

‘I really can’t discuss that,’ he said, and introduced David Nialls. ‘What about you?’ he added, twisting the knife to show how much he cared for the man’s position.

Broissard almost shook with indignation. ‘We are here on matters of state security,’ he muttered. In other words, nothing to do with you. He belatedly remembered the man with him and introduced him with a casual flick of the hand. ‘Henri Portier, a colleague.’ Then he ducked away and moved on up the stairs before they could ask any further questions.

‘Not a friend, I take it?’ said Nialls with a grin.

‘No. Not a friend,’ said Rocco. He was trying to remember something, a fleeting image prodding at his memory. They were halfway along Whitehall before it finally came to him.

Henri Portier, Broissard’s silent colleague. He’d seen him before, too – and recently. He was one of the two suited visitors who had accompanied Colonel Saint-Cloud to the Amiens police station just a few days ago.

The Allendale Club in Mayfair was sleek, smart and busy, with a scattering of expensive suits and early-evening cocktail dresses among the clientele. David Nialls nodded at the doorman, a pug-faced man in a dinner jacket and bow tie, who stood aside to allow them in.

The interior was glossy and richly decorated, with a long curved bar at one side of the main room and tables set for dinner beyond a gold-coloured balustrade at the rear. A three-piece band was playing soft jazz in one corner. Opposite the bar was a row of small booths with bench seats for four and a small table.

Nialls bellied up to the bar and ordered two glasses of whisky, and they carried their drinks over to one of the booths and sat down. Nialls took off his coat and sipped his drink.

‘You might as well make yourself comfortable, Lucas,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a while before anyone interesting gets here. Until then we can watch how the other half plays. Are you hungry, by the way?’

It was a reminder to Rocco that he had not eaten since this morning. Nothing on the train or boat had been of interest, and he’d been too busy thinking of this meeting to bother.

‘Not yet. Are you recommending this place?’

Nialls grunted. ‘A bit rich for my wallet, I’m afraid. But I know a good place near Piccadilly where we can get a decent steak.’ He took another small sip. ‘We’ll wait to see if Ketch turns up and then go eat.’

It was soon very clear to Rocco that the main room, bar and restaurant were not the prime attractions to the Allendale Club, as pleasant as they no doubt were. A door at the rear, which Rocco had missed at first because it was covered by the same wallpaper as the walls on either side, opened discreetly every now and then, and clients would slip through accompanied by a member of the security staff. Most were men of apparent substance above the age of forty, he noted, although there were one or two female companions, notable for their youth, the willingness of their laughter and the casual displays of jewellery. Nialls did not seem particularly interested, but was watching the front entrance, taking occasional sips from his glass.

‘It is a casino?’ Rocco asked.

‘Of course.’ Nialls didn’t turn to reply. He was intent on watching a group of men who had just entered from the street and were handing over their coats to a young woman attendant.

It was a good place to clean money and make a nice profit in the process, Rocco figured. Mayfair was a wealthy area and the club well placed to draw in those with money to burn. And special clients were allowed access by appointment only, which no doubt gave a measure of their net worth. He’d seen