The cocktail waiter disappeared on his errand. After he was gone, Maynard Charles reached into the inner pocket of his dinner jacket and produced one of his White Owl cigars. As he lit it, he turned to the evening edition of The Times and scoured its headlines. In Spain the Nationalists had captured San Sebastián. On the second page the editorial led with Mr Hitler’s rally. It had only been six months since he’d marched back into the Rhineland and now he was declaring Germany a fully armed nation once again. Maynard Charles had to take deep lungfuls of smoke just to steady his nerves. My friends died so that there wouldn’t be war again. And now look where we’re going . . . It would have made his blood boil, but his blood was already boiling tonight – and not even the drink in his hand was enough to make him relax.

A finger tapped at his shoulder. Instinct told him to turn around – but he was a practised, mannered kind of man, and instead he said, ‘Let us find ourselves a table, shall we? Somewhere we can talk.’

Maynard did not look at his guest as he stood up and, summoning a waiter to carry his drink, made haste to a table in a shadowy corner of the lounge. Here the music of the harpist was faint, but the conversations of his fellow drinkers still buzzed around him, so that everything was a single indecipherable noise – which was exactly what he needed.

‘Bring my friend a soda and lime, would you, old boy?’

The man named Moorcock removed his Bollman trilby and placed it on the table beside him. In the pale light of the club, Maynard watched as he picked a stray grey hair from the hat and disposed of it under the table.

‘I’ll take a Martini,’ he said.

Maynard simply glared.

‘A Martini, Mr Charles. A little hospitality would go a long way between us.’

Maynard Charles bristled, glaring straight through his unwelcome guest. The waiter was despatched to bring back a dry Martini, ice on the side.

‘There, that’s better, don’t you think?’ Mr Moorcock took a slow sip. ‘I hear things tick along merrily in your fine establishment, Mr Charles. You had the pleasure of Graf and Gräfin Schecht, did you not?’

So, thought Maynard, he’s seen the register. He made a mental note to speak to whoever had been manning the front reception. All it took was a moment’s distraction for somebody to reach over the desk, steal a look at the check-in book, and memorise all its names. Hotel discretion mattered – for all their guests, no matter who they were or what they’d done.