The taxi sped away, leaving me alone in the deserted street. It had rained again and the flashing red sign was reflected in the puddles as I crossed the road. I pushed open the door and found myself facing a flight of steps going down to a basement. Music spilled up to greet me—the wail of a saxophone and a heavy drumbeat. I held on to the rail as I went down the steps. This then was a real nightclub. I had never been in a place like this. The stairs were steep with worn carpet on them. And I was wearing my one pair of high-heeled shoes, in my attempt to look glamorous. I haven’t mentioned yet that I am apt to be clumsy in moments of stress. Halfway down, my heel caught in a threadbare patch in the carpet. I pitched forward, grasped at the railing and ended up slithering down the last of the stairs, arriving at the bottom in a most undignified way as I cannoned into a potted palm. I hastened to pick myself up before anyone observed this unorthodox entry. I was in a sort of dark anteroom with an antique writing desk and chair, mercifully unoccupied. The area was separated from the main area by a row of potted palms, one of which now had a frond hanging down, thanks to me. A man had just been emerging from the club beyond the palms. He was staggering slightly as if drunk and started in alarm when I came hurtling down the stairs toward him.

“Let me give you a word of advice, girlie,” he said in slurred tones, wagging a finger at me. “Don’t drink any more tonight. You’ve already had enough. Trust me, I know.” Then he staggered past me up the stairs.

I collected myself and smoothed down my skirt and my hair before I went through into the club itself. It was dimly lit, with candles on small tables and the only real light coming from the stage, where a girl was dancing.

“Can I help you, miss?” A swarthy man in a dinner jacket appeared at my side. He didn’t seem to possess a razor.

“I’m meeting someone here,” I said. “A Mr. Crump.”

“Ah. I see.” He gave me something between a grin and a leer. “He’s expecting you. At that table on the far right.”

The man looked up as I approached him and he rose to his feet.

“Mr. Crump?” I said, holding out my hand to him. “My agency sent me. Coronet Escorts?”

He was a ruddy, bloated sort of fellow with what he probably thought was a jaunty mustache but which looked more like a hedgehog perched on his upper lip. What’s more, he was wearing an ordinary day suit and a rather loud tie. I saw him giving me a long once-over.