Jimmy shrugs. ‘Well, he may have done, but Willy Waldorf shared his wealth – at least a little of his vast empire – unlike so many others. A philanthropist as well as a newspaper proprietor. No, this is different – shabby stuff.’ He runs a finger down the scrawl in his notebook, open on the desk. ‘Illegal buying and selling, gambling and drugs, prostitution, that kind of thing. I’m picking up straws in the wind so far, but there’s a story here, I know it. I can smell it.’

The door to Pickford’s office opens. The editor, in his shirt sleeves, collar off, cigarette in hand, summons Jimmy.

‘On my way, sir.’

He rolls his eyes at Harriet and gulps down a mouthful of tea. ‘Good luck with the cocktails. Let me know if you need anyone to help with your research. Unless you already have a young gentleman to escort you around the bars.’

She turns her head, avoiding direct eye contact. ‘Of course, Jimmy. I’ll let you know.’

He strides towards the editor’s office and closes the door behind him.

He has left his notebook on the desk, open. As she moves to collect the half-drained teacup, Harriet cannot resist taking a look.

His writing is appalling. He has a shorthand all of his own, but one word is legible, circled twice at the top of the page: Angel.

She stares at the word.

‘Forgot my notebook.’ Jimmy is beside her. He reaches for it, snapping it shut as he scoops it off the desk. ‘Ah, thanks.’ He takes the teacup from her hand. ‘I hadn’t quite finished it. Don’t want to waste your lovely tea, do I?’ He jerks his head towards Mr Pickford’s office. ‘He’s in a filthy mood, by the way. I’d get back to your typewriter, if I were you. Don’t let him see you standing idling.’

‘No. I won’t. Thank you for the warning.’

She returns to her desk deep in thought, recalling the charmingly aristocratic Peter Lazenby. The stories he told her had been racy, to be sure. The goings on at the Angel lay on the outer edges of morality, but there was nothing more to them than that.

Straws in the wind, Jimmy said.

She shakes the Angel from her mind and tries to concentrate on her piece. She scribbles headings and comments in her notebook, describing the colour, the taste, the sensations of the American Bar as best she can remember, before typing the requisite number of words.

The sentences come, slowly, painfully, until she finishes. It is a poor article, but it is something, and she is sure that it will suffice. She tugs it from the typewriter and lays it on her desk.