I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.”
Evans smiled at Stewart in confusion.
“Burns on scotch, Mr Evans. A very fine poet and a very fine drink. As paintings are to you, so poetry, albeit in a more modest sense, is to me. My policeman friend Frank Merlin and I like to have a gentlemanly poetry competition over a drink from time to time. We aim to produce a poetry quotation the other can’t identify. I’m afraid to say that he wins more often than I do.”
“An admirable pastime, if I may say so.” Evans dithered over the last sandwich.
“Go on, man. Help yourself. This Blitz business makes a man hungry and thirsty. I think I’ll get another plate.”
“Fine, sir. When you get back, I just wanted to ask about something that’s worrying me.”
Stewart disappeared to the bar, returning with another round of drinks. “Sandwiches will be a couple of minutes. Fire away then. I hope you’re not going to quiz me about my knowledge of JMW Turner. I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to look at your book yet.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s just some valuation work I’ve been asked to do. There appears to be something fishy…”
Just then, an attractive young woman in a Wren’s uniform entered the pub with a couple of girlfriends in civvies. She immediately spotted Stewart, strode over and banged her handbag on the table. “There you are, Jackie boy, trying to avoid me, are you?” She stamped her feet rather theatrically, dislodging a few locks of frizzy blonde hair from beneath her hat.
Stewart sat back and grinned. “Hell, no, Brenda. Why would I want to avoid you? Don’t you know there’s a war on? I’ve been putting out fires all over London for days. Come and sit down here. Let me remove that pout from your pretty little face.” He pulled Brenda towards him and kissed her on the lips. She pushed him away, but with a broad grin. “Oh, you sweet-talker.”
“What’ll it be then, Bren? Gin and It? My friend Mr Evans and I can’t stay long, but we’ll have the one with you, as long as you behave.”
Evans stood up as the second round of sandwiches arrived. The landlord’s terrier sidled up to him, scratchings finished, assessing his potential as a source of food. “Let me, Mr Stewart. It’s my shout.” Thanks to Trubetskoi’s money, at least he could buy his round these days.
Stewart reached over and pulled Evans back into his seat. “No, no. My girl, my shout. I’ll do it. But what was it you wanted to ask?”
“Oh, forget it. Another time perhaps. I think I’ll be getting back to the station. Wouldn’t want to be a gooseberry.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m not going to be long myself. Just need to put the girl in a holding pattern.” Stewart chuckled and slapped Evans on the back.
“No, no, sir. I’ll get back to the station. See you there.” As he pushed through the door, he could hear the Wren giggling. “Come on, Jackie boy. Get on with it. A girl could die of thirst here.”
*
The Polka restaurant was in a side street close to South Kensington Tube. It was not a big place and the walls were covered with a collection of garish abstract paintings, which made the place seem even smaller than it was. As they waited for attention, Merlin counted eight tables of which all but one were occupied. A young man with oily hair burst out of what was obviously the kitchen door, shouting loudly at someone behind him. He strode towards the policemen and brusquely waved an arm in the direction of the one empty table. As they sat down, he slammed two menus and a bowl of bread in front of them, then disappeared back into the kitchen. Strong garlicky meat smells wafted through the air. The other customers all appeared to be paying rapt attention to their food and only one or two looked up to check out the new arrivals.