‘Freddie Tomms.’ Hopefully the owner of Bombaste was both a member at La Cage and not on the premises that night.
‘I take it you aren’t a member, then, sir.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to apply.’
From inside the building came the distant sound of a woman cackling as though she’d just heard the punchline of a killer joke. ‘We aren’t accepting new members currently,’ the doorman said. ‘Thank you for enquiring, though.’
‘Perhaps I could join for just one evening?’ I said before he could close the door.
The fan of fifties I was holding seemed to have no effect and I began to feel like a wallflower at a Regency ball. Maybe it was the little rustle I gave them that caused Mr Polite to overcome his bashfulness and pluck them from my grasp.
‘Contravene club rules and your membership will be cancelled with immediate effect,’ he said, tucking the notes into his inside pocket. ‘Got that?’
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
Soft lighting caused the hallway’s maroon wallpaper to glow like the membrane of a living organ. A series of antique prints featured an impassive Japanese couple in kimonos going at it in a variety of positions. Above a walnut side table, the samurai held a stick over the geisha’s bare bottom. He looked every bit as inscrutable as he did in the other pictures, but there was the hint of a smile on his partner’s face.
While the doorman hung my coat up, I scanned the room. My heart skipped a beat when I saw a Praxis 950 attached to the folds of a ceiling rose. Tiny but powerful, it was Odeerie’s favoured surveillance camera. With a bit of luck it was switched on. With a bit more luck someone kept the recordings longer than a week. If so, hopefully I could persuade them to let me see the tapes.
The doorman locked the closet and crossed the room. He slid open a drawer in the side table and took out a polished wooden disc.
‘The club is laid out on the ground and first floor. On the left is the drawing room, where drinks are available from the waiters. Show them this when you’re served and you’ll be presented with your bill at the end of the evening.’ The disc had 33 carved into both sides. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. ‘Every hour, until three o’clock, there’s a performance in the Opal Room. Each has a different theme and lasts approximately fifteen minutes. Guests are welcome to attend as many performances as they wish. Should they want to use a dark room then a host will escort them to the first floor. All are fully equipped. If one isn’t available then you’ll be placed on a list and called when it’s ready.’
‘What’s on the second floor?’ I asked.
‘Guests are forbidden on the second floor.’
‘I just wondered what’s up there.’
‘Does it matter if you’re never going to see it?’
‘I suppose not,’ I said, and smiled.
‘Follow me,’ the doorman said.
Whoever owned La Cage must have had shares in a candle factory. The interior of the drawing room was lit by dozens of them. On every wall bar one was a huge gilt mirror that reflected the flickering flames and the thirty or so occupants. They ranged in age from mid-twenties up to a gent in a wheelchair who had to be nudging ninety.
A couple of men in suits looked as though they’d just finished a hard day flogging derivatives, but not everyone was dressed so formally. Two of the younger guests had jeans on and the geezer in the chair wore a candlewick dressing gown over a pair of pyjamas. He could have been about to enter an operating theatre to have his gallbladder removed. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be the floorshow.
Men outnumbered women two to one, and everyone reeked of wealth. I felt entirely out of my element, like a fly that had crash-landed into a glass of vintage port. The wall that lacked a mirror served as the screen for an amateur porn movie.
The grainy footage wobbled occasionally and looked as though it had been filmed on a Super 8 camera. A woman with a helmet hairdo was sitting on a chaise longue. The top of her blue satin dress had been pulled down to reveal her breasts and she was wearing a diamond choker that was either excellent paste or completely uninsurable. In her mouth was an amber cigarette holder and she had an erect penis in each hand.
On her face was the look of studied concentration that the fairly pissed get when attempting something mechanical. Often it’s trying to insert a key into a lock; in this instance it was attempting to masturbate a brace of gigantic cocks to completion.
As I didn’t know anyone else in the room, the film gave me something to focus on. There was also something about the woman’s aristocratic features that was familiar. I’d just worked out why when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
‘Enjoying the movie?’ said the guy standing beside me.
‘Is that who I think it is?’ I asked.
‘Could be a lookalike, but she did start to go off the rails in the sixties. There were even rumours involving the Stones.’
The guy had silver hair, perma-tanned features, and was wearing a suit that probably cost more than most people’s cars. We continued to watch the movie until a second spurt of semen brought proceedings to a close.
‘It’s definitely her,’ I said. ‘Where the hell did the film come from?’
‘I think Bella’s had it in her collection for a while. She was probably reluctant to show it, for obvious reasons, but I suppose she’s beyond caring now.’
‘My name’s Clive,’ I said.
‘Neither is mine,’ the guy said. ‘You can call me Charlie.’
‘Who’s Bella?’ I asked after we shook.
‘The owner of La Cage.’
‘Is she in here?’
‘No,’ Charlie said, and changed the subject. ‘Nice to see you dressed up for the occasion.’
‘I was at an awards do on Park Lane.’
‘Did you win?’
‘I did, as a matter of fact.’
‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘How about a drink to celebrate?’ He nodded at a muscular guy in a black waistcoat who stopped in his tracks. ‘Vodka tonic for me, Oliver, and a . . .’
‘Whisky and ginger ale,’ I said. ‘No ice.’ The waiter nodded and left. ‘Don’t you have to show him your wooden thingy?’ I asked Charlie.
‘Beg pardon?’
‘One of these,’ I said, taking mine from my pocket.
‘Oh, right. I see what you mean. Actually, I’m a regular.’
‘Then you might be able to help me,’ I said. ‘The person who introduced me to the club hasn’t been around for a while. I wonder if you remember seeing her at all.’
I showed Charlie a shot of Harry Parr on my phone. ‘Can’t say I recognise her,’ he said. ‘And a word to the wise, old boy. Waving your mobile around’s rather frowned upon. You’ll have to leave it with a host if you go to one of the dark rooms. People tend to be a little camera-shy.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘As a matter of interest, who uses the rooms?’
‘Anyone and everyone.’
‘I hear things can get a little wild.’
‘Not so much in La Cage. You might be thinking of some of the other clubs.’
‘What if you’re on your own?’
‘Anonymity’s often the point. But if it makes you feel better, I can make a few introductions.’