Chapter 3: Gaslight - London, September 1941

The Gaslight Club was in Great Compton Street. Soho retained, even in war time, its air of corrupt pleasure. A curious mix of illicit sexuality and hedonistic enjoyment seemed to infuse the smoke stained bricks of the buildings. The garish neon signs were gone from the clubs, of course, banished by the blackout legislation but there were plenty of servicemen on leave, keen to find a way to forget about life for a while. Sharp suited men still slouched at the entrance to the clubs, enticing passers by with their promises of a "lovely time with lovely girls".

Clegg knew better. He pushed his way across the road towards the Gaslight Club with no such hopes. It was lunchtime but he was pretty sure that this was no place to eat. It was just the place suggested by the Lieutenant Commander when he'd phoned earlier that morning. He seemed to think he had a proposition that would interest Clegg. For his part, Clegg doubted it. He disliked getting involved with the military, unless of course they were customers like the general.

The barker at the club door met his gaze as Clegg went by. "They'll look after you downstairs," he said.

"I'm sure they will," said Clegg evenly, although he wasn't sure of anything of the sort.

He wasn't looking forward to the meeting. He had a suspicion of military types and he wasn't at all sure why the Lieutenant Commander had asked to meet him. He had avoided conscription so far by virtue of having a reserved occupation. Somehow his business had been designated as essential war work. It had required quite a few favours to get that organised and he still owed a few "amusements" to some people at the Board of Trade. After all that effort, Clegg didn't want some military type rocking the boat.

At the foot of the stairs a girl peered out from behind a desk and offered to check his hat and coat. There were only half a dozen other coats on the rack behind her. It didn't look like the place was too busy, Clegg thought.

He left his coat with her and pushed his way through a beaded curtain into the bar. Three of the dozen or so tables were occupied. Two airman were enjoying the attentions of a pair of well endowed girls who were busily soaking up what ever pop had been decanted into the champagne bottles that sat in ice coolers beside their table. In the far corner two men in civvies were deep in conversation about some, probably illicit, business venture. Clegg thought he knew one of them. Standing at the bar was a man in naval officer's uniform, he raised his hand in recognition. Clegg found that disturbing in itself.

Freddie walked across to the bar. "Hullo, Clegg. I'm Strangways," the officer said, introducing himself.

Clegg looked at the man. His uniform had the well-used look of a career naval officer but carried the wavy stripes of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve; he hadn't just joined up as far as Clegg could see. On the other hand, Clegg didn't think he'd been at sea for quite a while. The man's pale complexion spoke of a war that had been spent indoors and ashore; the briefcase that lay on the bar beside him was padlocked to his wrist. What was more, on the far side of the bar a particularly attractive WRNS officer was watching them both closely.

"So, why does Naval Intelligence want to talk to me?" Said Clegg.

"Whatever makes you imagine that I'm anything to do with that lot?" Strangways responded, defensively.

"Only way a Wavy Navy type like you could get to lay alongside a Jenny like that," Clegg said nodding towards the girl and enjoying the bristling reaction that his remark provoked. The Wren smiled back at Clegg. Only a third officer, Freddie thought looking at the single ring of gold braid on the sleeve of her jacket, but she seemed to have the measure of the Lieutenant Commander.

Strangways sucked his teeth to control his annoyance. "She's got nothing to do with this Clegg."

"Please yourself," said Clegg. He didn't suppose it mattered much although he was disappointed not to have the excuse to be introduced to the girl...

"Do you want a drink?" Strangways asked in an attempt to recover the initiative. Clegg knew that the best he was likely to get was a thin beer or a watered down scotch. He shook his head. Strangways fumbled in his jacket pocket for a key to his case. "I'm told you're a man who can get things done." Clegg peered back, not saying anything. "A man with European contacts. A man with particular skills." Clegg's sense of discomfort was rising. Although he didn't fool himself that no one in the intelligence services knew about some of his projects he was disturbed to be confronted by such suggestions from a relatively junior officer. He went on in an even more disturbing vein. "I hear you have particular expertise in the acquisition, transport and storage of certain rather specialised sorts of merchandise."