It was half past five when Emilio Milano and Miss Smith pulled up to a luxurious address located on the nicer end of Piccadilly. The detective, at the wheel, stepped out of the vehicle and examined his surroundings, glancing down at an address on a slip of paper in hand. He nodded once, and passed to the other side of the automobile, holding the door open for the young woman who had been seated beside him.
‘Thank you, Mr Milano.’
Milano nodded. ‘Let us go inside.’
The announcement of both their names rang out into a spacious, empty hallway. The greying servant who had showed them in directed them to a large living room, where Benjamin Page, their host, was said to be smoking a cigar. Upon the pair’s entrance, the latter turned and smiled genially. He was a rather short man, with dark hair, and a curious tendency to jump when excited.
‘Miss Smith,’ he cried. ‘Delighted you were able to make it. You had informed me it might have been a stretch for you tonight.’
The young woman smiled slightly. ‘One evening I can sacrifice, I assure you.’
‘Very good,’ the man returned. ‘The pleasure is all ours to have you here.’
He turned from Miss Smith to the detective. ‘Mr Milano, a pleasant surprise |