THE BARONET'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Quipp had a varied collection of apparel to suit all occasions as was necessary in his line of work. He never tried to pass himself off as a gentleman though, for clothes do not the gentleman make and he knew his limits.

For his visit to the Phoenix Club he needed to pass unnoticed in its clientele of cut-throats, thieves, and inebriated lower classes; in fact, the dregs of society.

He chose garb that, by its very stench, must be kept separate from any other apparel. It made his skin crawl to wear it, but it might be the very thing that would save him from a stiletto between the shoulder blades.

The shabby coat, which stank of stale liquor and other odours which Quip did not want to think about, had deep inside pocket where he could conceal a pistol. He finally donned a greasy slouch hat and set off on foot for his destination.

The Phoenix Club was quite a distance off, near Shoreditch way, but Quipp knew London well; all its back alleys and out-of-the-way streets. Yet it took him an hour to reach it.

He hung about on the other side of street for a while, watching the various shabby figures that strutted in and who would undoubtedly later stagger out.

One or two hansom cabs paused at the door as he watched when better dressed men stepped down and entered the club. It took all sorts, Quipp thought.

When he was satisfied that it was safe to enter he strolled across the road, a slight roll added to his walk to give the impression that he was a tad inebriated.

On entering the main room he was surprised. From its dark reputation he had expected filthy floors and ratted furnishings. On the contrary, the floor was clean and any spillage happening was quickly mopped up by a youngish lanky individual. The smell of fresh paint still lingered, just detectable among the other odours.

Quipp sat at the bar and ordered a beer, keenly watching all about him. A fair crowd had gathered. Some drifted into side rooms where gaming tables could be glimpsed. There was a steady passage of men up and down the stairs where Quipp assumed the jaded drabs waited in their tawdry rooms for customers.

Quipp knew he needed to be very careful who he chose to quiz. Men who asked too many question did not live long.

Quipp decided at last on the man with the mop. He was obviously employed at the club, at least on a temporary basis. And he did not look too intelligent.

Quipp was deliberately careless with his glass of beer and it overturned on the bar and splashed down onto the floor.

'Hoy!' He shouted above the din and waved at the man with the mop. 'Clear up this 'ere slop.'

As the man shambled over, pushing his way through the throng, Quipp studied him keenly. There was no sign of annoyance or churlishness in his pallid face at being hailed in such an uncouth manner, and Quipp took him to be subservient.

Yet he was a rough-looking individual with an unshaven face, which sported a scar that ran from brow to chin. What made him stand out from the scruffy customers around him was a down-and-out shabbiness that bordered on despair.

Here was a man who lived literally from hand to mouth, Quipp decided. It would make him amenable to any chance of earning an extra penny.

'Sorry, mate,' the man said as he used the mop. 'Didn't see it.'

'That's all right, mate,' Quipp responded. 'Dirty job you got. I wouldn't like it.'

'It just about keeps body and soul together,' the man said meekly. He had a shifty gaze which would not meet Quipp's eye.