“Yes, we can give you an office.”
“Thank you. H’m! One o’clock. Perhaps you would like to ask me to lunch.”
“Your suggestion is acceptable,” Pavier said dryly. “A moment.”
He ordered Switch to put him through to the Sunset Club and spoke to the head steward, and when he rose from his desk he was undecided whether to laugh at himself or this extraordinary Bonaparte.
“Let’s go,” he said, and went for his hat.
He walked erect, the constable’s training still evident. Taller than Bony, he moved like an imponderable sea wave. A man at whom other men looked more than once and to be with was to lose something of oneself. Having crossed the road, a young man bailed them up with the greeting:
“Hallo, there! Trailin ’ already?”
He was blue-eyed and fair-haired, and his nose and mouth made denial of him impossible. Pavier regarded him calmly enough, but there was resignation in his voice.
“My son Luke. Friend of mine, Luke.”
“Cheers!” Luke Pavier nodded coolly to Bony. “Saw you leave the Sydney plane this morning, Mr Friend. Name on passenger list Bona Knapp. Same name in the register at the Western Mail Hotel. Glad to know you, Mr Friend.”
“And I you, Mr Pavier.”
“I trust that Mrs Napoleon Bonaparte is quite well?” asked the young man, and Pavier muttered:
“Damn! Now please don’t publish Inspector Bonaparte’s arrival.”
“All right-for a price,” argued the young man, who laughed at his father and winked at Bony.
“The price?” Bony murmured.