Desmond began to check off on his fingers.
"Firstly, I'm going to fill the biggest bath in this hotel with
hot water, get the biggest piece of Pears' soap in London, and
jump in: Then, if my tailor hasn't betrayed me, I'm going to put
on dress clothes, and whilst I am dressing summon Julien (if he's
maitre d'hotel here) to a conference, then I'm going to eat the
best dinner that this pub can provide. Then..."
Strangwise interrupted him.
"The bath is on you, if you like," he said, "but the dinner's on
me and a show afterwards. I'm at a loose end, old man, and so are
you, so we'll hit up together! We'll dine in the restaurant here
7.30, and Julien shall come up to your room so this you can order
the dinner. Is it a go?"
"Rather," laughed Desmond, "I'll eat your dinner, Maurice, and
you shall tell me how you managed; to break out of the casualty
list into the Nineveh Hotel. But what do all these anxious-
looking gentry want?"
The two officers turned to confront a group of four men who were
surveying them closely. One of them, a fat, comfortable looking
party with grizzled hair, on seeing Desmond, walked up to him.
"Hullo!" said Desmond, "it's Tommy Spencer! How are you, Spencer?
What's the betting in Fleet Street on the war lasting another
five years? Have you come to interview me?"
The tubby little man beamed and shook hands effusively.
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