Hamish told him about John McFee.
“Poor auld sod,” said Jimmy. “Never mind. Your telly appeal has galvanised the experts and we should get something soon, but thae shell companies are the devil.”
Hamish sat down, removed his cap, and put it on the table. “I’ve been thinking, Jimmy.”
“Bad sign. Have a drink.”
“I’m driving. I’ve been thinking that say those four men were involved and got cheated out of some really serious money. It must have been some sort of big scam, and I think the clue lies in Edinburgh. Maybe it was something other than that gold mine. Now, I mind there’s a businessmen’s club there, called the Merlin. I wish I could get in there.”
“Aye, and if one of the famous four is there as well and spots you, you might not get back to Lochdubh in one piece.”
“I could go in disguise. I’m a rare hand at the disguises.”
Jimmy looked cynically at Hamish’s flaming red hair. “I could spot ye a mile off. Forget it, Hamish. Remember the tongue twister? The Leith police dismisseth us? It’ll be nothing to what Edinburgh police’ll do if you poach on their territory. There’s already been rumblings about you snooping around the Canongate and Scots Entertainment without telling them. They learned about that somehow.”
“Just an idea,” said Hamish vaguely. “Let me know as soon as you get anything.”
Back at the police station, he phoned David Harrison, who owned a large factory outside Edinburgh which manufactured goods for the tourist trade. David had once been on holiday in Lochdubh, and they had spent some time fishing together.
Hamish explained that he’d like to disguise himself as a wealthy businessman, Scottish but visiting from Canada, to get an entrée to the Merlin Club. “I could take you along tomorrow for lunch and get you booked in as a temporary member,” said David. “I’m busy at the moment, but meet me there and tell me all about it tomorrow.”
When he had rung off, Hamish rang Elspeth. “We’re just about to leave,” she said.
“I want the services of your make-up artist,” said Hamish. He rapidly told her his plan.
“That sounds exciting. We’ll hang on. I’ll tell them it’s for amateur theatricals.”
At the hotel, he spoke to the manager first. “Does Priscilla’s uncle, Bartholomew Smythe, still keep some of his stuff here?”
“Aye, it’s in a trunk in the basement.”
“Priscilla,” lied Hamish, “said it would be all right if I borrowed a few things.”
“Go ahead. Here’s the key to the cellar. It’s the big black steamer trunk in the corner. What are you up to?”
“I’ll tell you when it’s all over.”
In the cellar, Hamish selected two suits and a tuxedo, two shirts, and two pairs of shoes, grateful that the uncle took the same size in footwear. He left them all in reception, then phoned Elspeth and said he was ready. He finally emerged from the ministrations of the make-up artist with black hair, a thin black moustache, a large pair of spectacles, and pads to pump up his cheeks.
Back at the police station, he phoned Willie at the restaurant and begged him to take care of Sonsie and Lugs on the following day.
The next day, with his now black hair carefully brushed and then pads making his face look fatter and with a pair of glasses with plain glass, he put on a beautifully cut tweed suit and brogues. The suit looked as if it had been tailored for him. Now for Edinburgh, he thought.
David Harrison stared in amazement at Hamish. “I wouldn’t have recognised you! Now, what’s it all about?”
As Hamish told him, his eyes ranged over the other diners. The club was situated in Charlotte Square in the New Town. Expensive men in expensive suits, Rolex watches, well-fed faces, discreet murmur of voices.
“See anyone?” asked David.
“No,” said Hamish, thinking miserably that it had all been a waste of time and effort.
“You keep talking about four men. Why don’t you give me their names? I might recognise one of them.”
“John Sanders, Charles Prosser, Thomas Bromley, and Ferdinand Castle.”
“One of those names rings a bell. Stop looking so miserable and eat your steak and let me think.”
David was a very small man, just five feet tall, with thick brown hair and a clever face: shrewd little black eyes with deep pouches under them, a sharp beak of a nose, and a long mouth.
“I’ve got it! Bromley. The men’s outfitters. He’s just opened a store in Frederick Street. You know the street. It cuts across Herriot Row.”
“How can I meet him? I can’t spend too much time away from my station.”
“Trouble is, I don’t know the man.”
“Can you find out where his office is?”
“Wait. I see Johnny Heather over there. He knows everyone and everything.”
David was gone only a few minutes.
“His office, as far as Johnny knows, is in his shop. He doesn’t know the number of the shop but if you take a walk along Frederick Street, he says you can’t miss it. What will you do?”
“I’ll go and talk to him. Say I own fish farms in Canada and I am bursting with wealth to invest. See what happens. I might need to stay overnight.”
“I’ve got a wee flat in Abercrombie Place. I’ll take you round there after lunch. You can use it if you’re stuck in town. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. It might be a lady.”
“Aha, that’s why you’ve got a wee flat in town. Does the wife know?”
“God forbid.”
When lunch was over, they walked to Abercrombie Place. Hamish had brought an overnight bag just in case. David handed him the keys. “Let’s have a look at you again. Hamish, that’s a cheap watch.”
“So? I’m an eccentric billionaire.”
“Borrow my Rolex and don’t lose it. It’s an oyster and you could buy a wee house for the price o’ that. Good hunting and let me know how you get on.”
The day was fine. Hamish suddenly thought of Priscilla and wished they were walking together through this most beautiful of cities. Hard to imagine, here in the centre, that there were grim crime-ridden housing estates on the outside of the charmed Georgian New Town.
He found the clothing store. The prices were very high. The name BROMLEY was in thick gold letters above the door. He pushed open the door and walked in. A male assistant in a kilt of one of the gaudier tartans minced forward. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Just looking around,” said Hamish. Because of the pads in his cheeks, his voice did not sound like his own.
“Do look at our new suede jackets,” urged the assistant. “They’re to die for.”
“I hear you’ve just opened,” said Hamish. “I’m over from Canada and I’m looking for good investments. I heard Mr. Bromley was a shrewd businessman. I just had lunch at the Merlin Club and his name was mentioned.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Bromley is in his office. I’ll call him.”
After a few minutes, Thomas Bromley bustled in, as fat and cheerful as Hamish remembered him, the smile on his small mouth, however, never reaching his watchful, assessing eyes. Like his assistant, he was dressed in a kilt and ruffled shirt under a velvet jacket. The kilt, reflected Hamish, only looked good when worn by sturdy men with good legs. Chubby as he was, Bromley had stick-like legs.
He rubbed his hands. “I hear you are interested in investing. Why don’t we go over to the pub and have a chat.” His eyes swept over Hamish’s expensive suit and flicked a glance at the expensive Rolex on his wrist.
They walked to a pub and entered into the beer-smelling gloom. Hamish ordered whisky and Bromley said he would have the same.
“And who do I have the honour of addressing?” he asked.
“I’m Diarmuid Jenkins the Third,” said Hamish. “My mother was highland and my father was Canadian. I own several fish farms and other businesses. I always regard Scotland as my home country.”