The Highbinders

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The carnation made me feel silly. It was supposed to be red, but the flower shop in the Hilton had only pink ones so I paid fifteen pence for one and let the girl in the shop pin it to my lapel.

“My, don’t we look nice,” she said. “Like to use our mirror?”

“I seem to remember how I look,” I said, smiled my good-bye, and crossed the lobby, heading for the hotel entrance and a taxi. Nobody noticed my carnation and I think I felt a trifle disappointed.

It was 5:35 P.M. and the London traffic rush was on, but for only twenty pence the Hilton doorman whistled me up a taxi, held the door for me, inquired of my destination, and after I told him, repeated it to the driver, “The Black Thistle on New Cavendish Street. Know it, mate?”

“I should hope to,” the driver said, gave the meter flag a twist, and nosed his cab out into the Park Lane traffic.

It wasn’t much of a ride, not more than three-quarters of a mile, if that, but the traffic was thick and stubborn and we didn’t pull up in front of the Black Thistle until nearly six o’clock.

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