CHAPTER 4AS DAN MCGRATH’S taxi skidded into Godolphin Square the driver stopped talking long enough to sound his horn viciously at a man who had slipped out of the shadowy darkness almost under the wheels.
“Number Four you said, sir?” He drew up at the curb and went round to open the door. “And as I was telling the wife just this morning, you voted for the beggars, I didn’t.”
He was a voluble man with politico-domestic grievances; Dan McGrath was an American newly arrived and interested. “—now in America, sir, it’s my understanding…”
Dan McGrath listened, the two of them smoking his cigarettes, standing together on the curb in front of Number 4 Godolphin Square, four storeys beneath the stone coping overhead. When he finally came in, Mason the night porter opened the iron grille into th
