“What problem would that cause?” asked Dr Black, drinking his remaining whisky before it was sent into orbit by another mighty Tompkins thump on the table.

“Well, she’d find out our deportation methods and would notify our authorities with the details and we are then scuppered.” Tompkins signalled the barman for another round at his table.

“But if she did that then we’d comprehend who the mole was on our side of things, because you, Tomcat, the mighty Power Station, can find out.”

“True enough, Dr Black, true enough, but is that worth us scuppering our deportations over?”

“They will change at some point, because even the police will soon work something out. We shall change ports of exit and entry anyway, so this might be the catalyst depending on what happens. We might not pick up Stalin 2.0 in Boston, in which case, we’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Damn it you’re right as usual, Dr,” said Tompkins cuffing the doctor on the shoulder in a friendly manner, that span the doctor onto the floor.

“Oh, sorry about that,” continued Tompkins, picking up the spread-eagled medic by the ankle and placing him back on the seat.

“You don’t know your own strength,” said the flustered doctor, drinking a reviving whisky, which had just arrived.

“You’re right, I don’t,” replied Tompkins nodding to himself, “when you were down there did you see anything interesting?”

“I did, the people over on the table two down from us have a camera trained on our table.”

“Thought so,” said Tompkins, “that’s why I knocked you down there. Right I will ask Wobbly Sergeant and his brother to head over there and sort them out.” With that he raised an arm and clicked his fingers, before pointing to the table in question.

Nothing much happened for a minute and then suddenly two men the size of brick sheds appeared from behind the bar and started a running argument with each other that culminated with a shoving match beside the table in question. Distracted by the size of the protagonists, the people at the table failed to notice Mickey the Dog pick up the bag containing the camera and bring it over to where Tompkins was holding out his hand.

The dog then barked out loud and ran off to the door, where his owner, Mildred Smythe-Harcourt was beckoning him. The two Sergeant boys had a swift and amicable reconciliation and apologised to the people at the table, before holding their arms aloft and sashaying out of the room, showing to those watching, that they’d not taken a damned thing.

Tompkins had moved the bag under his seat and placed his vast calves in the way blocking the bag from everyone’s sight.

“Good work, Tomcat, that went like clockwork,” said Dr Black under his breath before looking over at the table, where the party of two men and three women were making light of the fact their bag was missing.

“I wonder who those blighters are,” said Tompkins making eye contact with the occupants of a table by the door.

“I am not sure I’ve seen them before,” said Dr Black looking at Tompkins. He then noticed Tompkins give an exaggerated wink.

“Well, we’ll soon know, Dr Black, my favourite doc in all the world – Boffo, Spitzy, Wendy, Chantelle, and Snorter will follow them to their lair. Everything is primed and ready to go. Bish and bosh, they’re in our hands, although they don’t realise it yet.”

“Is there anyone in here who’s not on our side or on the other side? You seem to know everyone in here.”

Tompkins looked around the room before answering – “Well, doctor, I think I know almost everyone in here, y’know – there’s Pongo and his crowd over there, then Kanga and her pals, Squinty Smethurst and his Oxford crowd, Alex Ravensmith with his coterie of beauties from the model agency, Will o’ the wisp Crisp from up north in Hampstead, The Emperor down from Cambridge, Pig Wig from The Shires…”

Doctor Black held up his hand …”You’ve made your point, Tomcat, but how come you didn’t spot the people with the camera if you know everyone in here?”

“Well, my dear Dr Black, y’know I am not as green as I am cabbage looking – I spotted those no good renegades straightaway, masquerading as decent, hard-working chaps, I was just biding my time, waiting my chance, lying doggo, until the right moment came along to unmask them for the foreign scoundrels they are.”

“They looked English, Tomcat, you have a very discerning eye for the foreign.”

“I can spot the kielbasa amongst the bangers any second of any minute of any hour of any day of the week, including the bank holidays. Dressing yourself up in the right skin still doesn’t mask the potatoes and turnips inside.”

“I think kielbasa contains either beef or pork, Tomcat, and perhaps carraway seeds on occasions.”

“Sounds disgusting, give me breadcrumbs and chicken any day of the week. Woof, that makes me feel so patriotic.”

“Well, it’s good that something does, your heart’s in the correct patriotic place.”

“The same goes for corned beef, woof, Branston Pickle, white bread, Chish and Fips in the Daily Mail woof woof, whelks, eels, well maybe not them, but woof to the rest.”

“Our observers have gone, Tomcat, shall we see what’s in their bag of tricks?”

Tompkins removed the Burberry bag from underneath his legs and placed it between the two men on the seat.

“Damned shame, a British bag being used for nefarious purposes, for spying, for undermining those who are trying to protect this great country from outside forces,” said Tompkins as he removed the video camera and pressed the off button, “is this designed for digital images or is there a cassette inside?”

“There’s no tape, Tomcat, and it is digital but I don’t believe it’s sending the images to anyone. Here’s the card containing the footage.”

“Thanks, Doc, a Japanese machine recording England’s finest, how dare they? That makes me annoyed, y’know.” Tompkins hit his open hand with a balled fist, causing the chandelier to sway.

“Well, it’s no longer doing so, Tomcat, so that’s something.”

“I’ll send the card off to Getty Spinks in East London, he’ll tell me where the damned thing was purchased and who bought it. Is there anything else in the bag?”

“Nothing much, just some alternative footwear, outside shoes, five pairs.”

“They walked here,” said Tompkins, “rather than getting a taxi or dropping off the roller with the valet service, the scoundrels.”

Suddenly, a smart white pigeon with blue tinges on its wings, landed on the table and pecked at some imaginary specks of food.

“Hell, a friend’s finest pigeon has landed on me table at The Glitz Bar,” said Tompkins, “who’d have thunk it, eh Doctor Black?”

“There’s no shortage of surprises on a night out with you.”