Brassy trumpets and a rapidly rotating camera pan (which came to an abrupt halt) announced the next scene -
Beneath the fold, the London Times carried the latest tale of tasty comestibles direct from the captain’s table of the Ammonite. Sadly, many have nevertheless insisted upon referring to this vessel as the “Nautilus” despite the threat of copyright infringement lawsuit by the Disney Corp.
The reader, an anonymous High Gate banker, glanced at the story, muttered something about petit fours under his breath and tossed the paper into a nearby rubbish bin whereupon it was quickly snatched up by an equally anonymous ragamuffin cum street urchin.
As you, the gentle reader might expect, this was no chance encounter. The cretin scanned the story from top to bottom evidently scouring the words for some clues or secret message. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated.
“Now let me see” he thought to himself, “’Is ‘ere paragraph might ‘ave somefin”
A single “heghh” escaped his lips as he read.
Indeed the the deeply encoded message began to leap from the two dimensional newspaper in blocky Neuropol script …. Shellfish, scallops, ginger, garlic, broth, antipasto, bruschetta, parmiginana di melanzane, turnips.
“Heghh, heghhh, heggghhhhhh” was all that boy could manage.
Then the letters re-arranged themselves into something more logical as follows:
“Johnny Sixguns and Lady Marzipan cast adrift in small boat seven nautical miles SSW Folou Northeast on Hainan Island encircled by ravenous sharks stop Lady Marzipan contemplating retirement in Havana as Lady Commandante Shokolateh stop Johnny 6G contemplating guzzlement of large quantities of Old Volcano whiskey stop Stuart Turnips in custody of General Tang’s most wicked henchman, Lt Fruitbat stop Turnips about to divulge most precious secret of Barrister’s Keepe – Ur Gin stop Turnips location is secret concrete prison in Eurasia corner of Shanghai and Main, three levels up above Woo’s Shop.”
Message translated, the boy was about to dash off to the “Have You Seen the Sunrise Club” in Croyden, a posh London nightspot frequented by malefactors of both high and low caste. At any rate, the boy knew he had to act quickly, for the Bellasario had only seven days left to complete the deal.
Making sure he wasn't being followed, the wretched creature turned and disappeared into the twilight never having noticed the flute-like qualities of the French Horn soundtrack.