silk white waistcoat to be worked in somewhere- Part 2

He was a fine looking specimen of a man, Mr Beedle professional assassin had sophistication and brawn oozing out of his every pore, or so he hoped. He was dressed all in matte black, and looked like he was trying very hard to appear the incorrigible, cool and deadly assassin nonchalantly going about his business. A bystander may not have gone away with that impression and indeed the truth was that he was a weak-hearted young man, terrified with what he was doing and wondering nervously about the presence of a large pile dog stool being the proof of the presence of its source.
Entry to the house was imperative, and quickly too. carefully avoiding the dog stool Mr Beedle, with his suitably long and black cloak which was quietly doing its artistic duty by billowing mysteriously, skirted the rose garden focusing his attention onto a suitably placed ground floor window.

Inside the owner of the property, a certain Mr Fry stood, dressed in a loud pink shirt partially covered by a silk white waistcoat, pinstriped grey trousers and a pair of highly polished expensive looking brown shoes. He leaned over the snooker table, which dominated the newly wood-panelled basement, and played on into the night, red ball pocketed, then black ball, red black, red back, the hypnotic noises of the game seemed to dull his senses to external influences, he was focused on the pot and then the next, impervious to the danger that was heading his way.

Mr Beedle stood, his flitting eyes gazing over the plush living-room. A slow sneer spread over his face, "this will be nothing compared to what I'll buy once my assassination business takes off, its all about bloody image anyhow", he thought to himself and self consciously he checked that his cloak was well fastened and that the steel blade was safely secured under his suit jacket. Satisfied with the results of his search, he strode towards the doorway into the dark hallway. His shoes were the purchases of a fanatically image-conscious man, dark quality leather with chunky heels, and Mr Beedle now regretted that he hadn't made a concession in the shoe department of "image" and gone for the more practical silent rubber soled trainers. He stopped after a couple of agonising steps, with the loud echoing of his tread still reverberating around the hallway. With terrified glances hither and thither, he took off his shoes, tied them together and strung them around his neck and consoled himself that the cloak would cover the worst of the decidedly unprofessional socks, and the bumps that the shoes made under the cloak could easily be mistaken for abnormally large pectorals.