It was midday, too early to go search out bums on skid row. They stand out better at night when the moonlight is shining on the port bottles and their throats are dry and a dollar will buy you everything they know. It was time to deal with the daylight people. I did a mental check on how much money I owed Cy Sackville my lawyer, decided it was a flea bite to him and put through a call.

We exchanged pleasantries and I told him I was on a case which should net me a few bucks. He congratulated me.

‘I need some information, Cy.’

‘The meter is ticking.’

‘Don’t be like that. You scratch my back and I scratch yours.’

‘When do I get scratched?’

‘Sometime. Have you ever heard of a man named Henry Brain, promising barrister in the forties, went on the skids?’

‘The forties! Are you kidding, who’s still alive from the forties?’

Cy was and is a boy wonder. He refused a chair of law at age twenty-five — no challenge. He despises everyone over thirty-five. It used to be everyone over thirty.

‘Could you ask around? There must be some old buffer who’d remember him. He married Judge Chatterton’s daughter.’

‘It so happens I’m going to a professional dinner tonight. There could be some octogenarian around who’d remember him.’

‘Thanks. Do you know who handles the late Judge’s estate, legal affairs and so on?’

‘Yeah, we’ve transacted — Booth and Booth. What’s your interest?’

‘The widow is my client, confidential enquiry.’

He coughed. ‘Of course.’

‘Thing is, I’d like to know who she’s going to leave the loot to. Any chance of finding out?’

‘That’s a tall order, confidential matter, very, very…’

‘Quite,’ I said, ‘but…?’

‘Possible. Young Booth’ll be at the dinner. He might get pissed and we could discuss the earthly rewards of judges. I’ll try.’