"Of course, I realize you're in great demand, Mr. Sixsmith, Joe, and I certainly don't expect to take up your time for nothing."

He produced a wallet, took out four fifties that looked like they'd just rolled off the press, and placed them on the desk.

"Will that cover today? Once you understand the fine details of the case, then we can regularize finances. So I'll see you at the club in the morning."

"What details?" asked Joe, dragging his gaze from the money. "Of what case? And what club?"

Experience should have taught him that if you ask more than one question at a time, you usually get an answer to the least important.

"The Who, of course," said Porphyry, slightly puzzled as if this were not a question he expected to be asked.

His answer meant nothing to Joe. Luton wasn't short of clubs, and he'd expected something like Dirty Harry's, which was the hottest, or maybe Skimbleshanks, which was the classiest, except these weren't places people did much lunchtime rendezvousing in.

But whatever the time of day, the Who rang no bell. Presumably named after the famous seventies group- everything was retro these days-or maybe after Doctor Who, the TV space opera that was enjoying a revival. Either way, he didn't know the place. But for a PI to display ignorance of the club scene might finally begin to scratch the bright shiny image Willie Woodbine had created for him, so best to let it be and ask around.

"Till tomorrow then," said Porphyry, heading for the door.

Here he paused and cast a speculative eye over Joe. He seemed to be meditating a parting utterance. Joe paid close attention in case at last a clue was going to be offered.

But Young Fair Gods speak only in riddles.

"There's a shorts dispensation during the hot weather for those with the legs to stand it, but they have to be tailored, of course. Myself, I just love the parrots. Bye."