He paused, smiling very slightly, and without removing his gaze from Barnaby’s face, pushed up the shirt-sleeve of his left arm, which was white-skinned and hairless. He rested it palm upwards on the table and slid it towards Barnaby.

“You can see for yourself,” he said. “They look rather like mosquito bites, do they not, but I’m sure you will recognize them for what they are. Do you?”

“I–I think I do.”

“Quite. I have acquired an addiction for cocaine, rather ‘square’ of me, isn’t it? I really must change, one of these days, to something groovier. You see I am conversant with the jargon. But I digress. I am ashamed to say that after my encounter with Feather-fingers, I found myself greatly shaken. No doubt my constitution has been somewhat undermined by my unfortunate proclivity. I am not a robust man. I called upon my — the accepted term is, I believe, fix — and, in short, I rather exceeded my usual allowance and have been out of circulation until this morning. I cannot, of course, hope that you will forgive me.”

Barnaby gave himself a breathing space and then — he was a generous man — said: “I’m so bloody thankful to have it back I feel nothing but gratitude, I promise you. After all, the case was locked and you were not to know—”

“Oh but I was! I guessed. When I came to myself I guessed. The weight, for one thing. And the way it shifted, you know, inside. And then, of course, I saw your advertisement: ‘Containing manuscript of value only to owner.’ So I cannot lay that flattering unction to my soul, Mr. Grant.”

He produced a dubious handkerchief and wiped his neck and face with it. The little caffè was on the shady side of the street but Mr. Mailer sweated excessively. “Will you have some more coffee?”

“Thank you. You are very kind. Most kind.” The coffee seemed to revive him. He held the cup in his two plump, soiled hands and looked at Barnaby over the top.