But Tony Speranza knew and respected the rules of the genre. Private eyes have to have a gun, so he had acquired one from a Serbian former special policeman who had done some freelance work for him at one time. It was an M-57 semi-automatic, manufactured to the highest specifications in strictly limited quantities by the Zastava State Arsenal. The pistol fitted unobtrusively into the capacious pockets of the double-breasted trench coat and had a gorgeous walnut grip and silky blued finish into which Tony had had his name engraved in fancy cursive script. A little beauty, in short. The only problem was that he didn’t seem to have it any more. ‘The assurance of knowing everything, always’. Ha! Right now, Tony would have settled for feeling reasonably sure about anything, once in a while.

This train of thought was derailed by the phone.

‘Tony Speranza, investigatore privato,’ he said automatically.

‘This is the office of Avvocato Giulio Amadori,’ a female voice stated.

Tony laughed and took a hit of bourbon.

‘Hey, I never talked to an office before!’

‘Avvocato Amadori wishes to be informed of the current status of the unresolved issues in the matter in which he has employed you.’

‘Put him on, darling, put him on.’

‘Avvocato Amadori is presently away from his desk.’

‘Then let me speak with the desk.’

‘It concerns the photographic evidence which you and he have discussed.’

Tony laughed again and lit another Camel.

‘You know what? I bet you’re not an office at all. You were just kidding around. I see you as a ravishing blonde with a come-hither look that can melt platinum at twenty metres, who knows where all the bodies are buried, and has the murder weapon tucked into her garter belt.’