In the mid-'50s, sensing that the cinematic sun was setting over Hollywood-you can't see it but he carries his own built-in radar system with him-Otto's devotion to his adopted country evaporated along with I0 his bank balance and he transferred himself to London where he made a number of avant-garde films that had the critics in rapture, the audiences in despair, and Otto in the red."

"You seem to know your Otto," Smithy said.

"Anybody who has read the first five pages of the prospectus for his last film would know his Otto. I'll let you have a copy. Never mentions the film, just Otto. Misses out words like "nauseating" and "despair" of course and you have to read between the lines a bit. But it's all there."

"I'd like a copy." Smithy thought some then said: "If he's in the red where's the money coming from? To make this film, I mean."

"Your sheltered life. A producer is always at his most affluent when the bailiffs are camped outside the studio gates-rented studio, of course. Who, when the banks are foreclosing on him and the insurance companies drafting their ultimatums, is throwing the party of the year at the Savoy? Our friend the big-time producer. It's kind of like the law of nature. You'd better stick to ships, Mr. Smith," I added kindly.

"Smithy," he said absently. "So who's bankrolling your friend?"

"My employer. I've no idea. Very secretive about money matters is Otto."

"But someone is. Backing him, I mean."

"Must be." I put down my glass and stood up. "Thanks for the hospitality ."

"Even after he's produced a string of losers? Seems balmy to me. Fishy, at least."

"The film world, Smithy, is full of balmy and fishy people." I didn't, in fact, know whether it was or not but if this shipload was in any way representative of the cinema industry it seemed a pretty fair extrapolation. "Or perhaps he's just got hold of the story to end all stories."