‘Oh, get rid of him, Dikon, for God’s sake,’ said Gaunt. ‘You know all the answers. I won’t leer out of advertisements, I won’t open fetes, I won’t attend amateur productions, I’m accepting no invitations. I think New Zealand’s marvellous. I wish I was in London. If it’s anything to do with the war effort, reserve your answer. If they want me to do something for the troops, I will if I can.’

Dikon went down to the lounge. In the lift he looked at the visitor’s card:

MR MAURICE QUESTING
Wai-ata-tapu Thermal Springs.

Scribbled across the bottom he read: ‘May I have five minutes? Matter of interest to yourself. MQ.’

II

Mr Maurice Questing was about fifty years old and so much a type that a casual observer would have found it difficult to describe him. He might have been any one of a group of heavy men playing cards on a rug in the first-class carriage of a train. He appeared in triplicate at private bars, hotel lounges, business meetings and race courses. His features were blurred and thick, his eyes sharp. His clothes always looked expensive and new. His speech, both in accent and in choice of words, was an affair of mass production rather than selection. It suggested that wherever he went he would instinctively adopt the cheapest, the slickest and the most popular commercial phrases of the community in which he found himself. Yet though he was as voluble as a radio advertiser, shooting out his machine-turned phrases in a loud voice, and with a great air of assurance, every word he uttered seemed synthetic and quite unrelated to his thoughts. His conversation was full of the near-Americanisms that are part of the New Zealand dialect, but they, too, sounded dubious, and it was impossible to guess at his place of origin though he sometimes spoke of himself vaguely as a native of New South Wales. He was a successful man of business.

When Dikon Bell walked into the hotel lobby, Mr Questing at once flung down his paper and rose to his feet.

‘Pardon me if I speak in error,’ he said, ‘but is this Mr Bell?’

‘Er, yes,’ said Dikon, who still held the card in his fingers.

‘Mr Gaunt’s private secretary?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s great,’ said Mr Questing, shaking hands ruthlessly, and breaking into laughter. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Bell. I know you’re a busy man, but I’d be very very happy if you could spare me five minutes.’

‘Well, I…’

‘That’s fine,’ said Mr Questing, jamming a flat pale thumb against a bell-push. ‘Great work! Sit down.’

Dikon sat sedately on a small chair, crossed his legs, joined his hands, and looked attentively over his glasses at Mr Questing.

‘How’s the Big Man?’ Mr Questing asked.

‘Mr Gaunt? Not very well, I’m afraid.’