On Thursday afternoon, under a hazy sky, Collis rowed out into San Francisco Bay in a small whitehall boat, which he had rented for five dollars. He wore a white shirt, a beige vest, and his black silk opera hat. In the stern of the dinghy was the leather satchel he had borrowed from Knickerbocker Jane, and his folded coat.

The Bay was silent, and the waters calm. As he rowed, the oarlocks groaned and squeaked, one like Punch and the other like Judy. The wharves and the jetties were gradually opalized by fog, and at last the whole city disappeared, and Collis was left on his own, rowing out towards the Golden Gate as if he were the only man left alive in the whole world.

He had bought himself a compass and a chart of the Bay area from an overpriced marine store on California Street, but the price he had paid seemed to be worth it when he successfully reached the shelter of the Golden Gate’s southern promontory, shipped his oars, and tossed overboard a small anchor on a long rope. The day was warm for the time of year, and there was only a faint breeze from the ocean, not even enough to disperse the fog, but he shrugged his coat around his shoulders and took a swallow of Knickerbocker Jane’s brandy from a flask. It was better to be fortified than struck down by influenza. The water rippled and coursed around him, gentle and sibilant, and he lit himself a cheroot to pass the time. He checked his pocket watch, and saw that the time was two-fifty, a half-hour at least before the Aria was due to arrive. He began to hum to himself, one of the songs from Rodney Mulgrave’s revue.

He was just thinking about taking another nip of brandy when he heard a long, low moooottt. He lifted his head and looked out towards the choppier waters of the Golden Gate. He couldn’t see anything at first. But then, in utter silence, the prow of a ship appeared, followed by its hull, and its masts, and its rigging. Straining his eyes, Collis could make out the name Aria.

It was time to row, and row fast. He cut his anchor rope with a jack-knife, set his oars in their locks, and then heaved towards the grey, sliding shape of the Aria with every ounce of strength he could manage. After only a dozen strokes, he was gasping, but he kept going, pulling the oars through the broken waters of the Bay with the vicious determination of a man who knows he has enemies to beat, and a point to prove.

‘Ahoy, Aria!’ he screamed, turning his head as he rowed. ‘Ahoy, Aria!’