Collis handed him the letter of introduction which Andy Hunt had written out for him. The young man peered at the front of it, then at the back of it, and then ripped it open with an orange-stained thumb. He read it quickly, sniffed, and then crammed it back into its envelope.

‘You know the consequences of what you’re asking, I suppose?’ the young man said twitchily.

Collis nodded. ‘That’s why Mr Hunt sent me to you. Apparently you know the value of keeping your mouth closed tight.’

‘I know the value of not trusting Mr Andrew Jackson Hunt as far as I can toss him.’

He took the letter out of the envelope again and re-read it. ‘Photography is a great art, you know,’ he said biting his lip. ‘Don’t you think it’s sacrilege to put it to such purposes?’

‘Let’s just call it progress,’ said Collis.

‘Progress? Well, I suppose so. If the recruitment of scientific methods for the more efficient extortion of money can be called progress — then, yes, I suppose it’s progress.’

‘I gather you’re not usually above taking a few sportive pictures,’ said Collis with a tight smile. ‘Mr Hunt said, “Naylor’s your man, for that kind of thing.”’

The young man extricated his spectacles from his hair and put them on. He stared at Collis with eyes as pale and cold as a Sacramento salmon. ‘Mr Naylor’s dead,’ he said. ‘Died years ago, of pneumonia. My name’s Figgis. But everybody still calls me Mr Naylor in any case, on account of the name of the business.’

‘You can help me?’ asked Collis.

‘I suppose so. When, and where?’

‘In two days’ time, most likely at Knickerbocker Jane’s.’

‘I see. Well. I’ve done some work there before.’

Collis rolled off one of his leather gloves, took out a cheroot, and lit it. ‘Sportive work?’ he asked Mr Figgis.

‘You needn’t be so patronising,’ the photographer retorted. ‘What you’re asking for here is just as bad. Worse, in fact.’

Collis nodded. ‘That’s why I came to see you in person. To make sure that you were a good, trustworthy fellow.’

Mr Figgis hesitated for a moment, still chewing at his lips. Then, quite suddenly, he reached under his counter and produced a lavish red-morocco album, embossed with gold leaf. He laid it flat and opened the first page so that Collis could see it. Framed in a soft oval halo of sepia was a portrait of a plump naked girl with her hair tied up in plaits and a necklace of wild flowers.

‘You see?’ said Mr Figgis. ‘You can call it “sportive” until you’re black in the face, but it’s art, too.’