‘“Porridge” is a term used by rats of the underworld,’ I said patiently, ‘and it means penal servitude. There is a legend, you see, that if, when eating the wholesome breakfast provided on the last morning of your “stretch”, you do not eat up all your nice porridge, you will be back in durance vile within the year. Any warder will tell you that. Jock has partly-eaten several plates of such porridge at Her Majesty’s expense and if he were to be caught with any kind of firearm at all it would go very hard with him. If he actually shot someone he’d get approximately ninety-nine years: with maximum remission for good behaviour, call it sixty-six. He’d be a hundred and ten when he got out and would expect me to give him his job back, although he’d almost certainly have forgotten how to make decent tea.’

‘Oh, stop drivelling, Charlie, your point is taken. Jock will be armed with a stout stick. All right?’

‘He has, I believe, a length of lead piping, covered with soft leather.’

‘Or a length of lead piping covered with soft leather. Is that all? Then I suggest we start tonight. Here are four sets of names and addresses. Any preferences?’

Quick as a flash I laid claim to Brisbane House, for Lady Quinn-Philpott has the finest cellar in the North of the Island, and no rapist in his senses would tackle her, for her strength is as the strength of ten, because her soul is pure, you see. Moreover, she has a Dobermann Pinscher. The others made their dispositions, leaving Jock, by default, in charge of a tomato-grower’s bungalow, inhabited by the most rapable wife you can imagine. Indeed, if Johanna ever left me any time for private study I could quite fancy her myself. I suspected that, if the rapist appeared at that bungalow on that night, he would have to ask Jock to move over.

George telephoned hither and thither arranging for our vigils. Sam seemed to be trying to win a wager as to how rapidly he could empty my whisky decanter. I explained to Jock exactly how my sandwich-case was to be filled. Johanna threw one of her rare tantrums when told that she was to spend the evening playing cards with Sonia. Jock had a shower and overhauled, I daresay, his stock of the products of the London Rubber Company – that excellent condominium. At last they all went away and I was free to do some serious thinking on the sofa, with my shoes off and my eyes closed. A heavy luncheon always brings out the philosopher in me.

The evening’s ambuscades were, of course, a complete washout as far as raper-catching was concerned.

I caught an excellent dinner and a splendid bottle of Chateau Léoville Poyferré ’61.

Sam caught a strayed Jersey cow in the udders with the unchoked barrel of his shotgun.