“Yes, Wilf. I do.”

“Righty-ho. Bang on. Good show, Tucker.”

“You were calling me—”

“I know, Tucker. Now. Tell me about Halliday. Don’t skimp. You can’t frighten me, you see. I want every fascinating detail.”

It took Rick quite a while to get himself together that time.

“He’s a wonderful—well, those who know him—”

“Mary Lou.”

“You know she majored in flower arranging and bibliography, sir, so there’s a great deal of scope for her in his collection.”

“He collected Mary Lou.”

“No sir. It’s his manuscripts.”

“Ha et cetera.”

“I know you aren’t interested in literary history, Wilf, after all, you’re part of it—”

“I’m not interested in history, period. It should be rolled up like a scroll. Halliday! I want more Halliday!”

“For example he’d pay anything for that.”

He reached out his hand towards the document I’d typed. I smacked it hard and moved my hand farther away.

“Naughty!”

“But, Wilf—”

“And while we’re about it, why are you dressed up like something out of a circus?”

Rick looked down at himself, pondering the little he could see of his own clothes beyond the thicket. Mary Lou had wept into that thicket—or had she? Was that a fact or an imagination? I found to my surprise that I couldn’t distinguish between the two.

“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed? Hell, I was wearing this and more the last time you saw me. Then I had my necklace on. I’ve put it away because I didn’t think the Weisswald was the place for it.”

“Don’t be wet.”

“Well. It isn’t.”

“I don’t mean that. The last time I saw you, you were as trad as the Beatles. Come on, Rick. I know all about it.”

“And you come on too, sir. You waved that paper at me!”

“When? Where?”

“Marrakesh. Remember?”

“Rick—”

“I must say it wasn’t very kind of you, Wilf. But then I’ve always allowed that you and the few people like you have privilege.”

I examined his eyes carefully. They were like a politician’s after he’s had more exposure than he can take, more anxiety, belief, accommodation, ambition, suspense. There was white showing all round the irises. It’s not an infallible mark but it does reveal a degree of strain, tending towards what I said about hell. It can indicate pain too, or fear. Well, why not? Man bites dog.

“Tell me about Marrakesh then, Rick.”

“Must I? Oh well. It was outside the Hotel de France. For God’s sake, Wilf! It’ll be in your journal somewhere, you’ve only got to look!”

“More. Come on. More details!”

Rick flung his arms wide. It was so unlike him I knew how desperate he was.

“You were on the balcony to the left side of the main door—first floor. You saw me. You laughed and waved the paper at me. Then you disappeared into the building—what a joke for you! I can take a joke, Wilf.”

“How did you know the paper was permission to be my literary executor?”