“You’ve gone somewhat glassy-eyed,” said Eddie. “Are you drunk already?”

“No,” said Jack. “No, I’m not. I was only thinking.”

“About the dolly?” Eddie raised his glass and would have winked had he been able.

“About a lot of things,” said Jack.

“Well, don’t let me keep you from the dolly.”

“No,” said Jack. “The dolly can wait. We have a case to solve.”

“Case-solving is done for the day,” Eddie said. “We will start again upon the morrow, as refreshed as and as ready as.”

Jack sank two more glasses of beer.

“Go on, Jack,” said Eddie. “I’ll be fine here. Go and have a good evening out. I’ll see you here later if you want, or if you have a big night of it, then at Bill’s office at nine o’clock sharp tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Jack, and he rose from his stool, being careful not to crack his head upon the ceiling. “If it’s okay, then I’ll see you tomorrow. Is it all right if I –”

“Take Bill’s car? Of course.”

“Nice,” said Jack. “Then I’ll be off. And don’t drink too much, will you?”

Eddie slid Jack’s share of the remaining beers in his direction and said, “Goodbye, Jack.”

And Jack left Tinto’s Bar.

Jack drove slowly through the evening streets of Toy City. He could have driven at his normal breakneck pace, of course, but he only really did that to put the wind up Eddie. So Jack drove in a leisurely manner, even though he was late to meet the dolly.

Jack did do some thinking as he drove along, about Toy City and about Eddie, and Chief Inspector Bellis and the mysterious deaths of the cymbal-playing monkeys, and at length, when he arrived at Nadine’s Diner, he was none the wiser than when he’d set forth.

The dolly, Amelie, stood outside the now-lit-up diner, her shift done and her temper all-but. As Jack approached her in Bill’s car, he wondered a lot about her. She was, well, how could he put it? So lifelike. Just like a real girlfriend. Whatever a real girlfriend was. One of flesh and blood like himself, he supposed. Did that make his relationship with Amelie somewhat … indecent? Jack asked himself. Perverted? Wrong? Twisted?

“Easy now,” Jack told himself.

Amelie noticed Bill’s car before she recognised the driver. She made a very winsome face towards the shiny automobile and hitched up her short skirt a little to show a bit more leg.

“Strumpet,” said Jack to himself.

Bill’s car whispered to a standstill and Jack cranked down the window. “Care for a ride?” said he.

“You?” and Amelie lowered her skirt. “It’s you. You’re late, you know.”

“Blame the garage,” said Jack. “I have just taken possession of this automobile.”

“It’s yours?” The dolly now fluttered her eyelids.

“All mine,” said Jack. “I have taken a new job. One with considerable cachet. Would you care for a ride?”

“I would.” And Amelie tottered around to the passenger door and entered Bill’s automobile.

“It smells of manky old bear in here,” she said as she twitched her pretty nose.

“Mechanics,” said Jack. “Highly skilled, but rarely bathed. You know how it is with the lower ranks.”

“Oh, indeed I do.” And the dolly crossed her legs. Such long legs they were, so shapely and slender. They were almost like re –

“Where to?” Jack asked. “A romantic drive in the moonlight?”

“A show,” said Amelie, adjusting her over-tight top, which looked to be under considerable strain from her enhanced front parts.

“A show?” Jack said, and his wonderings turned to his wallet. He wondered just how much money he had in it. Not a lot, he concluded, not a lot.

“A lovely night for a drive,” he said.

“Then drive me to a show.”

“A puppet show?” Jack asked. “A Punch and Judy show?”

“A proper show at a proper club. Let’s go to Old King Cole’s.”

“Ah,” said Jack, as Eddie had done whilst speaking to Chief Inspector Bellis.

“You’re not ashamed to be seen with me, are you?” asked Amelie.

“No,” said Jack. “Not at all. Anything but. If it’s Old King Cole’s you want, then Old King Cole’s you shall have.”

“You are such a sweetie.” Amelie leaned over and kissed Jack on the cheek. A delicate kiss, a sensuous kiss. Just like a re –

“Old King Cole’s it is,” said Jack.

Now Old King Cole was indeed a merry old soul and when he wasn’t writing self-help manuals, which was all of the time nowadays as he’d only written the one, he could mostly be found at his jazz club, a rather swank affair on Old King Cole Boulevard, a place where one came to be seen.

Old King Cole had long ago sacked his fiddlers three in favour of a more up-beat ensemble: a clockwork trio, comprised of a saxophonist, drummer and piano player. There had been a brief period when he had toyed with a twelve-piece cymbal-playing monkey ensemble, but in the end had considered it rather too avant-garde, preferring a more traditional sound. The sound of Jazz.

Now jazz is jazz. You either love jazz or you hate it. There is no middle ground with jazz and it’s no good saying you like some jazz. Liking some jazz is not loving jazz. All right, neither is it hating jazz, but that is not the point. To truly love jazz you have to have a passion for it. You have to be able to get right inside it, to feel it, to … blah blah blah blah and so on and so forth and suchlike.

Old King Cole loved jazz. Before the passing of the infamous Edict Five, which had dispensed with royalty in Toy City, he had been King of Toy City and with him jazz had reigned supreme. After the ousting of the now infamous mad mayor, he was royalty once more and although jazz had never truly reigned supreme (in anyone’s opinion other than his own) it was back at the top with him, as far as he was concerned, and if you are King you can believe whatever you want because few will dare to contradict you.

Old King Cole’s jazz club was grand. It was stylish. It was magnificent. This was no gaudy piece of flash, this was old money spent well, the work of master builders.

It had been constructed to resemble a vast grand piano, atop it a gigantic candelabra, its candles spouting mighty flames. A liveried doorman, in a plush swaddle-shouldered snaff jacket with cross-stitched underpinnings and fluted snuff trumbles, stood to attention before double doors that twinkled with carbustions of cremmily, jaspur and filigold, made proud with Pultroon finials and crab-handle “Jerry” turrets, after the style of Gondolese, but without the kerfundles.

On his feet the liveried doorman wore crab-toed Wainscotter boots in the trumped end-loungers style and[8]

On his head he wore a bowler hat.

Jack cruised up in Bill’s automobile, leaned out from his open window and bid the liveried doorman a good evening.

The liveried doorman viewed Jack down the length of his nose. A nose that had been considerably lengthened by the addition of an ivorine nasal Kirby-todger.[9]

Above his moustache.

“Good evening to you, sir,” said he, raising a richly ornamented glove, richly ornamented with …[10] ornaments. “The valet will park your car for you, your lordship. Kindly leave the keys with me.”

“Splendid,” said Jack, and he climbed from the car.

Amelie the dolly did likewise.

The liveried doorman stiffened slightly, in the manner of one who is suddenly taken aback. One who has seen something troubling.

Jack turned towards Amelie, who was struggling to pull down the hem of her minuscule skirt, which appeared rather keen to remain where it nestled.

“Something bothering you?” Jack asked the liveried doorman, affecting, as he did so, a most haughty tone.