“Let’s get this done,” said John, leading it from Jim’s shed.

The journey to Chiswick was uneventful but for the occasional tippings of Jim from the handlebars of Marchant. At length, the offices of the Consortium rose up in the distance. When the distance became the near-at-hand, the very scale of these offices revealed itself to be …

Awesome.

“By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth,” said Jim, who favoured a Dr Strange comic. “That is a very big building.”

“And very black, too,” said John. “All black, in fact.”

“There’ll be a doorman or a security guard or something,” said Jim, as Marchant unexpectedly applied its front brake and spilled Pooley once more to the road. “You do the talking.” And Jim picked himself up from the gutter.

The architectural style of the Consortium’s offices had a certain familiarity about it. In fact, it resembled a gigantic telephone box of the Giles Gilbert Scott persuasion.

Although all in black.

A broad span of black basalt steps swept up to a grandiose entranceway. John parked Marchant and he and Jim looked up at the imposing structure.

“That’s a very imposing structure,” said John. “This organisation is worth a lot of money.”

“Let’s not be intimidated,” Jim told him. “Size isn’t everything.”

“No, but it does give one an edge.” John squared his shoulders, which didn’t need much of a squaring. “Let’s get this done,” said he.

Jim gave John a thumbs-up and the two set off up the steps.

Vast doors of polished black glass slid soundlessly to either side at their approach and the two friends entered the building. They found themselves in an entrance hall of heroic proportions, decked out in the classical style.

There were couches that spoke of the Ottoman Empire.

And mosaics that sang of the glories of Rome.

Columns that whispered of nights in Byzantium.

A sampler that said there was no place like home.

“Very swell,” John observed.

“Very cold.” Jim hugged at his arms.

“That would be the air-conditioning. I’ve been thinking of having it installed in your office.”

“Have you, now?”

“Might I be of assistance to you gentlemen?” The voice was thin and reedy and male, which came as a slight disappointment to John, who had been hoping for a female receptionist. “Over here, if you will.”

A tiny man sat behind an enormous reception desk that murmured of Mount Parnassus, clearly upon a very high chair – he was a veritable elf, all pointy chin and pointy nose and long and pointy ears.

He pointed a pointy finger at John. “What do you want here?” he asked.

“Inspectre Hovis of Scotland Yard,” said John Omally, whipping out his wallet and flashing what Pooley recognised to be John’s Roy Rogers Appreciation Society sheriffs star at the bewildered elf. “And this is my partner, Sergeant Rock.”

“He looks more like Bertie Wooster,” said the elf.

“I don’t,” said Jim. “I’m not wearing the plus-fours suit today.”

“It must be the haircut, then. What do you gentlemen want?”

Omally cleared his throat and spoke with the voice of authority. “Kindly gather all staff who are presently within the building and lead them to the car park,” he said.

“I fail to understand.” The receptionist scratched at his pointy head.

John leaned forward across the desk and whispered the word “bomb”.

“Bomb?” The receptionist’s eyes bulged from their sockets and his mouth dropped open, exposing pointy teeth.

“Alka Seltzer,” said Jim.

“Al Qaeda,” said John. “We have received a tip-off from ZZ-Nine, Above Top Secret Department. This building has been targeted. We are here to search for and disarm the bomb.”

“No, no, no.” The pointy little man shook his pointy head. “No terrorist could have infiltrated these offices. That is impossible.”

“I’d love to spend time discussing it with you,” said John, checking his wristlet watch, “but by my reckoning there is less than half an hour before …” And he mimed the explosion of a very large bomb.

“I must telephone for confirmation.” Pointy fingers reached towards a desktop phone.

“Evacuate the staff before you do,” John told him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want their deaths on your conscience.”

“No, certainly not.” The pointy man dithered.

“Time is ticking away,” said John.

“There’s no one in the building but me. I must phone for confirmation.”

“Nobody but you?” John made the face of one appalled. “What kind of security is that for an establishment such as this?”

“There is sufficient security, I can assure you.” The pointy man’s eyes became narrow, hooded slits. “Might I see your badge of authority once more? It seemed to me to be a—”

But the pointy man said no more, because John Omally had punched him right in his pointy chin.

“Was that really necessary?” Jim climbed forward over the reception desk and viewed the unconscious figure of the tiny pointy man that now lay on the floor beyond. “You might have killed him.”

“I didn’t hit him that hard.”

“But he’s only little.”

“He’ll be fine. Come on, Jim, this was your idea, remember?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea.”

“It was a good idea. Have another fag and calm your nerves.”

“Good idea.”

Omally shinned over the reception desk and rooted about in search of keys, which he soon discovered.

“Where should we begin our search?” John asked. “Start at the top, do you think?” He flourished a key, attached to which was a black metal tag with the words “Penthouse Office” inscribed upon it.

“The only way is up,” said Jim. “Shall we take the lift?”

“I think that would be the thing to do.”

The lift was one of those glass-cylinder jobbies and it travelled upwards with a giddying swiftness.

“It does seem rather odd,” said Jim, as he clung to a handrail and tried to stop his knees from knocking together. “A Diddy Man on the desk and not an armed guard with an Alsatian to be seen.”

“Overconfidence,” said John. “These fellows think themselves untouchable.”

“Perhaps.” Jim held his nose and swallowed air. “I’m going to be sick,” he said.

“Puff upon your fag and stop complaining.”

And then the lift stopped.

Very suddenly.

“We’re trapped!” cried Jim. “We’re doomed. We’ll plummet to our deaths.”

And the lift doors opened and a mechanised voice announced, “The Penthouse Office, please mind the gap.”

“Poltroon,” said John. “Come on.”

The corridor was swank, in a jet-black marbley kind of a way that babbled of Babylon. And it was cold, too.

Jim blew onto his fingers. “I think I’ve got altitude sickness,” he said. “Do you think we need oxygen masks up here?”

“Jim,” said John, “you are priceless.”

“Thank you very much,” said Jim.

“Aha.” A door loomed before them and a big one, too. John presented the key to its lock.

“You don’t think we should knock first,” Jim asked, “in case there’s anybody home?”

“No,” said John, “I don’t.” And he turned the key and pushed open the sizeable door.

Beyond lay a terrible room.

It glowed in the light of many candles, uniformly black and arrayed in elaborate torchères fashioned in the likenesses of naked men thrown into attitudes of appalling agony. Jim caught sight of these and Jim was ready for the off.

“Steady now, Jim,” said John. “We weren’t expecting a cosy parlour.”

“What are those?” Jim asked, and he pointed.

Omally entered the terrible room and viewed what was to be seen.

“Cabinets,” said he, “glass cabinets filled with what look to be fossils. Come and have a look, Jim.”

Jim entered upon unsteady legs. “It smells bad in here,” he said. “It smells of …” he paused as terrible memories returned to him.