“Yes,” said Norman. And he drew out these items, somewhat crumpled due to their duffel-bag confinement and passed them across the expansive desk and into the manicured hands of Brentford’s solicitor in residence.

This man now examined these plans and documents and seals of certification. And then he sat back once more in his leather-upholstered chair.

“You are telling me,” he said, “that this is really real?”

Norman’s head nodded once more.

“But …” The solicitor perused the plans and the documentation and the contracts and anything else that he might possibly have previously overlooked.

“But?” Norman asked.

“But this is …” The solicitor’s voice trailed off.

“Are you all right?” Norman asked.

“Yes, yes.” Mr Gray raised a manicured hand. He tapped at a little desk console. “Ms Bennett,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” came a breathy feminine voice, a breathy feminine voice that Norman recognised to be that of the breathy feminine receptionist who had ushered him without charm into the solicitor’s office. “Ms Bennett, do we still have that bottle of champagne left over from the Jimmy Bacon case?”

“The one the gang gave you for getting him off the charge of indecent assault against the usherette of the Odeon cinema? And he was bloody guilty, you know that.”

“Quite so, Ms Bennett, but do we still have it?”

“It’s in the fridge, next to your inflatable love trout.”

“Hush.” Mr Richard Gray fluttered his fingers. “Please bring in the bottle and two glasses.”

And presently Ms Bennett entered the office of Mr Richard Gray. She was a stunner, was Ms Bennett, one of those curvy blonde bombshells of a type that have gone out of fashion, but really, truly should not have.

“There you go,” said she, leaning over Norman, who vanished in the shadow of her bosom, and placing the bottle of champagne and the glasses on to the expansive desk.

“That will be all,” said the solicitor in residence. “Back to your desk, now.”

“No champagne for me, then?” The bosom unshadowed Norman. The shapely legs were near enough for him to ogle shamelessly.

“Return to your desk, please,” said Mr Richard Gray.

Norman watched Ms Bennett depart, and sighed a little as she did so. He’d seen Ms Bennett in The Flying Swan once, in the company of John Omally.

“Champagne?” said Mr Richard Gray.

“Does this mean that the contract is A-okay?” asked Norman.

“Mr Hartnel,” said Mr Gray, uncorking the champagne and caring not one hoot for the fact that it spilled all over his expansive desk, and indeed his topping suit. “Mr Hartnel, what you have here is a contract drafted by the Consortium, a multinational concern headed by William Starling – whom, rumour has it, is shortly to be awarded the Order of the Garter by Her Majesty the Queen, God bless her.”

“I met him yesterday,” said Norman. “Very charming fellow.”

“A contract,” the solicitor continued, “that will be activated upon Cup Final Day, although I cannot understand why that should be.”

“Me neither,” said Norman, “but these things take time, I suppose. He’ll probably want to count all the many millions, make sure I’m not short-changed.”

“Undoubtedly so.” Mr Gray rolled his eyes.

More damn eye-rolling, thought Norman.

“Undoubtedly so,” Mr Gray continued, “but on that date, the Consortium will take control of your patents and you will receive a twenty-three-million-pound advance.”

“That’s what I thought it said,” said Norman.

“Against a fifty per cent royalty on your patented inventions. And given the groundbreaking nature of your inventions and the fact that they will totally revolutionise transport, telecommunications, power supply and just about everything else on the planet, I would estimate that within five years you will be one of the two richest men on Earth, Mr William Starling being the other.”

“You don’t think that I should hold out for a better deal then? Say a sixty per cent royalty?”

Mr Gray, who was sipping champagne, coughed into it. “Excuse me,” he said, drawing a shirt cuff sporting a Masonic cufflink over his mouth. “To bring these plans of yours into actuality will require a financial investment of millions. To have been offered a fifty per cent deal is beyond the wildest dreams of any inventor. History is being made here, Mr Hartnel, right here in this office.”

“Splendid,” said Norman, sipping his own champagne. “This isn’t as good as Mr Starling’s champagne,” he added.

“Mr Hartnel, you will soon be able to purchase every bottle of champagne in the whole world, should you so wish it.”

“I don’t think I would,” said Norman. “My fridge isn’t all that big.”

“Then buy another one. Buy ten – buy a thousand.”

“I wouldn’t know where to put them all.”

“Quite so. Then let us get down to business. More champagne?”

“I haven’t finished this one yet.”

“Then do.”

Norman did.

Mr Gray refilled his glass. “To business,” he said once more. “I am honoured that you have chosen me to represent you. You will, of course, need a great deal of legal advice during the coming months and years. There will be a lot of paperwork and a man of boundless wealth such as yourself would not wish to be burdened with it. But have no fear, I will take care of this tedious business for you. I will draw up an agreement of exclusivity.”

“What is that?” Norman asked.

“Nothing to trouble yourself about. Simply an agreement, a gentlemen’s agreement between the two of us, that I am your sole representative in all forthcoming legal matters. Your man, in fact. I will handle all your business, that you might enjoy the fruits of your labours, to whit, your enormous wealth.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Norman. “So the contract is A-okay, is it?”

“There is no small print. It is a thoroughly honest contract, with no legal loopholes and no danger to yourself of being swindled.”

“Splendid,” said Norman, gathering up the contract and his plans, patents and whatnots and so ons and ramming them back into his duffel bag.

“I’ll draw up the agreement now,” said Mr Gray. “A trifling point-five of a per cent and all your legal troubles will be forever behind you. This is your lucky day, Mr Hartnel. More champagne?”

“No thanks,” said Norman. “I have to get back to the shop. Peg thinks I’m in the toilet – I climbed out through the window.”

“It will take no more than a moment to draw up the agreement.” Mr Gray took out his fountain pen once more.

“Well,” said Norman, rising to his feet and shrugging, “thanks very much for the offer, but I don’t think I’ll bother. If the contract is A-okay, that’s enough for me.”

“Oh no,” said Mr Richard Gray. “Oh no, oh no, oh no. You have no idea of all the seemingly insurmountable problems that lie ahead of you. I can deal with them all. I am your man. I am your man.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks,” said Norman. “Twenty-three million will be more than enough to be going on with. I’m not a greedy man.”

“But …” Mr Richard Gray now clawed at the air, almost in the manner of a drowning man. “No, wait. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

“I have to get back,” said Norman. “The lady outside said there was a twenty-five-pound consultancy fee. I paid her in cash. Thanks for your time. Goodbye.”

And with that, Norman left the office of Mr Richard Gray. And Mr Richard Gray opened his office window and threw himself out of it.

On to the dustbins outside.

For the office was on the ground floor.

“Mr Hartnel,” said Ms Bennett as Norman was leaving the building, “the office intercom was still on and I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Mr Gray.”

“Better an egg in peace than an ox in war,” said Norman.

“I do so agree,” said Ms Bennett.

“You do?” said Norman.