‘Mr Stein was a friend of the man who first wrote the story,’ explained Max Breslow. ‘He’s going to be a wonderful help to the scriptwriter.’

‘Chuck,’ said Stein. ‘Everyone calls me Chuck.’ He rocked back on the rear legs of the antique dining-room chair. Mrs Breslow watched in open-mouthed horror.

‘You were there?’ persisted Stuart.

‘I was with a quartermaster trucking battalion,’ said Stein. Leaning forward with his knife poised, he chopped a segment of Camembert cheese and popped it into his mouth. ‘Our people moved some of the stuff out of the mine.’ His words were distorted by the cheese in his mouth.

‘Have you been able to contact many people who were there?’ Stuart asked Max Breslow.

‘There are not so many of them left,’ said Breslow. ‘It’s a long time ago and men have died, are sick, have forgotten or wish to forget.’

‘Is it so long?’ said Stuart.

‘Most of the soldiers involved were rear-echelon personnel,’ said Stein, struggling to cut through the rind of the Stilton. ‘The fighting troops were youngsters and in peak physical condition, but the average age of the men in the support units was much higher, and we got the physical rejects too.’

‘From what I heard,’ said Stuart, ‘there was not only gold in the mine. There were paintings, rare books and secret documents too.’

Stein pushed the rest of the cheese and pumpernickel into his mouth so that he could reach forward with both hands to move the vase of carefully arranged flowers. Now Stuart had a clear view of the fat man. He had the sort of figure with which no tailor could cope. Already his white linen suit had become rumpled and creased, and there were gravy stains on his lapel.

‘Rare books,’ said Stein. He nodded. ‘Rare German army material, secret government archives… Nazi stuff and personal documents concerning Hitler himself.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I handled some of it and I saw the inventory sheets. I was an orderly room clerk, They used our mimeograph machine to duplicate the records. One of the sergeants-a man named Vanelli-made an extra copy and kept it as a souvenir.’

‘That sounds interesting,’ said Stuart. ‘Have you kept in touch with Vanelli?’

‘I know where he is,’ said Stein looking Stuart straight in the eyes.

‘I’d like to meet him,’ said Stuart.

‘I doubt that it could be arranged.’

‘Enough film talk,’ said Mrs Breslow, bringing in a large pot of coffee. ‘Let’s all sit on the soft seats, shall we?’ Again she watched Stein tilt back on one of her fragile dining chairs.

‘I’ll tell you this,’ said Stein, not taking his eyes off Stuart, ‘there was stuff in that mine that would destroy Winston Churchill’s reputation overnight.’ His voice was strident and seemed unnaturally loud in the small room.

The bearded psychiatrist turned so that his good ear, rather than his slightly deaf one, was towards Stein and cupped it so that he could hear better. ‘What was that about Winston Churchill?’ he said with mild interest.

‘Rumours, Charles. Rumours,’ Max Breslow told Stein with studied calm. He handed Stein a large glass and took the stopper from a brandy decanter. Stein watched while the brandy poured.

‘Rumours perhaps,’ agreed Stern, slowly and grudgingly like a peevish child.

‘Come and sit in the lounge,’ Max Breslow urged in a warm voice that expressed his pleasure at Stein’s reply.

Everyone at the table got to their feet. The psychiatrist’s wife was the first one into the large lounge that overlooked the man-made lake. At the dock of each house a small boat was tied, humming quietly as it recharged its batteries at the power line. No internal combustion engines were permitted to pollute the water. On the far side of the lake, the residents and guests of other houses gestured and reacted, inside the yellow-lit, plate-glass boxes, a dozen doll’s house dramas reflected in the dark water.

The psychiatrist’s wife spread her arms wide apart and whirled around fast enough to make her long Pucci silk dress float. “That was a divine meal, Marie-Louise.’ She was one of the very few people, apart from Max, who called her Marie-Louise. ‘Have you ever tasted such delicious poulet au champagne, Mr Stein?’

‘No,’ said Stein, ‘I never have.’

‘You are so kind,’ said Mrs Breslow. To what extent her neighbour was trying to demonstrate her psychological skills she could not tell, but she was grateful for her help in smoothing over what could have become an embarrassing scene between Mr Stein and the young Englishman. Mrs Breslow began pouring the coffee into tiny Limoges cups. ‘Try some of the chocolates too,’ she urged Stein with that tone in which diet breakers conspire. ‘Hand-coated brandy cherries from a tiny shop in Munich. Max used to buy them for me before we were married.’

Stein popped one into his mouth, crushed it between his teeth, tasted the sweet alcohol filling and reached for another before he swallowed.

‘Where do you buy them?’

‘Max has his business partner bring them over from Munich,’ said Mrs Breslow.

‘He didn’t tell me about his business partner in Munich,’ said Stein. He smiled at her. ‘But the chocolate-coated cherries are dandy, Mrs Breslow. Really dandy.’ He lifted the lid of the box high above his head so that he had to twist his neck to read the label. ‘Yes, sir.’ He helped himself to another as he replaced the box on the table.

‘You heard the story about them finding Hitler in São Paulo?’ said Stein suddenly, his mouth filled with chocolate and cherry. Everyone turned to look at him. ‘They ask him to come back and run Germany. No, he says, he won’t go. So they keep trying to persuade him. They bring in the public relations guys, and the ad agency men. They offer him money and anything he wants.’ Stein looked round to see if everyone was listening. They all were. ‘Hitler says he likes it in São Paulo. He’s got his mortgage almost paid, and a grown-up son and a married daughter by a second wife. He don’t want any part of going back to Germany, But finally he gives in. But before he goes back to be dictator of Germany again he insists on one thing… right!’ Stein waved a finger in the air in imitation of Hitler, and hoarsely yelled, ‘No more Mr Nice Guy!’ Stein laughed to show it was the punch line of the joke.

Stuart had heard the joke before but still he laughed. Somehow Stein had managed to imbue this thin story with all the pathos of his Jewish soul. When he told this joke it was outrageous and funny. He laughed loudly and Stuart joined in. But no one else laughed.

‘I got a million stories like that,’ said Stein.

The party broke up about eleven o’clock: the psychiatrist had an early patient and his wife had booked the tennis coach for 7.30 a.m. ‘Everybody wants him,’ she explained.

Boyd Stuart was getting up to go when he felt the heavy hand of Charles Stein on his shoulder. ‘Stay for another cup of coffee and a glass of something more,’ said Breslow, ‘We have some business to talk over, my dear,’ he explained to his wife.

‘I shall only yawn or say something silly,’ she told Stuart. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go right to bed.’

‘Of course, Mrs Breslow. Thank you for a wonderful meal, and a truly delightful evening.’

‘Switch the dishwasher on before you come to bed, darling,’ she told her husband.

Max Breslow gave his wife a perfunctory kiss before opening a door in the antique sideboard to get his best brandy. ‘Charles has something he wants to show us,’ he said over his shoulder. Stein went to the coat closet by the front door and came back straining under the weight of a rectangular carton. He undid the string with elaborate precision and drew out of the cardboard container a very old metal box. Such fire-resistant filing boxes had been used by the German army for documentation carried by regimental staffs or at battle-group level. This one was worn shiny at the corners but in the ancient green paintwork a six-figure letter-and-number combination and instructions about closing the fireproof lid could just be discerned. The traces of large letters which might have been BBO remained on the outside and there was a large shiny patch which looked as if something had been deliberately obliterated.