It had about it the narrowness of a floorboard and it required considerable effort to squeeze ourselves into the room that lay beyond. Which thankfully was a spacious room with a high-domed night-dark ceiling.

‘Pongo,’ said Lola-Bonsai. And the strain was evident upon her face as she spoke the name of her brother. ‘Pongo, these gentlemen have come to see you regarding a pressing matter.’

Pongo viewed my brother and me. And I do have to say that I liked the look of Pongo. He looked like an all-right-kind-of-a-cove to me. He was tall and dignified, with dark hair swept back behind his ears and a very natty Clark Gable-style pencil moustache. His features and his person ran to gauntness and this gauntness suited him. His eyes were blue and pale as a dawning sky and these eyes he now fixed upon me. And a slender right hand he extended also.

‘Mr Woodbine?’ said the possibly ersatz Pongo. ‘Mr Lazlo Woodbine? ’

‘Why, yes,’ I replied as I shook on this hand. ‘But how did you know? Did your sister tell you we were coming?’

‘Not a bit of it. I recognised you immediately – the fedora, the trench coat, the way you carry yourself – you are Woodbine. You could be no other.’

‘Well,’ I said. And I grinned, fairly grinned. What an excellent fellow, I thought.

‘And this must be-’ And then he put a finger to his lips. ‘But he does not speak, for he is enigmatic. He is an enigma. He is forever cool.’

And Andy grinned somewhat at this. And then shook the slender right hand.

‘And my darling sister, Lola,’ the Pongo impersonator (?) continued. ‘Looking so beautiful this morning.’

‘I have to go,’ said Lola, and she squeezed her way from the room. Leaving my brother and me in the company of whoever it was we were with.

‘So, gentlemen,’ said this fellow, ‘what is it that you require of me?’ I looked at Andy. And he looked back at me. And I confess that I was stuck for a reply. I had not actually thought about what I was going to say when I came face to face with the brother-who-might-not-be.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘It’s a rather delicate matter.’

‘It’s Lola, isn’t it?’ said the fellow. ‘Do you mind if I continue working while we talk?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ I said. And I cast an eye around and about the room. It was a circular room and it didn’t have any windows. And that meant something to me, although I didn’t know why. This circular room was a very busy room. It owned to a lot of stuff. Alchemical stuff. The classic alchemist’s paraphernalia.

I ogled the crucibles, the alembics, the cauldrons and retorts.

‘You have accumulated a remarkable collection of alchemical ephemera,’ I observed.

‘You have some knowledge of the philosophical arts?’

‘Some,’ I said. ‘I know which way up you hold an aspersorium.’

‘Splendid. Then you can hold mine for a while, if you wish.’

And I smiled at him and he smiled back at me. Nice fellow.

And I watched him as he worked. As he tended to the distilling tubes and the purification thuribles and the anti-oxidisation sprongs and the catalytic cross-transducers.

Not to mention the megatronic tropositors, which I never did, for to have done so would have been impolite. But it was all very state-of-the-art.

‘My sister,’ said the alchemically inclined one. ‘She is the reason for you being here, I suspect.’

He handed me the aspersorium and I held it. The right way up.

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked. ‘Why would your sister ask us to visit you?’

‘Ah, you are as subtle as I might have expected, Mr Woodbine. You seek to catch me out with your cunning wordplay.’

‘I assure you that I do not,’ I assured him. And I handed back his transistorised aspersorium.

‘She is very highly strung,’ said the aspiring alchemist. ‘Since the death of our parents there is only her and myself. The last of the Perbrights. My father’s will divided the estate equally between us. Should one of us die, or something of a similar nature, the entire fortune would then pass to the other.’

‘I understand that the family’s fortunes are somewhat depleted,’ I said. ‘Could I hold the grum-widget now, please?’

And I was handed the grum-widget.

‘My sister gets ideas into her head, you see, Mr Woodbine – that I am trying to kill her, or that I am not myself, but some impostor, that I am trying to have her committed to a mental institution so that I might claim the fortune.’

‘But I understand that there is no fortune,’ I said.

‘It is not a monetary fortune. There is no money. There is an inheritance, but nothing I need explain here and now.’

I shook my head. ‘I am becoming a little confused,’ I said. ‘You are saying that if one of you were to be committed to a lunatic asylum, the other would inherit. And your sister’s behaviour – and I admit, yes, she did ask us here – her behaviour, not believing that you are the real you, might well be construed as a psychiatric condition that will lead her into a mental institution.’

‘Intriguing, isn’t it, Mr Woodbine? Her accusations against me load the dice against her. What do you make of that?’ And he now took up a slap-nosed doohickey. And as I had never seen one of those before, I was at a loss to know which way up it was supposed to be held.

‘So,’ said our host, ‘is there anything you wish to ask me? Some personal details of Pongo Perbright’s life that only Pongo would know about?’

I gave my fedora a scratching. I rather wished that I’d pre-planned a question or two. I could have asked Lola to tell me some personal details. It would have been pretty conclusive evidence one way or the other.

‘There was one thing,’ I said, as it now (and this was a flash of inspiration on my part) occurred to me that I could do this the other way round: ask him first, then check his answer with Lola. ‘Pongo had a favourite toy when he was very young. What was it and what was his pet name for it?’

‘It was a trowel,’ said Pongo. ‘And it still is. And its pet name is Trowel.’

I looked at Andy, who shrugged.

‘I don’t think I need take up any more of your time, sir,’ I said. ‘I think that perhaps this is a family affair that should be kept within the family.’

‘You are astuteness personified.’ And Pongo Perbright stuck out his hand once more for a shake. And I shook it firmly and Andy and I squeezed from the circular lab.

We returned to the music room and Lola was waiting for us there. I didn’t really know what to say to her apart from asking about Pongo’s favourite toy and I thought I would hold on to that for a while, so as to come across as really clever when I dropped it into the conversation. So when she offered to make Andy and me some coffee, as Sacheveral had still not returned, I took her up on the offer. And while she was away I spoke to Andy.

‘What do you make of all this?’ I asked him.

‘They’re both barking,’ was Andy’s conclusion. ‘But that’s toffs for you.’

‘He seems like a very nice fellow,’ I said. ‘But then she seems like a very nice lady and one who is clearly in love with me, but afraid to show her feelings. But if one is out to get the other, then I don’t know which one it might be.’

‘I bet you’d rather side with her,’ said Andy.

‘Well…’ And I shrugged. ‘But he was a nice fellow, wasn’t he? Cool haircut.’

‘Very cool haircut,’ said Andy. ‘Just like mine.’

‘Just like yours?’ And I laughed. ‘Yours is a girly haircut, all short on the top and rattails down the sides and back.’

‘It is the latest style,’ said Andy. ‘And I invented it. I call it the mullet. After the fish. Although I don’t remember why.’

‘Well, Pongo’s was nothing like yours. His was all slicked-back behind his ears. Very stylish, as was his moustache.’

‘Moustache?’ said Andy. ‘He didn’t have a moustache.’

‘He had a Clark Gable,’ I said. ‘If you are hoping to become a private eye like me, you will have to hone your observational skills. Take in the small details. That’s very important.’