‘Why is this door all made out of brass?’ I asked, as the door swung open. But then suddenly I no longer craved an answer to this question, but felt another, far more urgent, forming in my mind and eager to take shape at my lips.

Because before us, on the threshold of the room that lay beyond, there stood a man. A well-turned-out and dapperly done-up fellow this, in an impeccable pinstriped suit. A veritable poem in praise of understated dandification.

His shoes were black and shone like silk,

As did his Brylcreemed napper.

And pince-nez specs clung to his nose

With a ’tache below, well dapper.

His eyes were blue,

His tie was too,

His schmutter

Was utterly

Dash-cutter-do!

But it was not the sartorial elegance of this fellow that caused an urgent question to come springing to my mouth.

It was his height and overall dimensions.

For he was a tiny man. No dwarf or midget was this man, being much smaller indeed than either. He could surely not have been more than eighteen inches in height, yet he was perfectly formed and carried himself in a manner that was aloof and pompous and very very angry.

‘What time do you call this?’ he bawled up at Mr Rune, who towered above him in every sense of the word.

‘Time for a gin and tonic, methinks.’ And Mr Rune stepped over this man and entered the room beyond.

The tiny man coughed and spluttered with rage. ‘And who do you think you are?’ he asked me.

‘I am with Mr Rune,’ I said, as I too entered the room. And if I had been impressed by the entrance hall, and I had, then I was more than impressed by this room. It was all a-glitter and a-twinkle with nautical fol-de-rollery, its fixtures and furnishings redolent of quinqueremes (of Nineveh, obviously), brigantines, schooners, feluccas and gallivants.

Corsairs and showboats,

Galleons, rowboats,

Three-masted barques

With mainsails and spankers,

Clippers and crumsters

With outboards and anchors

And so forth…

Mr Rune stood before a cocktail cabinet that resembled the prow of a Pomeranian galliot, pouring gin into a cut-crystal tumbler. ‘Same for you, Rizla?’ he called out to me. ‘And what about you, McMurdo?’

The little man huffed and puffed in fury and grew most red in the face.

‘Oh, come come,’ said Mr Rune. ‘The sun is over the yardarm and the cabin boys are restless. A drink will calm those nerves of yours. Would you care for a short?’

‘A short?’ The little man, now purple in the face, jumped up and down. ‘I blame you for this,’ he cried.

‘For what?’ asked Hugo Rune.

‘For what? For what?’ The small man all but fainted dead away.

Hugo Rune smiled and passed me a G & T. And then he took himself over to one of several comfy-looking chairs which had much of the quilted tramp steamer about them and settled himself into it.

The tiny man threw up his hands, stalked to the cocktail cabinet, swarmed up it in an appropriately sailor-up-the-rigging manner and struggled with a whisky bottle all but as tall as himself.

I just stood and sipped at my drink. I did not know what to say.

‘Formal introductions are in order,’ said Mr Hugo Rune. ‘Norris McMurdo, High Honcho to the Ministry of Serendipity, be upstanding for Rizla, my trusted acolyte, assistant and amanuensis. I can personally vouch for his honesty, dedication and loyalty to King and country. All that you might say to me, you might say to him.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr McMurdo,’ I managed to say. ‘Could I give you a hand with that bottle?’

‘I can manage. I can manage.’ And the diddy fellow wrestled with the bottle cap.

‘You are probably wondering something, aren’t you, Rizla?’ asked Mr Rune.

‘Wondering something? Me?’ I did toothy grinnings. Clearly the relationship between Mr Rune and Mr McMurdo was not one of mutual support and admiration. And this man, diminutive as he was, was apparently one of the most powerful men in the world. So I really did not want to get on his wrong side by asking embarrassing questions regarding his height.

‘I am surprised,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I thought you might have some questions regarding short-arse here.’

‘What did you say?’ shrieked Mr McMurdo, giving up the unequal battle against the whisky-bottle top. ‘What did you call me, you rotter?’

‘I asked my companion whether he might have some questions regarding the shot-glass here,’ said Mr Rune, and he raised his glass to his foreshortened employer. And toasted him with it.

‘I know what you said… you… you-’

‘Come come,’ said Mr Rune. ‘Enough of this, please. I am doing everything I can to rectify the situation. Why, only this morning when you telephoned, I was in the middle of subtle chemical experimentation seeking to formulate a restorative to return you to your former dimensions.’

‘Another restorative, is it?’ Mr McMurdo did a kind of manic dance upon the cocktail cabinet that sent glasses tumbling and cocktail stirrers tinkling to the carpet. ‘Of the nature of the one you formulated for me last week that had me rushing to the toilet all night long?’

Last week? I thought to myself. Had Mr Rune been here in this time, last week, which was to say-But I soon gave it up as far too confusing and supped at my gin instead. And very nice gin it was too.

‘We will speak further of these matters anon,’ said Mr Rune. ‘But for now there are more pressing causes for concern – the disappearance of Professor James Stigmata Campbell, for one. What have you to tell me of this?’

‘I’m telling you to find him!’ Mr McMurdo ceased his dance and knotted his doll-like fists. ‘And find him today. He must deliver his paper tonight. Our future depends on it.’

‘Our future?’ And Mr Rune nodded at me.

And I nodded back to him.

‘Tell me then,’ said he to Mr McMurdo, ‘all that you are authorised to tell me. Omit nothing. Speak your piece. And kindly couch your words in such a manner that they might be understood by my acolyte here. His help in solving this case, and indeed finding a solution to the curse that presently afflicts your person, will, I promise, prove invaluable.’

And Mr Rune nodded once more at me.

So I nodded once more at him.

And Mr McMurdo took in as deep a breath as his miniature frame allowed, sat wearily down upon the top of the cocktail cabinet and regarded Mr Rune with a most bitter expression.

And then he told a curious tale that fair put the wind up me.

‘You must know,’ said Mr McMurdo, addressing, it seemed, his words to myself, ‘that the Ministry of Serendipity is at the very spearhead of the War Effort. It is here that plans are formulated and campaigns organised. And these are not wholly of a military nature. There is great evil abroad upon the face of the planet and it is the Ministry’s duty to stamp out the malignant pestilence and restore peace and decency and Britishness.’

‘Here here,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ And he rose from his chair, took himself over to where Mr McMurdo sat and poured himself another drink. And if not necessarily out of kindness, but rather perhaps decency and Britishness, he uncapped the whisky bottle and splashed spirit into a vacant glass for Mr McMurdo.

‘Mine too for a top-up,’ I put in. For I had no idea how long Mr McMurdo’s talk might last and I had already developed a taste for his gin.

When all was done in the drinks department and Mr Rune reseated, Mr McMurdo continued. ‘We at the Ministry have studied the rise of Germany ’s National Socialist Workers’ Party. Hitler did not ascend to his lofty position, which is one of almost messianic proportions, through opportunism and corrupt dealings alone. Although these did play their part.

‘He became the right man in the right place at the right time through the exercise of occult power. The Nazi Party is founded upon the principles of the blackest of the black arts. Ancient magic has been reactivated, ancient symbols brought once more into prominence. Dark forces revived. Let me make it clear, I am not talking about Satanism. Mr Hitler does not worship the devil of Christian theology. His master predates this. The Nazi hierarchy consider themselves to be true Aryans, the present-day heirs to the Teutonic heritage of Odinism.