‘Are you absolutely certain that repetition does not enforce a point?’ I asked. ‘Only-’

‘Cease, young Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘and pick a card, if you will.’

I chose a card that I felt appropriate, but in hindsight it was perhaps not the best choice.

The card I chose was THE MAGICIAN.

It did not make Hugo Rune smile.

As the local newspaper failed to yield anything remotely resembling Cosmic Conundrum material, we donned our linen suits and panama hats and took ourselves off for a stroll.

This stroll led at length to The Purple Princess, which I found less than surprising.

We entered the bar, placed our stylishly cased gas masks upon the bar counter and beheld the barlord, Fangio.

‘Now what in the name of all the unholies do you think you look like?’ I asked.

And Fangio did a little twirl. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Will I do?’

The barlord’s face was made up in that style that is forever known and loved as ‘Pantomime Dame’. And the costume that he wore was greatly in keeping with this look.

A blond wig covered his manly skull and a flowery frock his less than comely frame. I leaned over the bar counter, wondering if, perhaps, I might catch sight of a pair of Ruby slippers. But then could not quite remember which year The Wizard of Oz had actually come out.

‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘Christmas has come unexpectedly early and you are playing an ugly sister, possibly in an all-gay panto called Cinderfella.’

‘Guess again,’ said Fangio.

‘No thank you,’ I said. ‘We will take two pints of Stone Informal and not in cocktail glasses.’

‘Mr Rune,’ said Fangio. ‘Tell this foolish boy who I am.’

Hugo Rune cocked his head on one side and said, ‘You are Vera Lynn.’

‘Precisely,’ said Fangio. ‘The Forces’ Sweetheart. An uncanny resemblance, don’t you think?’

‘Well, now that you mention it,’ I said, ‘I do not.’

‘Well, there better had be,’ said the barlord, pulling pints with fingers that were heavy on the nail varnish with some even on the nails. ‘Firstly because-’ And he nodded to a poster.

BRENTFORD INTER-PUB

LOOKALIKE

COMPETITION

‘Just our luck,’ I said to Hugo Rune. ‘These posters have all the potential for a half-decent running gag and we have to run off and leave them.’

‘And that also,’ said the barlord. ‘You will note perhaps the scarcity of any cardboard boxes hereabouts.’

I nodded that indeed this was the case and asked just why it was.

‘I’ve had the rozzers in,’ said Fangio, presenting us with our pints. ‘It seems that someone grassed me up for selling hokey goods.’

‘In the King’s English, Rizla,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘our noble barlord has been reported to the police for selling contraband. And so he intends to evade capture by cross-dressing, in the hope that no one will see through his cunning disguise.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘But I do see a flaw in this. Surely if you enter the lookalike competition you will give the game away that you are not the real Vera Lynn.’

‘Hm.’ Fangio stroked at his stubbled chin. ‘That is food for thought,’ he said. ‘And while we’re on the subject-’

‘It is a bit early for luncheon,’ said Hugo Rune, ‘in that we have only just finished breakfast.’

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘This is not so much about you eating your lunch here. It is more of a pecuniary matter.’

Himself raised an eyebrow to this. His stout stick tapped at his leg. ‘Pecuniary?’ he asked politely. ‘What mean you by this?’

‘I will, I regret, have to ask you to settle your account, Mr Rune,’ said Fangio, taking a brisk step backwards beyond the range of the stout stick.

‘My…? My…?’ The word did not come easily to the mouth of Hugo Rune.

‘Your account, sir, yes. I hadn’t troubled you about it before because I felt that you’d probably settle up in your own time. I’ve kept an accurate tally of all that you and your companion have drunk and consumed here over the last six months. You’d be surprised just how much it has all added up to.’

‘I would not,’ I said.

‘So if perhaps you would care to take out your chequebook.’

And I now took a step back. It was of course possible that Hugo Rune did possess a chequebook. All gentlemen possessed cheque-books. But I had certainly never actually witnessed such a chequebook and felt it unlikely that I would do so now.

Violence, yes.

Chequebook, no.

‘I’ll go and fetch the bill,’ said Fangio. ‘You can have those two pints on the house, as it were.’

And with that said he left the bar, returning moments later with the bill. Well, I assume that he probably did return in such fashion. Mr Rune and I, however, were not there to meet this return. Our two now-empty glasses stood upon the otherwise empty counter and silence echoed all throughout the otherwise empty bar.

‘Outrageous,’ said Himself, a-striding and a-swinging of his stick. I sought hard to keep up with this striding and already was growing quite weary.

‘Please slow down,’ I puffed and panted. ‘I am sure we can deal with the matter.’

‘Deal with the matter? Deal with the matter?’ Hugo Rune turned fiercely upon me. ‘How many times have I told you, Rizla? I offer the world my genius. All I expect in return is that the world cover my expenses.’

‘You have told me more than once,’ I said. ‘I, however, unlike Fangio, have not been keeping a record.’

‘I shall never again grace those premises with my august personage,’ quoth the Magus. And I for one had no reason to doubt the sincerity of his words.

‘Where to now then?’ I asked. ‘No telegrams. Nothing in the newspapers. No seemingly irrelevant something that later proves most pertinent to be found at The Purple Princess. It looks like we are stuffed for a case. As it were.’

‘There is always the Ministry,’ said Hugo Rune, gloomily.

‘But they always contact you.’

‘A change is as good as a rest. Let us hail up a cab.’

Recalling Hugo Rune’s wanton excesses in the field of violence towards cab drivers, I was not altogether keen. And I only agreed to accompany him by cab if he crossed his heart and saw-this-wet-and-saw-this-dry and swore upon a stack of imaginary Bibles that under no circumstances would I see him visiting physical hurt upon the driver of our cab.

Grudgingly he conceded to this and I hailed up a cab.

Cabs were so much better in wartime days. They were huge inside, with great high ceilings, so that a gentleman had no need to take off his topper, nor a lady her bird-bedecked bonnet. And each cab had a built-in cocktail cabinet, plush leather seats and, even though this cab was motorised, a bale of hay in the boot to feed the horse. [10]

‘’Op in, your lordships,’ said the cabby, his cockney tones at odds with his dapper livery. ‘I expect you swells will want taking to the h’opera, or the ’ouses of Parleyament.’

I watched the guru’s guru’s knuckles whiten around his stick. I grinned and whispered, ‘Do not forget what you promised.’

Hugo Rune contained himself and named our destination.

‘ Mornington Crescent, is it?’ said the cabby, smiling back at us over his shoulder. ‘Now there’s a place and no mistake. ’It by a bomb last night, it were. Blew a great terrible ’ole.’

I looked up at Hugo Rune.

And he looked down at me.

‘Drive at your swiftest and there is a silver sovereign in it for you,’ said Mr Rune, in a manner that, to a stranger or casual listener-in (because all walls had ears), would certainly have passed for convincing.

‘Drive then I will, your ’onour,’ said the cabby and off we jolly well went.