‘Fear not for that, young Rizla,’ called Hugo Rune, as he mixed himself a cocktail. ‘ London cabs never have and never will run on petrol. They run on tap water, taking advantage of the MacGreggor Mather’s Water Car Patent, which is otherwise kept secret from the public and the motor industry.’

‘There are so many legitimate reasons for hating cabbies, are there not?’ I said. And I saw Mr Rune’s head nod in the driving mirror.

I drove for many hours. Because we were driving to Liverpool and Liverpool is a goodly drive from Brentford, especially in a taxi with a top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.

‘Tell me about the liner we are travelling on,’ I said. ‘Will it be luxurious?’

‘Extremely,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘It is the RMS Olympic.’

‘Hold on there,’ I said in return. ‘The Olympic was a sister ship to the Titanic and it ceased to ply the waters back in the nineteen thirties.’

‘Well, you know best, young Rizla.’

‘So it is still in service?’ I said.

‘It is a luxury liner, top class in all departments. And it is neutral. Like Switzerland.’

‘You cannot have a neutral ship, can you?’ I asked.

‘You have to have at least one. Otherwise how are the rich supposed to take their cruises during wartime?’

‘That is surely outrageous.’

‘You won’t say that when you are aboard.’

But I did say that when I was aboard. I was somewhat appalled. There were folk of every nation on board that magical liner. Rich folk all and all as friendly as can be. And there were military folk also. Those of the highest ranks. SS officers were clinking glasses with martial toffs from Eton. All around and about the world was in the grip of a terrible war that would leave millions homeless, wounded or dead, and here the swells were having it large and dancing the night away.

A seaman chappy in an immaculate white uniform showed us to our staterooms. And yes, they were POSH – port out, starboard home, Posh with a capital P.

I entered the suite of Hugo Rune, who was bouncing on his double bunk.

‘Now this, young Rizla,’ he said to me, ‘really is the life.’

‘This is shameful,’ I said. ‘Awful. With all the misery of this hideous war, the rich and privileged live like kings aboard this floating palace and have not a care in the world.’

‘Oh, they have their cares,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘Which tie to wear for dinner. The jewelled coronet or the diamond pendant.’

‘It is disgusting,’ I said. ‘And you should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Me?’ said Hugo Rune, with outrage in his voice.

‘You condone it. You revel in it-’

‘Rizla.’ And Hugo Rune ceased all his bouncing. ‘You and I are on a mission to alter the course of this war. To save millions from nuclear death. Do you not feel that we deserve three square meals a day and a decent nest to curl up in come nightfall, whilst journeying forth on this noble quest?’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘If you put it like that. But the rest of these people-’

‘Their lives are not ours. Their morals are not ours. Do you not think that I hold them in contempt? Do you think that I lack all morality and sensibility?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Of course not.’

‘In that case, Rizla, I suggest we don our dinner suits and make our way to the bar. The Olympic sails at sunrise and I would recommend that you view this event from the top deck, with a gin and tonic in your hand. What say you to this matter?’

And I said Yes to it.

A regular pair of toffs we looked, as we sauntered down to the bar. This was the first time I had actually worn my dinner suit. Mr Rune had had it made to measure for me at a fashionable tailor shop in Piccadilly. Regarding the payment of the bill?

I had no regard for that.

The sheer scale of the RMS Olympic was daunting. The decks dwindled with perspective seemingly to infinity and the bar was nearly the size of a football pitch. It was all early neon, chrome and black, with elegant statuary of the art deco persuasion. All topless sylphlike females with slender bums and breasts.

Behind the bar counter were more colourful drinks than I had ever imagined existed. They covered the spectrum and went beyond and I looked on in awe. Behind the counter, before these bottles, stood a noble barman. A modish figure in a rapscallion jacket and feta-cheese-style pantaloons, he wore a jaunty little sailor’s cap and a flower in his buttonhole. And he greeted our approach to his counter with a, ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Pleased to be here,’ I said with a smile. And then I said, ‘Hold on.’ And I gazed hard at that barman and I said, ‘Fangio?’

‘None other,’ said he. ‘But we’ll keep that just between the three of us, if you don’t mind. Or four, if you want to count my pet monkey Clarence here in his natty waistcoat and fez.’

I tipped a wink at Clarence and he raised his fez to me.

‘What a joy to see you both here,’ said Fangio. ‘I had to, how shall I put this, make myself scarce, as it were. The customs men and the rozzers were hard at my heels. And although I hated like Satan’s saucepan-full of collywobbles to have to run off before entering the Inter-Pub Lookalike Competition, I felt it best to sign on for a one-way passage to the home of the brave and the land of the free rather than stay behind and face the music. As it were.’

‘Well, that makes everything clear,’ I said. ‘Except for Satan’s saucepan.’

‘Ah,’ said Fangio. ‘I’m experimenting with new terms of expression. Lord Cardigan welt me with a kipper if I’m telling you a lie.’

‘I think it might need working on,’ I said. ‘But there is running-gag potential for sure, so work at it.’

‘And what are you and Mr Rune doing here?’ said Fangio. ‘Having a bit of a holiday, is it now?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Hugo Rune, pointing to this bottle and that in the hope that Fangio might combine their contents into an interesting cocktail. ‘We are here strictly on business. Undercover, as it were.’

‘Well, it’s my good fortune to run into you again. I have your bill for your outstanding account at The Purple Princess in my cabin.’

Mr Rune pointed with greater urgency and the matter of the outstanding account was never mentioned again.

‘Tell you what though,’ said Fangio in a confidential kind of a way, ‘they’re an odd old bunch, aren’t they, the rich?’

He shook Hugo Rune’s concoction and then poured it into a glass. The Magus downed this in one and swiftly ordered another.

And then he said, ‘Odd? In what way?’

‘They just look odd,’ said Fangio. ‘Especially the old ones – and there are some really old ones on board. Ancient dowagers and countesses. Eastern European nannas with unpronounceable names.’

‘I fail to see what is so odd about that,’ said Hugo Rune. ‘And while you’re at it, please pop in two of those olives and a squirt of mescaline.’

‘Well, perhaps it’s just me, then,’ said Fangio. ‘I can be all step-and-fetch-it-Barney-on-me-way-to-the-local-zoo at times, and don’t go flattering me by telling me otherwise.’

‘Forget what I said earlier,’ I said. ‘And how about serving me a drink?’

We spent the time until dawn in cocktail experimentation and succeeded in creating a number of drinks of such extreme unlikeliness as to baffle even ourselves. But then the dawn came up like thunder, as it sometimes does from Rangoon across the bay, and Mr Rune and I tottered topside to enjoy the leaving of port.

And it was a sight to remember, the lowering of the gangways, the belaying in and heaving to, some late and complicated pipings aboard, followed by lines being slipped and forecastles trimmed and things of that nature nautically.

And off slid the liner out into the sea and we were off on our way.