'I suppose you're right. But you must make it clear that filming here is out of the question.'

'Yes, yes, of course, my dear. I will - er, after they arrive.'

 

* * *

 

The telephone buzzed in Cyrus Haggermeir's suite at the Ritz Hotel in London. He lifted the receiver. 'Yep?'

'This is the desk, sir. There is a — a gentleman wishing to see you. A Mr Arlington Gilbert. His business relates to your forthcoming motion picture.'

'OK, I'll give him five minutes. Send him up.'

Three minutes later there was a loud and peremptory rapping on the door. Haggermeir opened it. Then he blinked. The man standing on the threshold was over six feet tall and of considerable girth. His hair was long. He was wearing a tartan cloak over a black and somewhat grubby polo sweater; black and white check trousers; and on his feet sandals over mauve socks. In his hand he was clutching a newspaper.

For a moment Haggermeir stared at the visitor, then said, 'Er, good day. Mr Arlington Gilbert?'

'I have that honour.'

He had a deep and plummy voice. Then, uninvited, he stepped into the room, almost forcing Haggermeir to stand aside. With a swirl of his cloak he swung round and gazed at Haggermeir. His expression was of a man looking at some interesting but rather repulsive exhibit in a museum.

Haggermeir said, 'I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure to know—'

'A pleasure it most certainly ought to be. But I'm afraid you are not going to find it so.'

'Mr Gilbert, if you could kindly state your business—'

'My business, sir, is this.' Gilbert thrust the newspaper under Haggermeir's nose. It was folded to show a photo of a smiling Rex Ransom, surrounded by autograph-hunters. The caption beneath it read:

Rex Ransom, the American film star, who arrived in London yesterday. Mr Ransom and the well-known producer, Mr Cyrus Haggermeir, are in England to make arrangements for their next picture, a Civil War drama to be called 'The King's Man.'

Haggermeir said: 'Yes, I saw that. What about it?'

'What about it?' Gilbert cast his eyes heavenwards. 'Jupiter's teeth! It may interest you mildly to know that this film you so blithely announce you are going to make is my property. I own the copyright. I wrote it.'

Haggermeir snapped his fingers. 'Of course! Arlington Gilbert! I thought the name rang a bell.'

Gilbert gave a snort of disgust. 'Absolutely typical. One sweats blood creating a work that they tell you is 'great' or 'the cat's whiskers,' and which is then locked away for years in some vault.