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disorientation, which was becoming habitual, like that of someone wandering around with a mild dose of flu, increased as he stood there trying to decipher the source of a clack, clack, clack noise, interrupted by the ttring! of a bell.
    He turned into a room lit by the window, the light penetrating on to the two tables, where two large females sat, hammering away on stand-up-and-beg ancient typewriters big enough to dwarf the size of their formidable bosoms. He had a dim memory of his father typing on one of these infernal machines when he was a child, putting into it the kind of manual effort which would be useful for mending a road. He looked on in amazement.
    The nearest woman, with a bleached frizz of hair and a comfortable face, stopped work and whipped off her spectacles.

    'Yessir. What can I do for you?'

    It was a ratatat command, in tune with her neighbour's continued typing, accompanied by a smile which informed him at once how she could strong-arm him out the door, or welcome him in, depending upon his own manners.
    'Could I speak to Mr Chisholm?'

    'Dead these fifty years, but if you'd like to see the current partner, I'll see if can raise him. Not from the dead himself, if you see what I mean. I'm sure he's somewhere in the building.
    Maybe. Can I ask what it was about? Only Mr Chisholm's substitute might not be the right man at all.'
    'I'd rather not say. It's. . . kinda personal.'

    She nodded, understandingly. The word divorce was mirrored in her eyes as she moved into the foyer and yelled into the cavern of the stairs. 'Mr Burns!' There was an answering, indeterminate echo. She nodded. 'Have a seat in the waiting room. He'll be out in a minute.' She made it sound as if Mr Burns was unfortunately stuck on the toilet, and the length of time a client might wait before receiving the privilege of the great man's attention was uncertain. All the same, Henry was grateful.
    The room into which he was ushered seemed, in the harsh light of a central bulb scarcely concealed behind a paper shade, to consist more of metal than anything else. One side was occupied by three massive safes, balanced against each other, the one in the middle acting as prop to the two, slightly smaller versions of its iron-clad self, like ancient cousins in three-way conversation. They smelt metallic; they looked icy cold to the touch; they were two metres high, leaving a stretch of yellow wall between their heads and the yellower ceiling. The touch of green on the metal suggested the presence of something perishable inside. Henry turned away and looked for a chair.
    Twelve chairs, he counted, ranged round the sides of the room not occupied by the volume of the safes, each of a different style, a couple made of plastic alone, two more which his untutored eye could see in a museum taking pride of place with their frayed, Georgian beauty, three of lesser, but refined Victorian vintage, despite the rotting forepaw of a leg here and there. The wooden floor dipped dramatically, nothing particularly clean or polished; his hand encountered a piece of extra-cold chewing gum on the underside of the seat he had chosen. He waited.
    The outside door slammed with the same shuddering reverberation which had drawn him towards it in the first place. The clack, clack ,clack of the typewriters went on, interrupted by a telephone and a burst of irritated speech. He waited. A head appeared round the doorway.
    'Do come up, Mr . . .' 'Evans. Henry.'
    'Good morning. Cold, isn't it?'

    The black legs in front of him took the stairs two at a time, and then they were in a bigger room overlooking the street, where it was light and mercifully warm. Not warm enough for Henry to want to fling off his coat, but tolerable.
    'American, Mr Evans?'

    'Oh . . . how can you tell?'
    'Clothes, dear boy. Can always tell by the clothes. Also by the way people shake their heads.
    Your first visit?'
    'Why, yes. Always meant to, never did. . .'
    His head had been nodding, Henry realized