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“What’s the idea?”
    “No idea. I want to see Mainworthy.”
    “Who’s this Ernie you’re talking about?”
    “Ask Mainworthy. If he wants you to know he’ll tell you.”
    For a moment Brett hesitated, then with a quick, angry shrug, he turned on his heel.
    “Come with me.”
    Corridon followed him along the path, past a big floodlit bathing-pool where a few Spartan men and women were swimming, up stone steps on which stood tubs of black and yellow tulips, cleverly lit by concealed lighting. It was obvious no expense had been spared to give the place an air of sleek luxury.
    The club was a long, single-storey building with a thatched roof and rough-cast walls. Neon lights in amber and pale blue outlined the whole building.
    Brett pushed open a door and entered a brilliantly lit bar-room. A number of men and women in evening dress sat up at the bar on high stools, drinking. They glanced at Corridon curiously, and two of the women smiled at Brett, waving to him. He gave them a curt nod as he crossed the bar into an office.
    “If you will wait here,” he said, opened a door at the fat end of the office and entered the room beyond.
    Before the door closed, Corridon had a glimpse of another office, considerably larger than the one he was in.
    He rested his hips on the desk while he lit a cigarette. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and his ears were cocked, but he didn’t hear anything.
    Five minutes dragged by, then the door jerked open and Brett came out.
    “You can go in,” he said, waving towards the open door, and went out of the office.
    Corridon pushed himself off the desk and entered the inner room. It was luxuriously furnished, and a bright fire burned in the fireplace. There was a desk by the double windows, and behind the desk sat George Mainworthy.
    He hadn’t changed much since Corridon had last seen him. He was a little older perhaps, and stouter, and his dark, swept-back hair was growing thin at the temples. He was, Corridon guessed, in his early fifties. A man with a faded military appearance, a heavily dyed moustache and a slack weak mouth.
    “You wanted to see me?” he asked, without moving. His small eyes were suspicious and watchful, his voice hushed like a sidesman whistling in church.
    “Why, yes,” Corridon said, plainly at ease. He shut the door and crossed the room. “I wanted to join this club.”
    “Then you don’t want to see me,” Mainworthy said, and reached across the desk to a bell push. “Brett looks after that side of the business.”
    “Don’t ring,” Corridon said, sitting down. “I’d rather deal with you. It’s not quite straightforward. I understand there are formalities, and a fifty guinea entrance fee. I haven’t fifty guineas, Major, but I still intend to join the club.”
    Mainworthy slowly withdrew his hand. He stared down at the snowy blotter.
    “Indeed? And you know someone who will put you up?”
    “There’s you,” Corridon said cheerfully, “and I dare say if I could find Ernie he would put in a good word for me. Remember him, Major? The last time I saw you with him was about four years ago. He tried to knife you.”
    Mainworthy sat very still, his face expressionless.
    “So it’s like that,” he said, and his voice was bitter. “I’ve heard about you, of course. You have a reputation for being dangerous and unscrupulous, haven’t you?”
    “I’m afraid I have,” Corridon said lightly, “but don’t rub it in. I’m not proud of it.”
    “Why do you want to join this club?”
    Corridon stubbed out his cigarette, reached for another from the gold box on Mainworthy’s desk.
    “Surely that is obvious. My contacts in my own territory no longer seem willing to trust me, and it is affecting my pocket. Here, the idle rich – what is left of them – spend their leisure. It would be an excellent hunting ground for me. You can see that, can’t you?”
    “So you intend to fleece my clientele?” Mainworthy said, drumming on the blotter