'I don't know about the rumour,' said Wilt, 'but there's certainly truth in the description. Razor blades is exact.'
'Well, you'll be interested to hear that the gossip-mongers are thinking of awarding a medal to the croc that took the bit between its teeth. That's the version that's going the rounds.'
'Let it,' said Wilt. 'Nothing could be further from the truth.'
'Christ, you haven't got syphilis or something ghastly like that, have you?'
'Unfortunately not. I understand the modern treatment for syphilis is relatively painless. My condition isn't. And I've had all the fucking treatment I can stand. There are a number of people in this town I could cheerfully murder.'
'Oh dear,' said Braintree, 'things do sound grim.'
'They are,' said Wilt. 'They reached their nadir of grimness at four o'clock this morning when that little bitch Emmeline climbed into bed and stepped on my septic tank. It's bad enough being a human hose pipe but to be awakened in the dead hours of the night to find yourself peeing backwards is an experience that throws a new and terrible light on the human condition. Have you ever had a non-euphemistically wet dream in reverse?'
'Certainly not,' said Braintree with a shudder.
'Well I have,' said Wilt. 'And I can tell you that it destroys what few paternal feelings a father has. If I hadn't been in convulsions I'd have been charged with quadricide by now. Instead I have added volumes to Emmeline's vile vocabulary and Miss Mueller must be under the impression that English sex life is sado-masochistic in the extreme. God alone knows what she thought of the din we made last night.'
'And how is our Inspiration these days? Still musing?' asked Braintree.
'Evasive. Distinctly evasive. Mind you in my present condition I try not to be too conspicuous myself.'
'If you will go around in Eva's maternity gowns I can't say I'm surprised. It's enough to make anyone wonder.'
'Well, I'm puzzled too,' said Wilt. 'I can't make the woman out. Do you know she has a succession of disgustingly rich young men traipsing through the house?'
'That accounts for the Aston-Martin,' said Braintree. 'I wondered who had inherited a fortune.'
'Yes, but it doesn't account for the wig.'
'What wig?'
'The car belongs to some Casanova from Mexico. He wears a walrus moustache, Chanel Number something or other, and worst of all a wig. I have observed it closely through the binoculars. He takes it off when he gets up there.'
Wilt handed Braintree the binoculars and indicated the attic flat.
'I can't see anything. The Venetian blinds are down,' said Braintree after a minute's observation.
'Well I can tell you he does wear a wig and I'd like to know why.'
'Probably because he's bald. That's the usual reason.'
'Which is precisely why I ask the question. Lothario Zapata isn't. He has a perfectly good head of hair, and yet when he gets up to the flat he takes his wig off.'
'What sort of wig?'
'Oh, a black shaggy thing,' said Wilt. 'Underneath he's blond. You've got to admit it's peculiar.'
'Why don't you ask your Irmgard? Could be she has a penchant for blond young men with wigs.'
But Wilt shook his head. 'In the first place because she leaves the house before I'm up and relatively about, and secondly because my sense of self-preservation tells me that anything in the way of sexual stimulation could have the most dire and possibly irreversible consequences. No, I prefer to speculate from afar.'
