This was back in 1938 when few people except the Germans knew that they had already won their war in Europe. People still cared about art and tried to make it out of everything from old clothes to orange peel and that was how the Princess Dignanni found Pat. She wanted to make art out of him.

‘No, not you, Mr DeTinc.’ she said, ‘I can’t paint you. You are a very standardized¹ product, Mr DeTinc.’

Mr DeTinc, who was a power in pictures and had even been photographed with Mr Duchman, the Secret Sin specialist, stepped smoothly² out of the way. He was not offended — in his whole life Mr DeTinc had never been offended — but especially not now, for the Princess did not want to paint Clark Gable or Spencer Rooney or Vivien Leigh either.

She saw Pat in the commissary and found he was a writer, and asked that he be invited to Mr DeTinc’s party. The Princess was a pretty woman born in Boston, Massachusetts and Pat was forty-nine with red-rimmed eyes and a soft purr of whiskey on his breath.

‘You write scenarios³, Mr Hobby?’

‘I help,’ said Pat. ‘Takes more than one person to prepare a script.’

He was flattered by this attention and not a little suspicious. It was only because his supervisor⁵ was a nervous wreck⁶ that he happened to have a job at all. His supervisor had forgotten a week ago that he had hired Pat, and when Pat was spotted⁷ in the commissary and told he was wanted at Mr DeTinc’s house, the writer had passed a mauvais quart d’heure. It did not even look like the kind of party that Pat had known in his prosperous days. There was not so much as a drunk passed out in the downstairs toilet.

‘I imagine scenario⁴ writing is very well-paid,’ said the Princess.

Pat glanced around to see who was within hearing. Mr DeTinc had

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