There was an air of acetone in Foodge’s office as the remaining wetness evaporated from Fern’s immaculately sculpted nails.  She opened the window to the point where she could make the judgment that the air outside was far less breathable than a boil-over in a cosmetic foundry.  Fern closed the window and turned the overhead fan up to “2”.  This made no difference.

Fern opened the door just before the doorbell rang.  Offscreen, Emmjay frowned at the sound effects operator, then realised that Fern was ad-libbing fresh air.

Standing in the doorway was a ravishing, tall and slender woman, impeccably attired in Eurojaponais fashion.  Fern knew she was looking at a woman of wealth, discernment and considerable taste.  The shoes were Anne Demeulemeester, the dress was a Comme de Garcon spring collection number in black, red and white.  The Fern was a tiny bit envious.  Emmjay realised that the ABC wardrobe man had created a fashion statement that would appear forty years in the future.  He scribbled one word on a piece of paper, handed it to his assistant, he always called “The First Mate”.  She handed it to the ABC wardrobe man.  It said “Centrelink”.

“Come in, Miss …..” Fern dangled an introductory opportunity.  “Thank you” replied the mysterious fashionista, declining the nominative insertion potential of the exchange.

“Mr Foodge is expected momentarily”, said Fern. “Do you mean that he is anticipated for a fleeting period of time in the sense of the literal English, or do you mean that after a short period he will no longer be expected to arrive – because he HAS arrived – as the Americans mangle the English ?” inquired the vision of style and grace.

“I mean, he is supposed to be here soon” came Fern’s increasingly testy response.  “Would you like a cup of coffee, some tea or perhaps a glass of water ?”   The water cooler made an obligingly authentic imitation of a dog unloading its breakfast in the alley outside, by way of answer and the woman opted for the offer of a seat in preference.

She sat with the elegance of a swan.  Tall, composed, straight and self-contained.  She was a woman of substance and Fern could tell that this was no mere wealthy dame riding the coattails of some merchant or a rapper’s moll.  No this dame had substance all right, and a well-worn season ticket to a gym.  She had the look of a woman who had lost a lot of puppy fat, had grown lean and hard, but still managed to keep the kind of curves a man might find irresistible.  Fern was standing back and letting her admiration struggle with her sense of envy.  Envy seemed comfortably in front for the long haul.  The gap was widening under the influence of about $200 worth of French perfume.

Both women heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway.  The door opened with a remarkably synchronised unlocking sound and Foodge strode in and tossed his fedora onto the hatstand in half of the corners of the room.

“Ah, good morning Miss ….Thropy” “Thropy” she echoed, needlessly, but usefully as emphasis and cadence – much like one of the Kransky sisters.  “I’m well, thank you Mr….. Foodge””Foodge” he responded, by way of making an embarrassing moment a little more embarrassing.

Foodge retired to the Aeron chair and Miss Thropy arranged herself on Foodge’s lap Chesterfield.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Foodge” said Miss T, much to a rapidly-tiring Emmjay’s relief.  “We are having some concern over a small matter of a possible contract”.

Foodge suspected that it was a “royal we”, but thought it wise to seek clarification at the first break in the traffic.

“My ex-husband, Mr Foodge, has received death threats”.  “Yes, so ?” And he hasn’t returned from a business trip to Colombia.  He was due back three days ago.”  And what was he doing in Colombia, Miss Thropy ?”.  “He runs an import / export business, Mr Foodge.  He exports Ugg boots and surf apparel and imports washing powder.”

“And how can I help you Miss Thropy?” asked Foodge, suppressing jokes about a whitewash and shear fantasy.  He was quickly coming to the conclusion that this was a messy and possibly dangerous expedition up a blind alley and a perfect opportunity if not exactly getting rained on with his own .38, of finding out how inferior his gat was to an AK-47.

“ I want you to find him and bring him back, Mr Foodge”. “Miss……””Thropy”, she filled in. “Thropy, Yes….. Miss Anne Thropy, I recall” said Foodge.  “I’m a little tied up with a few cases at present”.  Fern had a sudden coughing fit.

“What are your fees, Mr Foodge ?”

Before Foodge had time to answer ‘five hundred a day plus expenses’, Anne Thropy said “I’ll pay you $1,000 a day.”  “Plus expenses”, added Foodge helpfully, but non-specifically. “Then we have an arrangement, Mr Foodge, she said and took a plain envelope from her bag, rose and placed it on the desk in front of Foodge and allowed Fern the time and space to open the door for her.

“We’ll be in touch, Mr Foodge”, she said over her shoulder. “Undoubtedly, Miss Anne Thropy”, he replied.