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the places it should be, and then all the places it might be, and lastly all the places it couldn’t possibly be. This left only one conclusion. ‘Thief!’ cried Goatwriter. ‘Thief! Thief!’ Pithecanthropus and Mrs Comb rushed in – she knew exactly what to do. ‘Not again sir. Let me explain – your snack paper goes in here, and your writings and whatnot—’ Goatwriter shook his head, numbly. ‘No, Mrs Comb! My manuscript is not m-missing, but my fountain pen! The tongue of my imagination! The selfsame pen Lady Shonagon wrote her pillow book with over thirteen thousand crescent moons ago! The birds nought but a didactic tactic, a decoy deployed while the thief struck!’

‘Whatever’s the world coming to?’ said Mrs Comb. ‘Rob thy neighbour!’

Pithecanthropus grunted a question.

‘Who? A gloatload of connival rivals have the will to kill my quill!’ Goatwriter groaned tearfully. ‘Without my fountain pen, my career is over, moreover! The critics will de-re-un-in(con)struct me!’

‘Over my dead body, sir! Never you fear! We found us a thief before and we’ll find us one again! Won’t we, you?’ Pithecanthropus was so pleased to be addressed by Mrs Comb directly that he grunted happily, not wishing to point out yet that tracking in the muddy margin was easy, but tracking in a windy baking desert was a different prospect entirely

‘As usual, Mrs Comb,’ said Goatwriter, forcing himself to calm down, ‘you are quite right. Let us apply logic to the dilemma. My pen is missing. Where does one find pens? At the end of sentences. Where does one find the ends of sentences? The ends of lines. Now, how many lines does one find in a desert?’

Mrs Comb looked through the window. ‘Only one line out here, sir.’

‘Which is that, m-my dear Mrs Comb?’

‘Why, sir – the line running down the centre of the road!’

Goatwriter clapped his hoofs. ‘Battle stations, friends! To war we go!’

Mrs Comb was tiring, perspiring beneath her parasol, wondering if the next egg she laid would come out hard-boiled. Pithecanthropus sweated profusely and the road cooked holes in his soles. Goatwriter saw mirages of verbs freeze and melt. The cruel sun shot dead hot lead at high noon. Time itself relapsed and collapsed. Goatwriter dabbed his brow with his drenched handkerchief and checked that what he thought he saw was truly true. ‘Aha! Take heart, my friends! The white lines are veering off the road – my fountain pen cannot be far!’ Mrs Comb insisted they drank a prickly-pear dessert before the desert. Without the white lines to guide them, even Pithecanthropus would have lost his way in the smoulderboulders, jags and crags, rocks and blocks. Reptiles stood still, on alternate legs. Pithecanthropus felt they were being watched, but said nothing for fear of distressing Mrs Comb. ‘I say,’ said Goatwriter, at the head of the expedition. ‘We seem to be . . . here.’ The three drew level at the lip of a porcelain crater, as steep as it was wide. A black hole emerged at the centre. ‘Extraordinary,’ murmured Goatwriter. ‘A primitive culture, evolving radiotelescope technology, unbeknown to the outside world . . .’

‘You can call it a radiotellywhatsit, sir, but I know a kitchen sink when I see one. Must take a month o’ Mondays to polish it, or—’

‘Keeeeeeraaaaaaaaawk!’ An evil-eyed, sawtooth-beaked pterodactyl appeared from the near rear to spear Goatwriter clear down the crater. ‘Sir!’ squawked Mrs Comb – Goatwriter’s hoofs were unable to gain traction on the ceramic surface. ‘Sir! I’m coming! I’ll rescue you!’ Mrs Comb swooped down on an intercept course, but Goatwriter vanished into the blackness. Mrs Comb, unable to pull out of her beak dive, promptly disappeared too. Pithecanthropus watched the pterodactyl circle around for another attack. ‘Keeeraaawkeeeraaawkeeeraaaaaaaaaw!’ Pithecanthropus wasn’t afraid of dinosaurs – or anything else – but the thought of Mrs Comb facing danger alone made his cranium throb with worry. He tobaggoned down the crater. The bottomless blackness boomed.

I sit at the writing bureau with a fresh sheet of paper, and for one moment my letter is perfect. The photograph of my father is open on the bureau too. How do you write a letter a real live private detective? Dear sir, you don’t know me, but – rejected. Dear sir, I am the late Mr Morino’s personal assistant, and I am writing to ask for a replacement – rejected. Dear sir, my name is Eiji Miyake – you spied on me not so long ago for – rejected. I decide to be uncunning