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mysterious. Not to mention annoying. Why do they do that? Copyright problems?”
    “No, the master tape is missing.”
    “That’s a major bummer. What was the track?”
    “A vocal number. Just for this one track Geary was joined by a singer called Rita Mae Pollini.”
    “Rita Mae who?”
    “Pollini. For my money the greatest jazz singer who ever lived.”
    “Never heard of her.”
    I shrugged. “A lot of people have never heard of June Christy or Betty Carter or Lucy Ann Polk.”
    “I’ve got some Betty Carter here, somewhere,” said Tinkler. He rose from the sofa and went over and checked the amp, which was warming up. Tinkler’s hi-fi system consisted of a vintage Thorens TD 124 turntable, some mammoth Tannoy horn-loaded speakers, only slightly smaller than prehistoric elephants, installed on either side of the chimney breast, and an amplifier using valves from obsolete television cameras that looked like the control panel of a flying saucer in a 1953 movie.
    It all sounded pretty good, though.
    While he was checking the bias and DC offset on each output valve—a finicky business but necessary if he didn’t want his speakers bursting into flame—I went over and looked at the fitted shelves that filled an entire wall except for a narrow strip where the Valerian picture hung.
    The shelves were mostly crammed with records, of course, but there was also a narrow section devoted to books about music. I reached up and took down Wilson’s
Singers of America
. I’d sat back down and found the page I was looking for before Tinkler finished fiddling with the valves.
    When he finally concluded his task he came over and frowned at the book. “What’s that?”
    I showed him the picture I’d found of Rita Mae Pollini. Taken in 1958 it showed a stunning beauty with dark hair and wide dark eyes. It was hard to tell in the black and white photo, but her skin seemed to be a beguiling olive shade. A Mediterranean beauty who might have gazed out of a Renaissance painting.
    Tinkler stared at the book. “Good Christ, my underpants are exploding. Why have I never heard of this woman?”
    “Well, she only recorded a handful of albums before vanishing into obscurity. It seems she married a dentist, did her last—and best—recordings, and then retired to raise a kid.”
    “Yes, that will do it every time. Particularly marrying a dentist.” He offered me the joint.
    “No thanks. I’ve got an early start tomorrow.” Coffee was the only drug I really approved of.
    “Yes, the first day of your quest.” He parked the joint in a blue crystal ashtray on the coffee table. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To get some provisions from the kitchen.” He went out the door.
    I called after him. “Got the munchies already?” There was no reply, just the familiar sound of Tinkler falling down the stairs.
    I went out to take a look. “Are you all right?” I stood at the banister, peering down. His pale face smiled tentatively up at me from the shadows below.
    “Fine. Just took a little spill. One of the stair rod screws is a bit loose.”
    “One of
your
screws is a bit loose,” I said.
    He came back a few minutes later with a big white ceramic bowl full of Kettle Chips and placed it on the coffee table. While I helped myself, he went over and rummaged through his records. “You know what I found the other day, at a record fair? A copy of
Beggars’ Banquet
. Red label. Original unboxed Decca mono.”
    “Nice,” I said. Although I primarily listened to jazz, I shared Tinkler’s fondness for the Rolling Stones.
    “Yes, and it was in great nick. Near mint. I paid for it with trembling hands, got it home and went to put it on the shelf, and you know what?”
    “You found you already had a near-mint mono Decca copy of it with unboxed red labels?”
    “I already had five of them,” said Tinkler.
    * * *
    I had been looking for an excuse to avoid smoking dope with Tinkler, but I hadn’t been