Then, suddenly, the pieces would cohere and I would finger the villain while leaning against a mantel-piece in an elegant drawing room, shaking my head in regret at the wickedness of humanity while all around offered me congratulations. Unfortunately the “Mitch Mitchell Method,” such as it is, involves blundering in a thick fog of confusion, from which cocks and asses occasionally emerge to demand my attention, until I trip over something so obvious that I should have noticed it right away. I was pondering my general uselessness and lack of mental acuity, picturing that thick fog of confusion punctuated by male sexual parts—and this led me naturally to think about steamrooms, of which London is so gratifyingly full. My first instinct was to visit one forthwith and see what was offered; my second thought was that Morgan had mentioned the steamrooms at the Parthenon Club as a regular haunt of the late Frank Bartlett—the place where their mutual attraction had first been revealed.
