“Who’s Jack Groom?” Simon asked.
“The genius who’s going to condescend to direct this epic. Art with a capital ‘F.’ You’ll meet him.”
Simon did, a little later.
Mr Groom was tall and thin and stoop-shouldered. He had pale hollow cheeks and lank black hair that fell forward to meet his thick black brows. He had a rich deep voice that never seemed as if it could be produced by such a sepulchral creature.
He inspected Simon with complete detachment, and said, “Could you grow a moustache in ten days?”
“I should think so,” said the Saint. “But what would I do with it? Is there a market for them?”
“You should have a moustache in this picture. And your hair should be slicked down more. It’ll give you a smoother appearance.”
“I used to slick it down once,” said the Saint, “but I got tired of it. And I never have worn a moustache, except in character.”
Mr Groom shook his head, and swept his forelock back with long tired fingers. It promptly fell down again.
“The Saint would wear a moustache,” he stated impregnably. “I’ve got a feeling about it.”