"Mortimer, John - Rumpole A La Carte" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)
'Don't be silly! With manslaughter! You know there's a sort of legend grown up round the Bailey. Old Rumpole gets away with it every time. Even my wife, even Lady Featherstone, thinks Rumpole can twist me round his little finger!' 'Very astute lady, if I may say so, my Lord.' Wilfred had a healthy respect for Marigold.
'That's as may be, Wilfred. But old Rumpole is not getting away with this one. I tell you, I've taken a good look at Union Boss Baker. And I don't like what I see. I intend to pot him good and proper', at this, his Lordship imitated a man playing billiards, 'in off the red! At least he won't be able to go on strike in prison!' It was at this point that, after a brief knock, another judge, considerably senior in years and experience to Guthrie, named Sir Simon Parsloe, blew into the room to discuss what he called the 'dotty schemes the Lord Chancellor's got to reform the Bar'. Stowing away Guthrie's mufti jacket and hat, Wilfred was privy to a plan for a few top judges to rise early and meet in Mr Justice Parsloe's room in the Law Courts to discuss the best way of foiling the lunatic scheme which would have solicitors appearing in the top Courts, solicitors sitting on the Bench, 'solicitors in the House of Lords, if we're not bloody careful, overturning our judgments', to adopt the vivid language of Sir Simon Parsloe, 'and,' he added, 'we judges have got to take some sort of action.' 'You don't mean', poor old Featherstone was aghast, 'our jobs are at risk?' 'Well, who knows? Anything can happen. Can you make yourself free, Guthrie?' 'They'd better try and stop me!' Our judge was uncharacteristically decisive. 'Sound fellow!' Parsloe departed with a vague salute and Guthrie turned to confide in his clerk.
Jobs at risk!' He seemed close to tears. 'Can you believe it, Wilfred? The Summer of Discontent, I tell you. That's what I call it.' The Prosecution of Ben Baker was in the hands of Soapy Sam 55 Ballard, q.c., with Claude Erskine-Brown as his learned junior.
It seemed that this pair were quite ready to do trades union cases, so long as they weren't on the side of the workers. That morning, Ballard called Gerald Jebb, who was Basher Baker's contemporary and a fellow member of N.U.C.D.O. Mr Jebb was a small, cheerful man with a turned-up nose who looked like a grey-haired schoolboy. I feared that he was the most dangerous of all adversaries, an honest witness. Ballard took him through the events of the fatal day, until he reached the point when my client got hurriedly out of the way of an advancing Luxie-Coach. Then he asked Mr Jebb, 'From your position on the picket line, did you see the defendant Baker stoop down?' 'My Lord', I rose slowly to my hind legs, 'I didn't know that leading questions were allowed. Even in cases against trades union officials.' 'Leading questions are not allowed in any case, Mr Rumpole,' my Lord said. 'As you know perfectly well. Yes, carry on, Mr Ballard.' I subsided, clear in the knowledge of which side Guthrie was on.
'I'm obliged to your Lordship.' Ballard was in a particularly servile mood. 'Yes. What did you see Baker do?' 'He stooped down and picked up a brick, my Lord. Then he hurled it at the coach driver.' Jebb gave us the facts with effective reluctance.
'Did he hurl it hard?' And although I rumbled a warning 'Don't lead, Mr Ballard!' the witness supplied the answer. 'He hurled it with full force, my Lord.' 'He hurled it with full force at the driver,' Guthrie repeated with great satisfaction as he noted the evidence down. Ballard subsided, well satisfied, and I rose to cross-examine, with no very clear plan of campaign. 'Mr Jebb. You said you saw my client stoop to the ground.' I began quietly as the Jury clearly liked Mr Jebb and would have hated to see him bullied.
"Х 'Yes, I did.' t 'Hadn't he just jumped out of the path of a charabanc travelling at speed?' 'He had got out of its way. Yes.', 56 'Wasn't the driver doing his best to kill himT 'I'm not sure what he was doing,' Jebb answered perfectly fairly. It was a slim chance but I jumped on it. 'Just as you're not sure what my client was doing when he stumbled and stooped to the ground?' 'He has given evidence that he saw your client pick up a brick and hurl it, Mr Rumpole.' Guthrie was quick to the witness's aid in a time of not very great trouble.
'I'm sure my learned friend Mr Ballard is most grateful to your Lordship for that intervention,' I said to Guthrie with an irony that I was afraid might be lost on him. And then I turned to the witness. 'Oh, one more thing, Mr Jebb. When the police arrived on the scene you said nothing about seeing Mr Baker throw the brick. You made your first statement', I picked it up and looked at it, 'some three weeks afterwards. Why was that?' I''I didn't want to get Basher into no trouble.' 'Well, you've got him into trouble now, haven't you? Why did you change your mind?' 'Because I thought I should tell the truth.' Judge and jury loved that answer and it was clear I was getting absolutely nowhere with Brother Jebb. Accordingly I asked to postpone the rest of my cross-examination to the next day. I said I was waiting for some further inquiries to be made, when what I meant was that I was waiting for a touch of inspiration. Rather to my surprise, both Guthrie and Soapy Sam agreed to have Mr Jebb back at the end of the prosecution case, but before he was released his Lordship got one in below the defence belt. 'Just a moment before you go, Mr Jebb. You just referred to the defendant as "Basher". The Jury might like to know how he got that nickname?' And although I naturally objected, I was rapidly overruled and the witness answered the Judge's question to devastating effect. 'Because he was always talking about bashing people what took the boss's side, my Lord.' 'Thank you, Mr Jebb. That was extremely helpful.' His Lordship was effusive, but the answer had been about as helpful to me as a cup of cold poison. And then Guthrie made 57 the announcement which, like a stone thrown into a lake, would make waves in an ever-expanding circle.
'Mr Ballard. Mr Rumpole. I shan't be able to sit this afternoon.' 'Oh. May we ask why, my Lord?' 'No.' 'No?' 'I mean, well, yes. Yes, of course. It's an urgent matter. A matter of public duty. I will rise now.' And he was off like a rabbit out of a trap. Mizz Liz Probert was gone almost as quickly, saying she couldn't chat about the case as she had a lunch fixed with young Dave Inchcape. Then my learned opponent Claude Erskine-Brown appeared beside me, staring after Liz with a look of sickly yearning on his face. 'It's the contrast, isn't it,' he babbled, 'between the strict white wig and the impish little face? No disrespect to your crossexamination, Rumpole, but I couldn't take my eyes off her.' 'How's your wife, Erskine-Brown?' I tried to bring the great lover back to reality with a bump.
'Philly?' He seemed to have difficulty remembering the name. 'Doing a rather grand corruption in Hong Kong. We see so little of each other nowadays.' 'So you want to invite Mizz Liz Probert to the Opera again?' I had, of course, got it in one.
'She'd never come,' Claude answered dolefully. 'She doesn't really like me very much, does she? I mean, the way she told me off at the Chambers meeting! Look. I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Rumpole. What I have in mind is merely a social event, entirely innocent. You believe that, don't you?' 'Oh, yes. Everyone's innocent until they're proven guilty.' And then an idea occurred to me, which had in it more than my usual high per cent of brilliance. If it could only be made to work, it might solve a number of problems.
'I have, perhaps,' I told him, 'a little influence with my former pupil, Mizz Liz Probert. She sometimes takes my advice.' 'Do you think you could advise her, Horace?' 58 I,, , tea 'Of course, I couldn't connive at anything but a purely musical evening.' I sounded as pious as Soapy Sam Ballard.
'Purely musical, I promise you. Scout's honour.' 'I'll do my best.' I gave him a boy scout's salute. 'And do a good deed for somebody every day.' And then I scuttered off in the direction of lunch, satisfied with a good deal of ground well prepared.
Women, it seemed to me, make a great mystery about such simple tasks as cooking the dinner. After Hilda withdrew her labour, there I was in the kitchen, peeling the potatoes, with a saucepan of water bubbling, ready to receive them. (There is, after all, no very great skill required in the boiling of water.) The chops were warmly ensconced under the grill and cooking well. Another saucepan was steaming for the inundation of the frozen peas. I took these out of the fridge and it would be a matter of moments, I thought, before I had them open and swimming. Then I ran up against a problem in what, up to then, had seemed the simple art of cooking. Those selling frozen peas clearly regard them as being as precious as jewels or krugerrands, enormous precautions are taken to prevent a break-in and the packet is covered with tough, seamless and apparently impregnable cellophane. I tried to rip off this covering.
I tore at it with my teeth, I worried it as a dog worries a bone, but all in vain. Finally I stabbed it with a sharp knife, causing a fusillade of frozen green bullets to ricochet off the cooker and adjacent walls. One of them hit the overhead light with a most melodious twang. At last I got a reasonable proportion of the elusive vegetables into hot water, but I was distracted by a 'whoosh' and a sheet of flame which shot out at me from under the grill. Naturally I had covered the chops with fat to ensure a sound cooking and, it seemed, this substance was dangerously inflammable. I had never invested in a fire extinguisher, but, with great presence of mind, I remembered the siphon on the sitting-room sideboard. It was a matter of moments to search for it, and, returning, to direct a powerful stream at the blaze.
Strangely enough the soda water also appeared to be 59 ', LI inflammable, because it strengthened rather than diminished the blaze. Then it occurred to me to turn off the grill, and I was beating the dying conflagration with a wet dishcloth when Hilda, who had been out when I started cooking, arrived upon the scene, coughing at the cloud of smoke in what I thought was an exaggerated manner and asking if she should call the fire brigade.
'No longer necessary,' I assured her, 'I'm just cooking the dinner.' 'Oh, really?' She was examining the charred chops critically.
'I thought you were arranging your interesting collection of fossils.' 'Hilda,' I protested, 'I've had absolutely no training in this line of work.' 'Perhaps you should have thought of that before you decided to stay out all hours,' 'Be reasonable. Couldn't we refer the matter to the conciliation service, A.C.A.S.? Or at least discuss it over beer and sandwiches, like they used to in the good old days?' Then the front-door bell rang and Hilda went to answer it, after advising me that if I put the potatoes on immediately, I could have them for pudding. She was back in short order, with a figure familiar to me, but not to her. 'Can you believe it?' Fred Timson said. 'Mrs Rumpole and I have never had the pleasure, not after all these years you've been working for the Timsons.' Fred was the undoubted chief of the Timsons, that large clan of South London villains who, by their selfless application to petty crime, had managed to keep the Rumpoles in such basic necessities of life as sliced bread. Vim, Chateau Fleet Street and the odd small cigar. Luxuries might depend on an occasional well-paid dangerous driving or a long-lasting homicide, but the Timsons, in their humble way, gave us solid support. They were the sort to breed from.
'Fred!' I greeted him. 'Good of you to drop in.' t 'Well, I happened to be in the vicinity. Not getting up to " any naughtiness, Mrs Rumpole,' he assured Hilda. 'I wasn't : doing over the downstairs or nothing. And I come on the off chance you and your old ball and chain might be sat in front of 60 b, the telly. Also I have a bit of info which may be of interest in that job what you're doing at the Bailey, Mr R.' Fred has a far from villainous appearance. He is cheerful, a grandfather, and wears the sort of tweed jackets and cavalry twill trousers a bank manager might sport in the pub at weekends.
None of the Timsons is first class at their jobs, but in his day Fred was a fair to average safe-blower. Despite his look of respectability. She Who Must Be Obeyed was eyeing one of our best customers with deep suspicion. When I invited Fred to stay for a bite of supper, she announced that she was off for a bridge evening at Lady Featherstone's, where, no doubt, she could keep going on the cheesy bits provided. 'I think it's a little much,' she said as I saw her out of the front door, 'having the criminal classes calling here at all hours!' And although I told her there was absolutely no violence in Fred's record and he was an old sweetie, she didn't seem in the least mollified, cy,' I returned to the kitchen and poured out a hospitable Pommeroy's Ordinary for each of us. 'I looked for you at your place of business, Mr Rumpole, but your boy Henry said as you were out shopping for groceries. I said I found that hard to believe.' 'Difficult times, Fred. What's called the Summer of Discontent.
Got yourself into a bit of trouble, have you?' 'No. Not at the moment. Cor! This wine!' He made a disapproving face. 'Bit rough, isn't it?' 'Liquid sandpaper,' I agreed. 'But you get used to it.' I was worried by his apparent idleness. 'What's the matter? You're not on strike, are you?' 'Course not. Matter of fact, I thought I might help you for a change, Mr Rumpole.' 'Oh, yes?' 'Thought I might tell you about our holiday. In Marbella.' He sat at the table and I felt a pang of boredom at the prospect before me. 'Oh, really? Want to show me the snaps?' 'To be quite honest, I brought one along. You see, our enjoyment was just that little bit ruined by the arrival of this shower.' 61 And then he carefully removed a photograph from his wallet and showed it to me. I saw a coach by a white wall in sunshine, with a number of people, including a familiar, scowling young man in a red anorak, grouped about it. 'Good heavens! Isn't that the clan Molloy? Your rival firm in South-East London?' 'Not rival, Mr Rumpole. The Timsons wouldn't stoop to their way of doing business. But it's the Molloys all right, including young Peanuts. That case you is on, as is reported in the paper, it's manslaughter, isn't it? I thought you might just be interested in the Molloys' vehicle.' I examined the picture more closely and the words painted on the coach. I could make out: ernie elver's luxieCHARAS.
COMPLETE WITH TOILETS AND DOUBLE-GLAZING.
And, then, I was delighted to see young Peanuts Molloy.
'Bless you, old darling!' I thanked Fred.
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