"Mortimer, John - Rumpole A La Carte" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

"' 'Nonsense!' I did my best to cheer him up. 'You're forgetting the reputation of Horace Rumpole.' 'You think we've got a defence?' my client asked eagerly. 'I mean, now that you've looked at the kitchen?' 16 'Can't think of one for the moment,' I admitted, 'but I expect we'll cook up something in the end.' Unencouraged, Jean-Pierre looked out into the dining-room, muttered, 'I'd better go and keep those lonely people comoany ' and left us. I watched him pass the desk, where Mary looked up and smiled and I thought, however brutal he was with his customers, at least Jean-Pierre's staff seemed to find him a tolerable employer. And then, to my surprise, I saw him approach the couple at table eight, grinning in a most ingratiating manner, and stand chatting and bowing as though they could have ordered doner kebab and chips and that would have been perfectly all right by him.

'You know,' I said to Mr Bernard, 'it's quite extraordinary, the power that can be wielded by one of the smaller rodents.' 'You mean it's wrecked his business?' 'No. More amazing than that. It's forced Jean-Pierre O'Higgins to be polite to his clientele.' After my second visit to La Maison events began to unfold at breakneck speed. First our Head of Chambers, Soapy Sam Ballard, made it known to me that the brief he had accepted on behalf of the Health Authority, and of which he had boasted so flagrantly during the nail-brush incident, was in fact the prosecution of J.-P. O'Higgins for the serious crime of being in charge of a rodent-infested restaurant. Then She Who Must Be Obeyed, true to her word, packed her grip and went off on a gastronomic tour with the man from Saskatoon. I was left to enjoy a lonely high-calorie breakfast, with no fear of criticism over the matter of a fourth sausage, in the Taste-Ee-Bite cafe, Fleet Street. Seated there one morning, enjoying the company of The Times crossword, I happened to overhear Mizz Liz Probert, the dedicated young radical barrister in our Chambers, talking to her close friend, David Inchcape, whom she had persuaded us to take on in a somewhat devious manner, a barrister as young but, I think, at heart, a touch less radical than Mizz Liz herself.* see 'Rumpole and the Quality of Life' in Rumpole and the Age of Miracles, Penguin Books, 1988.

'You don't really care, do you, Dave?' she was saying. 'Of course, I care. I care about you, Liz. Deeply.' He reached out over their plates of muesli and cups of decaff to grasp her fingers.

'That's just physical.' 'Well. Not just physical. I don't suppose it's just. Mainly physical, perhaps.' 'No one cares about old people.' 'But you're not old people, Liz. Thank God!' 'You see. You don't care about them. My Dad was saying there's old people dying in tower blocks every day. Nobody knows about it for weeks, until they decompose!' And I saw Dave release her hand and say, 'Please, Liz. I am having my breakfast.' 'You see! You don't want to know. It's just something you don't want to hear about. It's the same with battery hens.' 'What's the same about battery hens?' 'No one wants to know. That's all.' 'But surely, Liz. Battery hens don't get lonely.' 'Perhaps they do. There's an awful lot of loneliness about.' She looked in my direction. 'Get off to Court then, if you have to. But do think about it, Dave.' Then she got up, crossed to my table, and asked what I was doing. I was having my breakfast, I assured her, and not doing my yoga meditation.

'Do you always have breakfast alone, Rumpole?' She spoke, in the tones of a deeply supportive social worker, as she sat down opposite me.

'It's not always possible. Much easier now, of course.' 'Now. Why now, exactly?' She looked seriously concerned.

'Well. Now my wife's left me,' I told her cheerfully.

'Hilda!' Mizz Probert was shocked, being a conventional girl at heart.

'As you would say, Mizz Liz, she is no longer sharing a oneon-one relationship with me. In any meaningful way.' *' 'Where does that leave you, Rumpole?' " 'Alone. To enjoy my breakfast and contemplate the crossword puzzle.' 'Where's Hilda gone?' 18 'Oh in search of gracious living with her cousin Everard from Saskatoon. A fellow with about as many jokes in him as the Dow Jones Average.' 'You mean, she's gone off with another man?' Liz seemed unable to believe that infidelity was not confined to the young.

'That's about the size of it.' 'But, Rumpole. WhyT * 'Because he's rich enough to afford very small portions of food.' f 'So you're living by yourself ? You must be terribly lonely.' ' "Society is all but rude,"' I assured her,' "To this delicious solitude.'"

There was a pause and then Liz took a deep breath and offered her assistance. 'You know, Rumpole. Dave and I have founded the Y.R.L. Young Radical Lawyers. We don't only mean to reform the legal system, although that's part of it, of course. We're going to take on social work as well. We could always get someone to call and take a look at your flat every morning.' 'To make sure it's still there?' 'Well, no, Rumpole. As a matter of fact, to make sure you are.' Those who are alone have great opportunities for eavesdropping, and Liz and Dave weren't the only members of our Chambers I heard engaged in a heart-to-heart that day. Before I took the journey back to the She-less flat, I dropped into Pommeroy's and was enjoying the ham roll and bottle of Chateau Thames Embankment which would constitute my dinner, seated in one of the high-backed, pew-like stalls Jack Pommeroy has installed, presumably to give the joint a vaguely medieval appearance and attract the tourists. From behind my back I heard the voices of our Head of Chambers and Claude c-rskine-Brown, who was saying, in his most ingratiating tones, "allard. I want to have a word with you about the case you've з░t against La Maison JeanPierre.' 10 s, Ballard, in thoughtful tones, replied unexpectedly, A strong chain! It's the only answer.' Which didn't seem to follow. ,.

'It was just my terrible luck, of course,' Erskine-Brown complained, 'that it should happen at my table. I mean, I'm a pretty well-known member of the Bar. Naturally I don't want my name connected with, well, a rather ridiculous incident.' 'Fellows in Chambers aren't going to like it.' Ballard was not yet with him. 'They'll say it's a restriction on their liberty.

Rumpole, no doubt, will have a great deal to say about Magna Carta. But the only answer is to get a new nail-brush and chain it up. Can I have your support in taking strong measures?' 'Of course, you can, Ballard. I'll be right behind you on this one.' The creeping Claude seemed only too anxious to please.

'And in this case you're doing, I don't suppose you'll have to call the couple who actually got the mouse?' 'The couple?' There was a pause while Ballard searched his memory. 'The mouse was served, appalling lack of hygiene in the workplace, to a table booked by a Mr Claude ErskineBrown and guest. Of course he'll be a vital witness.' And then the penny dropped. He stared at Claude and said firmly, ' You'll be a vital witness.' 'But if I'm a witness of any sort, my name'll get into the papers and Philly will know I was having dinner.' 'Why on earth shouldn't she know you were having dinner?' Ballard was reasoning with the man. 'Most people have dinner.

Nothing to be ashamed of. Get a grip on yourself, ErskineBrown.' 'Ballard.

Sam.' Claude was trying the appeal to friendship.

'You're a married man. You should understand.' 'Of course I'm married. And Marguerite and I have dinner.

On a regular basis.' 'But I wasn't having dinner with Philly.' Claude explained the matter carefully. 'I was having dinner with an instructing solicitor.' 'That was your guest?' 'Yes.' : t 'A solicitor?' 'Of course.' Ballard seemed to have thought the matter over carefully, but he was still puzzled when he replied, remembering his 20 instructions. 'He apparently leapt on to a chair, held down his skirt and screamed three times!' 'Ballard! The solicitor was Tricia Benbow. You don't imagine I'd spend a hundred and something quid on feeding the face of Mr Bernard, do you?' There was another longish pause, during which I imagined Claude in considerable suspense, and then our Head of Chambers spoke again. 'Tricia Benbow?' he asked.

'Yes.' 'Is that the one with the long blonde hair and rings?' 'That's the one.' 'And your wife knew nothing of this?' 'And must never know!' For some reason not clear to me, Claude seemed to think he'd won his case, for he now sounded grateful. 'Thank you, Ballard. Thanks awfully, Sam. I can count on you to keep my name out of this. I'll do the same for you, old boy. Any day of the week.' 'That won't be necessary.' Ballard's tone was not encouraging, although Claude said, 'No? Well, thanks, anyway.' 'It will be necessary, however, for you to give evidence for the Prosecution.' Soapy Sam Ballard pronounced sentence and Claude yelped, 'Have a heart, Sam!' 'Don't you "Sam" me.' Ballard was clearly in a mood to notice the decline of civilization as we know it. 'It's all part of the same thing, isn't it? Sharp practice over the nailbrush.

Failure to assist the authorities in an important prosecution.

You'd better prepare yourself for Court, Erskine-Brown. And to be cross-examined by Rumpole for the Defence. Do your duty! And take the consequences.' A moment later I saw Ballard leaving for home and his wife, (Marguerite, who, you will remember, once held the position of matron at the Old Bailey.* No doubt he would chatter to her of nail-brushes and barristers unwilling to tell the whole truth.

I carried my bottle of plonk round to Claude's stall in order to console the fellow.

* o is See 'Rumpole and the Quality of Life' in Rumpole and the Age of Oracles, Penguin Books, 1988.

21 'So,' I said, 'you lost your case.' 'What a bastard!' I have never seen Claude so pale.

'You made a big mistake, old darling. It's no good appealing to the warm humanity of a fellow who believes in chaining up nailbrushes.' So the intrusive mouse continued to play havoc with the passions of a number of people, and I prepared myself for its day in Court. I told Mr Bernard to instruct Ferdinand Isaac Gerald Newton, known in the trade as Fig Newton, a lugubrious scarecrow of a man who is, without doubt, our most effective private investigator, to keep a watchful eye on the staff of La Maison. And then I decided to call in at the establishment on my way home one evening, not only to get a few more facts from my client but because I was becoming bored with Pommeroy's ham sandwiches.