"Mortimer, John - Rumpole and the Heavy Brigade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

John Mortimer - Rumpole and the Heavy Brigade

From "Rumpole of the Bailey"

The story of my most recent murder, and my defence of Petey Delgardo, the youngest, and perhaps the most appalling of the disagreeable Delgardo brothers, raises several matters which are painful, not to say embarrassing for me to recall. The tale begins with Rumpole's reputation at its lowest, and although it has now risen somewhat, it has done so for rather curious and not entirely creditable reasons, as you shall hear.

After the case of the 'Dartford Post Office Robbery', which I have recounted in the previous chapter, I noticed a distinct slump in the Rumpole practice. I had emerged, as I thought, triumphant from that encounter with the disciplinary authority; but I suppose I was marked, for a while, as a barrister who had been reported for professional misconduct. The quality of briefs which landed on the Rumpole corner of the mantelpiece in our clerk's room were deteriorating and I spent a great deal more time pottering round Magistrates Courts or down at Sessions than I did in full flood round the marble halls of the Old Bailey.

So last winter picture Rumpole in the November of his days, walking in the mists, under the black branches of bare trees to Chambers, and remembering Thomas Hood.

'No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member, No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, - November !'

As I walked, I hoped there might be some sort of trivial little brief waiting for me in Chambers. In November an old man's fancy lightly turned to thoughts of indecent assault, which might bring briefs at London Sessions and before the Uxbridge Justices. (Oh God! Oh, Uxbridge Justices!) I had started forty years ago, defending a charge of unsolicited grope on the Northern Line. And that's what I was back to. In my end is my beginning.

I pushed open the door of my Chambers and went into the clerk's room. There was a buzz of activity, very little of it, I was afraid, centring round the works of Rumpole, but Henry was actually smiling as he sat in his shirt-sleeves at his desk and called out, 'Mr Rumpole.'

'Stern daughter of the Voice of God! Oh, duty! Oh my learned clerk, what are the orders for today, Henry? Mine not to reason why. Mine but to do or die, before some Court of Summary Jurisdiction.'

'There's a con. Waiting for you, sir. In a new matter, from Maurice Nooks and Parsley.'

Henry had mentioned one of the busiest firms of criminal solicitors, who had a reputation of being not too distant from some of their heavily villainous clients. In fact the most active partner was privately known to me as 'Shady' Nooks.

'New matter?'

'"The Stepney Road Stabbing". Mr Nooks says you'll have read about it in the papers.'

In fact I had read about it in that great source of legal knowledge, the News of the World. The Delgardo brothers, Leslie and Basil, were a legend in the East End; they gave copiously to charity, they had friends in' show business' and went on holiday with a certain Police Superintendent and a well-known Member of Parliament. They hadn't been convicted of any orTence, although their young brother, Peter Delgardo, had occasionally been in trouble. They ran a club known as the Paradise Rooms, a number of protection rackets, and a seaside home for orphans. They were a devoted family and Leslie and Basil were said to be particularly concerned when their brother Peter was seen by several witnesses kneeling in the street outside a pub called the Old Justice beside the blood-stained body of an East End character known as Tosher MacBride. Later a knife, liberally smeared with blood of MacBride's group, was found beside the driver's seat of Peter Delgardo's elderly Daimler. He was arrested in the Paradise Rooms to which he had apparently fled for protection after the death of Tosher. The case seemed hopeless but the name 'Delgardo' made sure it would hit the headlines. I greeted the news that it was corning Rumpole's way with a low whistle of delight. I took the brief from Henry.

'"My heart leaps up when I behold... a rainbow in the sky." Or a murder in the offing. I have to admit it.9

I suddenly thought of the fly in the ointment.

'I suppose they're giving me a leader - in a murder?'

'They haven't mentioned a leader,' Henry seemed puzzled.

'I suppose it'll be Featherstone. Well, at least it'll get me back to the Bailey. My proper stamping ground.'

I moved towards the door, and it was then my clerk Henry mentioned a topic which, as you will see, has a vital part to play in this particular narrative, my hat. Now I am not particularly self-conscious as far as headgear is concerned and the old black Anthony Eden has seen, it must be admitted, a good many years' service. It has travelled to many far-flung courts in fair weather and foul, it once had a small glowing cigar end dropped in it as it lay under Rumpole's seat in Pommeroy's, it once blew off on a windy day in Newington Causeway and was run over by a bicycle. The hat is therefore, it must be admitted, like its owner, scarred and battered by life, no longer in its first youth and in a somewhat collapsed condition. All the same it fits me comfortably and keeps the rain out most of the time. I have grown used to my hat and, in view of our long association, I have a certain affection for it. I was therefore astonished when Henry followed me to the door and, in a lowered tone as if he were warning me that the coppers had called to arrest me, he said,

'The other clerks were discussing your hat, sir. Over coffee.'

'My God! They must be hard up for conversation, to fill in a couple of hours round the A.B.C.'

'And they were passing the comment, it's a subject of a good many jokes, in the Temple.'

'Well, it's seen some service.' I took off the offending article and looked at it. 'And it shows it.'

'Quite frankly, Mr Rumpole, I can't send you down the Bailey, not on a top-class murder, in a hat like it.'