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

' We've heard golden opinions of you, Mr Rumpole. Golden opinions!' Leslie Delgardo made an expansive gesture, rattling his identity bracelet. I got up and looked out of the window.

'No one mentioned the hat?'

'Pardon me?' Leslie sounded puzzled, and Nooks added his voice to the vote of confidence.

'Mr Delgardo's brothers are peifectly satisfied, Mr Rumpole, to leave this one entirely to you.'

'Now is the Winter of my Discontent, Made Glorious Summer by a first-class murder.' I turned back to the group, apologetic. 'I'm sorry, gentlemen. Insensitive, I'm afraid. All these months round the Uxbridge Magistrates Court have blunted my sensitivity. To your brother it can hardly seem such a sign of summer.'

' We're perfectly confident, Mr Rumpole, you can handle it.' Basil lit a cigarette with a gold lighter and I went back to the desk.

'Handle it? Of course I can handle it. As I always say, murder is nothing more than common assault, with unfortunate consequences.'

'We'll arrange it for you to see the doctor.' Nooks was businesslike.

'I'm perfectly well, thank you.'

'Doctor Lewis Bleen,' said Leslie, and Nooks explained patiently,' The well-known psychiatrist. On the subject of Mr. Peter Delgardo's mental capacity.'

'Poor Petey. He's never been right, Mr Rumpole. We've always had to look after him,' Leslie explained his responsibilities, as head of the family.

'You could call him Peter Pan,' Basil made an unexpected literary reference. 'The little boy that never grew up.'

I doubted the accuracy of this analogy.' I don't know whether Peter Pan was actually responsible for many stabbings down Stepney High Street.'

'But that's it, Mr Rumpole!' Leslie shook his head sadly.

'Peter's not responsible, you see. Not poor old Petey. No more

responsible than a child/

Doctor Lewis Bleen, Diploma of Psychological Medicine from the University of Edinburgh, Head-Shrinker Extraordinaire, Resident Guru of 'What's Bugging You' answers to listeners' problems, had one of those accents which remind you of the tinkle of cups and the thud of dropped scones in Edinburgh tea-rooms. He sat and sucked his pipe in the interview room at Brixton and looked in a motherly fashion at the youngest of the Delgardos who was slumped in front of us, staring moodily at nothing in particular.

'Remember me, do you?'

'Doctor B... Bleen.' Petey had his brothers' features, but the sharpness of their eyes was blurred in his, his big hands were folded in his lap and he wore a perpetual puzzled frown. He also spoke with a stammer. His answer hadn't pleased the good doctor, who tried again.

'Do you know the time, Petey?'

'N... N... No.'

'Disorientated... as to time!' Better pleased, the doctor made a note.

'That might just be because he's not wearing a watch,' I was unkind enough to suggest.

The doctor ignored me. 'Where are you, Peter?'

'Inthen... n...'