Old Filth - Jane Gardam [97]
“Move?”
“I’ve got you a Brief. It’s a big one. Four hundred on the Brief and forty a day. Likely to last two weeks.”
“Whoever—?”
“Don’t ask me. It’s Hong Kong. It’s a Chinese dwarf.”
“You’ve gone insane, Tom. It’s a hoax.”
“Turned up in that Rolls. I’ve had him sitting in the Clerk’s room twenty minutes. I’ll bring him over.”
“wait!”
“Wait? Wait? Look, it’s a pipeline failure in Hong Kong. You’re on your way.”
“A Chinese dwarf?”
“Come back. Where you going, sir? I bring him over here to you, you don’t go running after him.”
“Where is he now?” Eddie shouted from the courtyard.
“He’s still in the Clerks’ room. I told him I was coming to see if you were free. I bring him to you. Gravitas, sir.”
But Eddie was gone, over the courtyard, under the lime tree, running in the rain. The chauffeur in the Rolls turned to look, raising an eyebrow.
Eddie ran into the Clerks’ room, where Albert Loss was seated on the sagging purple sofa playing Patience.
“Coleridge!”
“Spot the lady. Kill the ace of spades.”
“Coleridge! God in heaven, Coleridge. But you’re dead. The Japanese killed you.”
“Colombo didn’t fall. You are an amnesiac. There were initial raids. And then they left us alone. You should have stayed. I found my uncle. Several of them. All attorneys. And so I became one too.”
“This is the most wonderful . . . How ever did you find me?”
“Law Lists, my dear old chum. Top of the Law Lists. Thanks to me. I directed you, you will remember, towards the Law. And now I am Briefing you. My practice is largely in Hong Kong. I hope you have no serious family ties?”
“Not a tie. Not a thread. Not a cobweb—Coleridge!”
“Good. Then you can fly to Hong Kong next week? First class, of course. We must not lose face before the clients. We’ll put you up in the Peninsular.”
“I’ll have to read the papers.”
“Nonsense, Fevvers. You’ll do it all in your head. On the plane. Open-and-shut Case, and I taught you Poker. You can think. I’m flying back myself tomorrow.”
“This is a dream. You’re exactly the same. You haven’t aged. By the way, what happened to my watch?”
“Ah, that had to be sacrificed in the avuncular search. But you have aged, Fevvers. You have been aged by your Wartime experiences, no doubt?”
“You could say that. Coleridge, come on! Let’s go out. Where are you staying?”
“The Dorchester, of course. But there is no time for social punishment. I fly tomorrow and I must see my builders. I’m buying a house in the Nash Terraces of Regent’s Park. All in ruins. Practically free at present. If you want it to rent, after the pipeline, it’s yours. By the way, were you met?”
“Met?”
“At Liverpool? Off the old Portuguese tub?”
“Yes. Yes, I was—”
“I was forced to borrow your address book. I’m afraid it has fallen by the way. My uncles were very close to the Corps of Signals. And of course I have a phenomenal memory.”
“You should be a spy.”
“Thank you, but I am in gainful employment. It’s very good to see you, Feathers. Very nice clothes-brush. Do you want it?”
“Yes. Coleridge!”
“And by the way,” Albert Loss said at the car, the chauffeur towering above him, holding a brolly, “while I’m away in Hong Kong, do make use of the Royce.”
LAST RITES
Indigestion,” said the hotel to Claire over the telephone. “A very bad case of indigestion.”
“He said on the postcard a sprained ankle.”
“The indigestion followed. It was the prawns. Looked identical to a heart attack. He’s been in hospital. He’s back here again now recovering from the hospital. Can we get him for you? He’s out in the sun, well wrapped up. Who shall we say?”
“Will you say Claire? And that I had his postcard.”
“We were very glad of those postcards.”
“Hello,” said Filth, tottering in. “I was wondering if someone could find me a priest.”
The bar listened. The nice girl came and sat him in a chair. Dialling the number for him, handing him the phone, she said, “Sir Edward, the priest business was last week.”
“What? Hello? Claire? There