The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [226]
Rosemary has also been arrested and charged with perjury. They didn’t grant her bail, and Donald informs me that French prisons, particularly the one in Marseilles, are less comfortable than Armley—one of the few disadvantages of living in the South of France. She’s fighting the extradition order, of course, but I’m assured by Matthew that she has absolutely no chance of succeeding, now we’ve signed the Maastricht Treaty. I knew something good must come out of that.
As for Mrs. Balcescu—I’m sure you worked out where I’d seen her long before I did.
In the case of Regina v. Alexander and Kershaw, I’m told, she will be giving evidence on behalf of the Crown. Jeremy made such a simple mistake for a normally calculating and shrewd man. In order to protect himself from being identified, he put all his worldly goods in his wife’s name. So the striking blond ended up with everything, and I have a feeling that when it comes to her cross-examination, Rosemary won’t turn out to be all that helpful to Jeremy, because it slipped his mind to let her know that in between those weekly phone calls he was living with another woman.
It’s been difficult to find out much more about the real Professor Balcescu, because since Ceauescu’s downfall no one is quite sure what really happened to the distinguished academic. Even the Romanians believed he had escaped to Britain and begun a new life.
The Bradford City team has been relegated, so Donald has bought a cottage in the West Country and settled down to watch Bath play rugby. Jenny has joined a private detective agency in London, but is already complaining about her salary and conditions. Williams has returned to Bradford and decided on an early retirement. It was he who pointed out the painfully obvious fact that when it’s twelve o’clock in France, it’s only eleven o’clock in Britain.
By the way, I’ve decided to go back to Leeds after all. Cooper’s went into liquidation as I suspected they would, the new management team not proving all that effective when it came to riding out a recession. The official receiver was only too delighted to accept my offer of £250,000 for what remained of the company, because no one else was showing the slightest interest in it. Poor Jeremy will get almost nothing for his shares. Still, you should look up the new stock in the F.T. around the middle of next year, and buy yourself a few, because they’ll be what my father would have called “a risk worth taking.”
By the way, Matthew advises me that I’ve just given you what’s termed “insider information,” so please don’t pass it on, as I have no desire to go back to jail for a third time.
THE PERFECT GENTLEMAN
I would never have met Edward Shrimpton if he hadn’t needed a towel. He stood naked by my side staring down at a bench in front of him, muttering, “I could have sworn I left the damn thing there.”
I had just come out of the sauna, swathed in towels, so I took one off my shoulder and passed it to him. He thanked me and put out his hand.
“Edward Shrimpton,” he said, smiling. I took his hand and wondered what we must have looked like standing there in the gymnasium locker room of the Metropolitan Club in the early evening, two grown men shaking hands in the nude.
“I don’t remember seeing you in the club before,” he added.
“No, I’m an overseas member.”
“Ah, from England. What brings you to New York?”
“I’m pursuing an American novelist whom my company would like to publish in England.”
“And are you having any success?”
“Yes, I think I’ll close the deal this week—as long as the agent stops trying to convince me that his author is a cross between Tolstoy and Dickens and should be paid accordingly.”
“Neither was paid particularly well, if I remember correctly,