"Mortimer, John Clifford - Rumpole 01f - Rumpole and the Heavy Brigade" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mortimer John)

'The "Penge Bungalow Murder" is in Notable British Trials. I may have become a bit of a household name, at least in criminal circles.' 'They was 1... looking for a barrister who'd be sure to lose.' 'After this, I suppose, I may get back to better quality crime." The full force of what Peter had said struck me. I looked at him and checked carefully.' What did you say?' ' They wanted me defended by someone they could c... count on for a guilty verdict. That's why they p... p... picked you for it.' It was, appallingly, what I thought he'd said.

'They wanted to fit me up with doing Tosher,' Peter Delgardo went on remorsetessly.

'Let me get this clear. Your brothers selected me to nobble your defence?' 'That's it! You w... was to be the jockey Eke.' That pulled me back.

'How did they light on me exactly? Me ... Rumpole of the Bailey?' My entire life, Sherlock Holmes stories, Law degree, knockabout apprenticeship at Bow Street and Hackney, days of triumph in murder and forgery, down to that day's swayed jury and notable victory, seemed to be blown away like autumn leaves by what he said. Then, the words came quickly now, tumbling out of him, 'They heard of an old bloke. Got p... past it. Down to little bits of cases ... round the M ... M ... Magistrates Courts. Bit of a muddler, they heard. With a funny old broken-down hat on him.' ' The hat! Again.' At least I had bought a bowler.

' So they r ... reckoned. You was just the bloke to lose this murder, like.' 'And dear old Nooks. "Shady" Nooks. Did he help them to choose me?' I suspected it.

'Id... don't know. I'm n... n... not saying he didn't.' ' So that's my reputation!' I tried to take stock of the situation, and failed abysmally.

'I shouldn't've told you.' He sounded genuinely apologetic.

'Get Rumpole for the defence, and be sure of a conviction.' 'Perhaps it's all lies.' Was he trying to cheer me up? He went on. ' You hear lots of s ... s ... stories. In the cells under the Bailey.' 'And in the Bar Mess too. They rubbish your reputation. Small cigar?' I found a packet and offered him one.

'All right.' We lit up. After all, one had to think of the future.

' So where does this leave you, Peter ?' I asked him.

'I'd say, Mr Rumpole, none too s ... safe. What about you?' I blew out smoke, wondering exactly what I had left.

' Perhaps not all that safe either.' I had brought my old dinner jacket up to Chambers and I changed into it there. I had a bottle of rum in the cupboard, and I gave myself a strong drink out of a dusty glass. As I shut the cupboard door, I noticed my old hat, it was on a shelf, gathering dust and seemed to have about it a look of mild reproach. I put it on, and noticed how comfortably it fitted. I dropped the new, hard bowler into the wastepaper basket and went on to the Savoy.

'You look charming, my dear.' Hilda, resplendent in a long dress, her shoulders dusted with powder, smiled delightedly at Mrs Marigold Featherstone, who was nibbling delicately at an after-dinner mint.

'Really, Rumpole.' Hilda looked at me, gently rebuking.

"She!"

'She?' Marigold was mystified, but anxious to join in any joke that might be going.

'Oh "She",' I said casually. 'A woman of fabulous beauty. Written up by H. Rider Haggard.' A waiter passed and I created a diversion by calling his attention to the fact that the tide had gone out in my glass. Around us prominent members of the legal profession pushed their bulky wives about the parquet like a number of fresh-faced gardeners executing elaborate manoeuvres with wheelbarrows. There were some young persons among them, and I noticed Erskine-Brown, jigging about in solitary rapture somewhere in the vicinity of Miss Phyllida Trant. She saw me and gave a quick smile and then she was off circling Erskine-Brown like an obedient planet, which I didn't consider a fitting occupation for any girl of Miss Trant's undoubted abilities.

'Your husband's had a good win.' Guthrie Featherstone was charting to Hilda.

' He hasn't had a "good win ", Guthrie.' She put the man right. ' He's had a triumph!' 'Entirely thanks ... to my old hat." I raised my glass. 'Here's to it!' 'What?' Little of what Rumpole said made much sense to Marigold.

'My triumph, indeed, my great opportunity, is to be attributed solely to my hat!' I explained to her, but She couldn't agree.

'Nonsense!"

'What?' 'You're talking nonsense,' She explained to our hosts. 'He does, you know, from time to time. Rumpole won because he knows so much about blood.' 'Really?' Featherstone looked at the dancers, no doubt wondering how soon he could steer his beautiful wife off into the throng. But Hilda fixed him with her glittering eye, and went on, much like the ancient mariner.

'You remember Daddy, of course. He used to be your Head of Chambers. Daddy told me. "Rumpole", Daddy told me. In fact, he told me that on the occasion of the Inns of Court summer ball, which is practically the last dance we went to.' ' Hilda!' I tried, unsuccessfully, to stem the flow.

'No. I'm going to say this, Horace. Don't interrupt! "Horace Rumpole", Daddy told me, "knows more about bloodstains than anyone we've got in Chambers."' I noticed that Marigold had gone a little pale.

'Do stop it, Hilda. You're putting Marigold off.' 'Don't you find it,' Marigold turned to me, 'well, sordid sometimes?' 'What?' ' Crime. Don't you find it terribly sordid?' There was a silence. The music had stopped, and the legal fraternity on the floor clapped sporadically. I saw Erskine-Brown take Miss Tram's hand.