"Bud Sparhawk - The Tompkins battery case" - читать интересную книгу автора (Sparhawk Bud)

The Tomkins Battery Case




The Tomkins Battery Case
by Bud Sparhawk
Lawyer Arthur Coggins could tell that the small, middle-aged woman wanted a divorce when she
walked through the door to his office.

"Mrs. Tomkins," he said graciously, waving one hand at the comfortable, overstuffed chair beside his
desk. "Do have a seat." He noted the woman's clothing as she did so; it was adequate, not off the rack,
but not very expensive either. She wore little adornment; small rings and a brooch. He couldn't tell if
they were real or costume jewelry in the dim light. Small streaks of gray ran through her well-kept hair.
Her makeup was subdued, almost negligible. There was a smell of money about her, a fat fee for sure.

"Thank you, Mr. Coggins," she said in a nervous voice, and perched on the edge of the chair with her
two bird-like hands fluttering over her purse, which she held upright in her lap.

Arthur sat back in his chair and made a tent with his fingers. "Would you care for a drink?" he asked,
trying to put her at ease. "Reefers are there near your elbow if you like."

"Oh no, I couldn't drink or smoke!" she whispered, throwing a longing glance at the ivory inlaid roach
box. She drummed her purse with her fingers and licked her lips with quick darting motions of her
pointed tongue.

Arthur realized that she was not going to take the initiative in the conversation. Some clients were like
that, bursting with their problems but afraid to talk to a stranger, him, about them. He snorted; he hated
drawing people out; it smacked of soliciting to his mind. Would be far better to have the British system,
he thought. There the barrister lets his solicitors, the clerks, soften up the clients and draw out the facts
of the case before either one was presented to him, sparing him the drab necessity of thinking about
personal involvement, outside factors, or money.

The woman fidgeted in her chair. Arthur sighed, put on a look of moderate disdain and, in voice loaded
with concern, spoke: "My secretary said you had some sort of problem with your husband?"

"Mr. Tomkins? Oh, yes. George. Well!" A look of concern grew on her face. She cast a glance around
the room, sweeping her eyes over the shelves tightly packed with leather-bound books. Her glance took
in the cut crystal, velvet drapes, aged wood paneling, and the thick Axminster on the floor. She was
impressed, as the room was designed to make her feel.

"Come, come, Mrs. Tomkins. I can't help you if you won't tell me what's troubling you." Arthur

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interjected in his father-confessor tone, guaranteed to bring weeping widows and recalcitrant will-
breakers to heel.

"Oh dear, I don't know where to start," she chirped. Her purse snapped open and she withdrew a small