Rumpole Rests His Case by John Mortimer Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t quote the Scriptures to excuse your filthy habit.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll only remind you that the commandment “Thou Shalt Not Light Up” appears nowhere, from Genesis to Revelations.’
    â€˜If you can be serious for a moment ...“
    â€˜I’ll try. If you promise not to make me laugh.’
    â€˜This is entirely serious. I heard in the clerks’ room that you are defending Twineham.’
    â€˜You heard right.’
    â€˜A difficult case.’
    â€˜One it would be all too easy to lose.’
    â€˜Have you got a defence?’
    â€˜Not yet. One may come to me if you’d be good enough to tiptoe away and close the door very quietly after you.’ I couldn’t have put it more plainly, but the man loitered on, like the last guest at a party who wants a bed for the night.
    â€˜Two heads, Rumpole, are considerably better than one.’
    â€˜Doesn’t that rather depend on whose heads they are?’
    â€˜I assume that you’re not thinking of doing this case alone and without a leader?’ Soapy Sam announced the purpose of his visit. He was a QC, a fact which confirmed my definition of the whole genus as ‘Queer Customers’. As such, he would be entitled to play the lead in the defence team, leaving Rumpole, one of the oldest and, if I may say it, most accomplished juniors, to carry a spear, in the way of making notes, calling the odd witness and bringing the learned leader’s coffee to him. There was clearly no place for Ballard in the curious drama of 35 Primrose Drive.
    â€˜I did the Penge Bungalow Murders without a leader when I was an upwardly mobile white-wig. I don’t think that, over the years, I’ve lost any of my powers.’
    â€˜I’ll ask our clerk to speak to your solicitor. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to brief me as your leader.’
    â€˜I very much doubt it. Bernard likes to enjoy his cases down the Old Bailey.’
    Soapy Sam had nothing more to say. He stood goggling at me for a moment, and then made, slowly and thoughtfully, for the exit.
    â€˜Shut the door,’ I said, ‘Bonzo.’
    He froze. His hand poised over the door handle, he turned to me, satisfactorily anxious. ‘What did you say?’
    â€˜Nothing very much,’ I reassured him. It was not yet time to strike. ‘I’m sorry. Silly of me. I must have been calling some old dog. Forgot myself for a moment. I’ll see you around.’
    Soapy Sam gave me a quick stare and left. I had, I felt sure, unnerved the man and fired a warning shot across his brow.
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    The weighty matter of Hilda’s guilt and the consequent acceptance or refusal of the Old Girls’ Reunion Dinner invitation was of too earthshaking importance to be decided by one telephone call, however prolonged. An invitation was given, and accepted, from Dodo Mackintosh for a week’s visit to Lamorna Cove, where the issue could be tried at length, no doubt over cups of Ovaltine far into the night, and a definite verdict arrived at.
    â€˜Will you be all right, Rumpole?’ Hilda asked with unusual solicitude, as though afraid I might disappear by chauffeur-driven car and never return to the so-called mansion flat in Froxbury Mansions.
    â€˜Quite all right,’ I reassured her. ‘Take your time, this is not the sort of decision that can be taken in a hurry. Much, including the honour of the old school, depends upon it.’
    So, as well as the possibility of an evening off if the dinner was on, I had a whole week on my own. And this was convenient, because Bernard had met a solicitor named Tony Thrale who had revealed, over lunch at the Law Society, that when he was a young articled clerk working and living round Perivale, he had met, in various clubs and all-night parties, Jo Twineham, whose name was now splashed across the tabloids in preparation for the reporting of a sensational murder trial. He