The Old Man and Me by Elaine Dundy Read Free Book Online

marriage to the wealthy American widow Mrs. Pauline Saegessor, and on newsprint instead of slick paper—wham—a pile of clips on the Bosworth Clute Securities case. A public scandal; a great big fat juicy business scandal. I caught my breath and studied them closely. What startled me at first was that I knew the name—Bosworth Clute. By, I suppose, a not very wild coincidence, this much married, much divorced English business tycoon was the father of one of the girls I’d been at school with. I ploughed through reams of almost incomprehensible testimony. Something about the firm being hammered on the Stock Exchange. Something about sharepushing. Something about Clute concealing his snowballing losses by using his clients’ securities without their knowledge. Something about gambling on a successful Suez action by Britain that would cause a boom in oil shares. Something about Clute being sentenced to six years in jail having been found guilty on sixteen counts of conspiracy, fraud, and false pretences involving £300,000. But what had all this to do with McKee? Oh—oh. There it was. A little bit tucked away at the end. Clute’s Board of Directors, amongst whom C. D. was singled out for special mention by the Judge. “As to General McKee I have satisfied myself that he was at no time aware of the transactions Clute was conducting though I should like to record my amazement at his lack of interest in the enterprise whether by naïveté or design and the lack of business qualifications which Clute seemed to feel appropriate to the selection of his Board of Directors on the whole and to General McKee in particular.” Hmm. Spot of trouble there.
    C. D.’s house was in one of the prettier squares in Knightsbridge. I was especially struck by the way the front windows were lined up with the back ones so that from the approach his lovely green garden seemed to shine right through the house; green foliage through stone. In the midst of busy London the square was quiet, hushed, unrushed. His man opened the door, took our coats, showed us in. I listened to the expensive tinkle of crystal and china we set off as we crossed the hall and mounted the stairs into a long graceful drawing-room. C. D. rose and came towards us, shook Smitty’s hand and then received mine in his nest of paws breathing, “Good. You’re here. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.” His man pussy-footed around giving us drinks and Smitty began the interview. They talked about cryptology for a while and then launched into a flood of war reminiscence about who didn’t do what and who should have done what and what would have happened if they had. I stopped listening and looked around me. The room was exquisite. Magnificent. He lived well, old Fatso, he did himself proud. He wanted for nothing. He didn’t hold back. I watched the two of them utterly absorbed in their discussion, oblivious of me, and I began to feel resentful, angry. It had begun so well. “Good. You’re here. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come.” Well, what difference was it making that I had come? His man entered pussy-footing in again, whispered some message to him, and I seemed to detect in the sudden briskness with which C. D. resumed the conversation that our time was almost up. I sat there twirling my glass thinking I
must
speak; I must make my presence felt.
    “Listen, I’m dying to know about this man Bosworth Clute,” I heard myself interrupting them.
    C. D. turned completely around in my direction, I’d never seen a face change so fast. “What about him?” he asked, finally.
    “Well, I mean is he still in jail? Or what...?” Acting puzzled, I foundered about in the dead silence and then, seeming to have no choice, pushed on. “You see, it’s the weirdest coincidence but I went to school with...I went to school with one of his...his...” I stopped, hypnotized by the sheer disagreeableness of his expression.
    C. D. put down his drink and then released me from his