The Second Rumpole Omnibus

by John Mortimer

  Rumpole and the Last Resort

  I have almost caught up with myself. Decent crime has not been too thick on the ground recently, and time has been hanging a little heavily on the Rumpole hands. I have had a good deal of leisure to spend on these chronicles of the splendours and miseries of an Old Bailey hack and, although I have enjoyed writing them, describing and remembering is something of a second-hand occupation. I am happiest, I must confess, with the whiff of battle in my nostrils, with the Judge and the prosecuting counsel stacked against me, with the jury unconvinced, and everything to play for as I rear to my hind legs and start to cross-examine the principal witness for the Crown. There has been a notable decrease in the number of briefs in my tray in Chambers of late, and I have often set out for Number 3 Equity Court with nothing but the Times crossword and the notebook in which I have spent otherwise undemanding days recalling old murders and other offences. A barrister’s triumphs are short-lived: a notable victory may provide gossip round the Temple for a week or two; a row with the Judge may be remembered a little longer; but those you have got off don’t wish to be reminded of the cells where they met you, and those whose cases you have lost aren’t often keen to share memories. By and large, trials are over and done with when you pack up your robes and leave Court after the verdict. For that reason it has been some satisfaction to me to write these accounts, although the truth of the matter is, as I have already hinted, that I haven’t had very much else to do.

  So up to date have I become that I can recount no more cases of sufficient interest and importance which have engaged my talents since my unexpected return from retirement. All I have left to do is something new to me – that is, to write about a case as I am doing it, in the hope that it will turn out to be sufficiently unusual to be included among these papers which will form some sort of memorial to the transient life of Horace Rumpole, barrister-at-law. I am soon to go into Court with one of my dwindling number of briefs, as counsel for the defence of a young businessman named Frank Armstrong, Chairman and Managing Director of Sun-Sand Holidays Ltd, an organization which supplies mobile homes to holidaymakers in allegedly desirable sites in the West Country, the Lake District and other places which have every known inconvenience, including being much too far away from Pommeroy’s Wine Bar. The case itself may have some points of interest, including the mysterious mobility of Sun-Sand Mobile Homes, and the period about which I am writing contains another minor mystery, that is to say, the disappearance of a Mr Perivale Blythe, solicitor of the Supreme Court, a fellow who, so far as I am concerned, is fully entitled to disappear off the face of the earth, were it not for the fact that he has, for longer than I care to remember, owed me money.

  One of the many drawbacks of life at the Bar is the length of time it takes to get paid for services rendered. As the loyal punter may not appreciate, he pays the solicitor for the hire of a barrister and, in theory at any rate, the solicitor passes the loot on to the member of the Bar, the front-line warrior in the courtroom battle, with the greatest possible despatch. In many cases, unhappily, the money lingers along the line and months, even years, may pass before it percolates into the barrister’s bank account. There is really nothing much the average advocate can do about this. In the old days, when barristering was regarded as a gentlemanly pursuit for persons of private means, rather like fox-hunting or collecting rare seaweed, the rule grew up that barristers couldn’t sue for their fees, on the basis that to be seen suing a solicitor would be as unthinkable as to be found dancing with your cook.

  So it was not only a decline in the number of briefs bearing the Rumpole name, but a considerable slowing down in the paying process, which caused my account at the Temple branch of the United Metropolitan Bank to blush an embarrassing red. One day I called in to cash a fifty-pound cheque, mainly to defray the costs of those luxuries Hilda indulges in, matters such as bread and soap powder, and I stood at the counter breathing a silent prayer that the cashier might see fit to pay me out. Having presented my cheque, I heard the man behind the grille say, to my considerable relief, ‘How would you like the money, sir?’

  ‘Oh, preferably in enormous quantities.’ Of course it was a stupid thing to say. As soon as the words had passed my lips, I thought he’d take my cheque off to the back of the shop and discover the extent of the Rumpole debt. Why was he reading the thing so attentively? The art of cheque-cashing is to appear totally unconcerned.

  ‘How would I like the money?’ I said rapidly. ‘Oh, I’ll take it as it comes. Nothing fancy, thank you. Not doubloons. Or pieces of eight. Just pour me out a moderate measure of pounds sterling.’

  To my relief the notes came out on a little wheel under the glass window. I scooped up the boodle and told myself that the great thing was not to run. Break into any sort of jog trot on the way to the door and they check up on the overdraft at once. The secret is to walk casually and even whistle in a carefree manner.

  I was doing exactly that when I was stopped with a far from cheery good morning by Mr Medway, the Assistant Manager. I should have made a dash for it.

  ‘Paying in or drawing out today, are we?’ Medway looked at the money in my hand. ‘Oh. Drawing out, I see. Could you step into my office, sir?’

  ‘Not now. Got to get to Court. A money brief, of course.’ I was hastily stuffing the notes into my pocket.

  ‘Just a moment of your time, Mr Rumpole.’ Medway was not to be put off. Within a trice I found myself closeted with him as I was grilled as to my financial position.

  ‘Gone right over the limit of our overdraft, haven’t we, Mr Rumpole?’ The man smiled unpleasantly.

  ‘My overdraft? A flea bite, compared with what you chaps are lending the Poles.’

  I searched for a packet of cigars, feeling that I rather had him there.

  ‘I don’t think the Poles are making out quite so many cheques in favour of Jack Pommeroy of Pommeroy’s Wine Bar.’

  ‘Those are for the bare necessities of life. Look here, Medway. A fellow’s got to live!’

  ‘There’s bound to come a time, Mr Rumpole, when that may not be necessary at the expense of the United Metropolitan Bank.’ A peculiarly heartless financier, this Medway.

  ‘ “The Bank with the Friendly Ear”.’ I quoted his commercial, lit the cigar and blew out smoke.

  ‘There comes a time, Mr Rumpole, when the United Metropolitan goes deaf.’

  ‘That little overdraft of mine. Peanuts! Quite laughable compared to my outstanding fees.’ It was my time to bring out the defence. ‘My fees’ll come in. Of course they will. You know how long solicitors keep owing us money? Why, there’s one firm who still hasn’t paid me for a private indecency I did for them ten years ago. No names, of course, but…’

  ‘Is that Mr Perivale Blythe?’ Medway was consulting my criminal record. ‘Of Blythe, Winterbottom and Paisley?’

  ‘Yes. I believe that’s the fellow. Slow payer, but the money’s there, of course.’

  ‘Is it, Mr Rumpole?’ Medway was a banker of little faith. ‘Every time we’ve had one of these little chats, you’ve told me that you’re owed a considerable amount in fees by Mr Perivale Blythe.’

  ‘Can’t remember how much, of course. But enough to pay off my overdraft and make a large contribution to the National Debt.’ I stood up, anxious to bring this embarrassing interview to a conclusion. ‘Must be scooting along,’ I said. ‘Got to earn both of us some money. Engaged in Court, you know.’

  ‘My advice to you, Mr Rumpole,’ Medway said darkly, ‘is to take steps to make this Mr Perivale Blythe pay up. And without delay.’

  ‘Of course. Get my clerk on to it at once. Now don’t you worry, Medway.’ I opened the door on my way to freedom. ‘Having the Poles in next, are you? Hope you give them a good talking to.’

  When I had told Medway that I had an engagement in Court it was a pardonable exaggeration. In fact I had nothing much to do but settle into my room at 3 Equity Court and write these memoirs. I had found the tête-à-tête in the
bank somewhat depressing and I was in a low mood as I turned into the Temple and approached the entrance of our Chambers. There I met our demure Head, Sam Ballard, Q.C, who was standing on the step in conversation with a young man with dark hair, soft eyes and an expression of somewhat unjustified self-confidence which reminded me of someone. Ballard greeted me with ‘Hullo there, Rumpole. How are you?’

  ‘ “Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry,” ’ I told him candidly.

  ‘As to behold desert a beggar born,

  And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,

  And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

  And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d…’

  ‘What’s this talk of death, Rumpole?’ Ballard was brisk and disapproving. ‘You know young Archie Featherstone, don’t you? Mr Justice Featherstone’s nephew.’ He introduced the young man, who smiled vaguely.

  ‘My God. More Featherstones!’ I was amazed. ‘ “What! will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?” ’

  ‘I’m sure he’d like your advice about starting out at the Bar.’

  ‘My advice is, “Don’t”,’ I told the young man.

  ‘Don’t?’ he repeated, pained.

  ‘Don’t slog your heart out. Don’t tramp for years round some pretty unsympathetic Courts. What’ll you have to show at the end of it? You’re up to your eyes in debt to the United Metropolitan Bank and they’ll grudge you such basic nourishment as a couple of dozen non-vintage Chateau Thames Embankment.’

  ‘Young Featherstone would love to get a seat in our Chambers, Rumpole.’ Ballard had clearly not followed a word I’d said. ‘I’ve told him that at the moment there’s just not the accommodation available.’

  ‘At the moment?’ Was the man expecting a sudden departure from our little band of barristers?

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ll be in your room for ever.’ Ballard didn’t sound too regretful. ‘The time must come when you take things a little more easily. Henry was saying how tired he thought you looked.’

  ‘ “Tir’d with all these, for restful death I cry… ” ’ I repeated, and I looked at Ballard, remembering, ‘ “And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d”. Oh yes, Ballard. The time’s got to come. Cheer up, young Featherstone,’ I told him. ‘You’ll soon be able to take over my overdraft.’

  I left them there and went to report to the clerk’s room. When I got there I found Henry in position at his desk and Dianne rattling her typewriter in a corner.

  ‘Henry, how much does Perivale Blythe owe me in fees?’ I asked at once.

  ‘Two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-five pounds, ninety-three pence, Mr Rumpole,’ Henry said, as if he knew it all by heart.

  ‘You tell me of wealth undreamed of by the United Metropolitan Bank. It’s a debt stretching back over a considerable time, eh, Henry?’

  ‘Stretching back, Mr Rumpole, to the indecency at Swansea in April, 1973.’ Henry confirmed my suspicions.

  ‘You have, I suppose, been on to him about it, Henry?’

  ‘Almost daily, Mr Rumpole.’

  ‘And what has this blighter Blythe to say for himself?’

  ‘The last time his secretary told us a cheque was in the post.’

  ‘Not true?’ I guessed.

  ‘Not unless it evaporated mysteriously between here and Cheapside.’

  ‘Get after him, Henry, like a terrier. Get your teeth into the man Blythe, and don’t let him go until he disgorges the loot.’

  I looked at Henry’s desk and my eyes were greeted with the unusual and welcome sight of a brief bearing the Rumpole name. ‘Is that a set of papers for me you’re fingering?’ I asked with assumed indifference.

  ‘Mr Myers brought it in, sir. It’s a case at the Bailey.’ Henry confirmed the good news.

  ‘God bless old Myersy. A man who pays up from time to time.’ I looked at the brief. ‘What is it, Henry? Murder? Robbery? Sudden death?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Rumpole.’ Henry realized that I would be disappointed. ‘It seems to be about Sun-Sand Mobile Homes.’

  When I went up to my room to familiarize myself with the brief Henry had given me, I threw my hat, as usual, on to the hatstand; but, the hatstand not being there, the Rumpole headgear thudded to the ground. Of course, I knew what had happened. Erskine-Brown had always coveted the old hatstand that had stood in my room for years and, when he had a big conference, he put it in his room to impress the clientele. Before I started work I crept along the passage, found Erskine-Brown’s room empty and purloined the old article of furniture back again. Then I sat down, lit a small cigar, and studied the facts in the case of R. v. Armstrong.

  The trouble had started at a Sun-Sand holiday site in Cornwall. A family returned from a cold, wet day on the beach and had their mobile holiday home towed away before they could get at their high tea. Other punters were apparently sold holidays in mobile homes which were said to have existed only in the fertile imagination of my client, Frank Armstrong.

  In due course police officers – Detective Inspector Limmeridge and Detective Sergeant Banks – called on Sun-Sand Holidays in North London. The premises were small and unimposing but the officers noticed that they were elaborately equipped with all the latest gadgets of computer technology. The young chairman of the company was there, busily pressing buttons and anxiously watching figures flash and hearing the bleeps and hiccoughs of such machines at work. When arrested, Mr Armstrong was given permission to telephone his solicitor, but when he did so he found that the gentleman in question had just slipped out of the office.

  Eventually Frank Armstrong was allowed bail and turned up in my room at Chambers with old Myers, the solicitor’s clerk (or legal executive, as such gentlemen are now called), whom I would rather have with me on a bad day at the Bailey than most of the learned friends I can think of. I had asked Miss Fiona Allways to join us and generally help with the sums.

  ‘My brother Fred and I, we was born into the modern world, Mr Rumpole,’ said Frank. ‘And what is the name of the game, in the world today?’

  ‘Space Invaders?’ I hazarded a guess. My client looked at me seriously. In spite of a sharp business suit, his Gaucho moustache, longish hair, gold watch and bracelet, Playboy Club tie and the manner of a tough young businessman, Frank Armstrong looked younger than I had expected, and both pained and puzzled by the turn of events.

  ‘The name of the game is leisure interests and computer technology,’ he told me seriously. ‘You won’t believe this, Mr Rumpole. You will not believe it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Our old dad kept a fruit barrow in the Shepherd’s Bush Market.’

  ‘Not incredible,’ I assured him.

  ‘Yes, indeed. Well, he made a few bob in his time and when he died my brother and I divided the capital. Fred went into hardware, right?’

  ‘Ironmongery?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ Frank said. ‘Fred joined the microchip revolution. Looking round your office now, Mr Rumpole, I doubt it’s fully automated. There are delays in sending your bills out, right?’

  ‘Sometimes I think my bills are sent out by a carrier pigeon with a poor sense of direction,’ I admitted.

  ‘Trust in the computer, Mr Rumpole, and you’d have so much more time, leisure-wise. That’s the…’

  ‘Name of the game?’ I hazarded.

  ‘Yes, indeed. That’s why I saw my future definitely in the leisure industry.’

  ‘ “Leisure industry”. Sounds like a contradiction in terms.’

  Frank didn’t hear my murmur. He was clearly off on a favourite subject. ‘Who wants hotel expenses these days? Who needs porters, tips, waiter service? All the hassle. The future, as I see it, is in self-catering mobile homes set in A3 and B1 popularity, mass appeal holiday areas. That’s the vision, Mr Rumpole, and it’s got me where I am today.’

  ‘On bail, facing charges of fraud and fraudulent conversion,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Mr Rumpole. I want you to believe this…’

&nbs
p; ‘Try me again.’

  ‘I just don’t understand it. I want to tell you that very frankly. I was doing my best to run a go-ahead service industry geared to the needs of the eighties. What went wrong exactly?’ Frank asked plaintively. I got up, stretched the legs and lit a small cigar.

  ‘I imagine a close study of the accounts might tell us that,’ I said. ‘By the way, that’s one of the reasons I’ve asked you to give Miss Allways a little brief. She’s got a remarkable head for figures.’

  ‘And quite a figure for heads, I should think.’ Frank gave our lady barrister one of his ‘Playboy Club’ leers and laughed. Fiona froze him with a look.

  ‘Pardon me, Miss Allways. Probably out of place, right?’ Our client apologized and Miss Allways ignored him and rattled out some businesslike instructions to old Myers. ‘I’d like the accounts sent down to Chambers as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘There’s a great deal of spadework to be done.’

  ‘This is where we’re in a certain amount of difficulty.’ Myers coughed apologetically.

  ‘Surely not?’

  ‘You see, the accounts were all given to Mr Armstrong’s previous solicitor. That was the firm that acted for his father back in the fruit barrow days and went on acting till after our client’s arrest.’

  ‘It’s perfectly simple.’ Fiona was impatient. ‘You’ve only got to get in touch with the former solicitors.’

  ‘Well, not quite as simple as all that, Miss Allways. We’ve tried writing but we never get an answer to our letters and when we telephone, well, the gentleman dealing with the matter always seems to have just slipped out of the office.’

  ‘Really? What’s the name of the firm?’ Miss Allways asked, but I was ahead of her. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess,’ I said. ‘What about Blythe, Winterbottom and Paisley?’

  ‘Well,’ our client admitted dolefully. ‘This is it.’

  At the end of the day I called into Pommeroy’s Wine Bar and the first person I met was Claude Erskine-Brown on his way out. Of course I went straight into the attack.