Hugh Laurie - The Gun Seller

Paulie himself was in court on a hit-and-run case, playing his part as a human brake-pad on the wheels of justice, so I had no special entree to the chambers of Milton Crowley Spencer. Instead, I had to submit to the clerk’s interrogation on the nature of my ‘problem’ and by the time he’d finished, I felt worse than I’ve ever done in any venereal clinic.

Not that I’ve been to a lot of venereal clinics.

Having passed the preliminary means test, I was then leftto cool my heels in a waiting-room filled with back numbers ofExpressions, the journal for American Express cardholders. So I sat there and read about bespoke trouser-makers in Jermyn Street, and sock-weavers in Northampton, and hat-growers in Panama, and how likely it was that Kerry Packer would win the Veuve Cliquot Polo Championship at Smith’s Lawn this year, and generally caught up on all the big stories happening behind the news, until the clerk came back and raised a pert couple of eyebrows at me.

I was ushered into a large, oak-panelled room, with shelves ofRegina versus The Rest Of The World on three walls, and a row of wooden filing cabinets along the fourth. There was a photograph on the desk of three teenage children, who looked as if they’d been bought from a catalogue, and next to it, a signed picture of Denis Thatcher. I was chewing on the peculiar fact that both these photographs were pointing outwards from the desk, when a connecting door opened, and I was suddenly in the presence of Spencer.

And quite a presence it was. He was a taller version of Rex Harrison, with greying hair, half-moon spectacles and a shirt so white it must have been running off the mains. I didn’t actually see him start the clock as he sat down.

‘Mr Fincham, sorry to keep you, do have a seat.’

He gestured around the room, as if inviting me to take my pick, but there was only one chair. I sat down, and immediately jumped to my feet again as the chair let out a scream of creaking, tearing wood. It was so loud, and so agonised, that I could picture people in the street outside stopping, and looking up at the window, and wondering about calling a policeman. Spencer didn’t seem to notice it.

‘Don’t think I’ve seen you at the club,’ he said, smiling expensively.

I sat down again, to another roar from the chair, and tried to find a position which might allow our conversation to be more or less audible above the howling woodwork.

‘Club?’ I said, and then looked down as he gestured at my tie. ‘Ah, you mean the Garrick?’

He nodded, still smiling.

‘No, well,’ I said, ‘I don’t get up to town as often as I’d like.’ I waved my hand in a way that implied a couple of thousand acres in Wiltshire and plenty of labradors. He nodded, as if he could picture the place exactly, and might pop over for a spot of lunch the next time he was in the neighbourhood.

‘Now then,’ he said, ‘how can I help?’

‘Well, this is rather delicate…’ I began.

‘Mr Fincham,’ he interrupted smoothly, ‘if the day ever comes when a client comes to me and says that the matter upon which he or she requires my advice is not delicate, I shall hang up my wig for good.’ From the look on his face, I could see that I was meant to take this as a witticism. All I could think was that it had probably cost me thirty quid.

‘Well, that’s very comforting,’ I said, acknowledging the joke. We smiled comfortably at each other. ‘The fact is,’ I went on, ‘that a friend of mine told me recently that you had been extremely helpful in introducing him to some people with unusual skills.’

There was a pause, as I’d rather suspected there might be. ‘I see,’ said Spencer. His smile faded slightly, the glasses came off, and the chin lifted five degrees. ‘Might I be favoured with the name of this friend of yours?’

‘I’d rather not say just at the moment. He told me that he needed… a sort of bodyguard, someone who would be prepared to carry out some fairly unorthodox duties, and that you furnished him with some names.’

Spencer leaned back in his chair and surveyed me. Head to toe. I could tell that the interview was already over, and that now he was just deciding on the most elegant way of telling me. After a while, he took in a slow breath through his finely wrought nose.

‘It is possible,’ he said, ‘that you have misunderstood the services we offer here, Mr Fincham. We are a firm of barristers. Advocates. We argue cases before the bench. That is our function. We are not, and this I think is where the confusion may have arisen, an employment agency. If your friend obtained satisfaction here, then I am glad. But I hope and believe that it had more to do with the legal advice we were able to offer than with any recommendations on the engagement of staff.’ In his mouth,‘staff’had a rather nasty sound to it. ‘Might it not be preferable for you to contact your friend in order to secure whatever information it is you require?’

‘Well that’s the problem,’ I said. ‘My friend has gone away.’ There was a pause, and Spencer blinked slowly. There is something strangely insulting about a slow blink. I know, because I use it myself.

‘You are welcome to use the telephone in the clerk’s office.’

‘He didn’t leave a number.’

‘Then, alas, Mr Fincham, you are in difficulty. Now, if you will excuse me…’ He slid the glasses back on to his nose and busied himself with some papers on his desk.

‘My friend wanted someone,’ I said, ‘who would be prepared to kill someone.’

Off came the glasses, up went the chin. ‘Indeed.’

A long pause.

‘Indeed,’ he said again. ‘That in itself being an unlawful act, it is highly improbable that he would have received any assistance from an employee of this firm, Mr Fincham…’

‘He assured me that you were most helpful…’

‘Mr Fincham, I shall be candid.’ The voice had stiffened considerably, and I realised that Spencer would be good fun to watch in court. ‘The suspicion has formed in my mind that you may be acting here in the capacity ofagent provocateur.’The French accent was confident and immaculate. He had a villa inProvence, natch. ‘From what motive, I cannot tell,’ he continued. ‘Nor am I particularly interested. I do, however, decline to say anything further to you.’

‘Unless you’re in the presence of a lawyer.’

‘Good day to you, Mr Fincham.’ Glasses on.

‘My friend also told me that you handled the payment of his new employee.’

No answer. I knew there weren’t going to be any more answers from Mr Spencer, but I thought I’d press on anyway. ‘My friend told me that you signed the credit slip yourself,’ I said. ‘In your own hand.’

‘I am rapidly tiring of news of your friend, Mr Fincham. I repeat, good day to you.’

I got to my feet and moved towards the door. The chair screamed its relief.

‘Does the offer of the telephone still stand?’ He didn’t even look up.

‘The cost of the call will be added to your bill.’

‘Bill for what?’ I said. ‘You haven’t given me anything.’

‘I have given you my time, Mr Fincham. If you have no desire to make use of it, that is entirely your concern.’

I opened the door.

‘Well, thanks anyway, Mr Spencer. By the way…’ I waited until he had looked up. ‘There’s some ugly talk at the Garrick that you cheat at bridge. I told the chaps that it was all rubbish and tommy-rot, but you know what these things are like. Chaps get an idea in their head. Thought you ought to know.’

Pathetic. But all I could think of at the time.

The clerk sensed that I was not a terriblygrata persona,and warned me, peevishly, to expect a bill for services in the next few days.

I thanked him for his kindness and turned towards the staircase. As I did so, I noticed that someone else was now treading my path through back numbers ofExpressions,the journal for American Express card-holders.