Brian Freemantle - The Namedropper
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- Название:The Namedropper
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- Год:неизвестен
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‘I’m very sorry if-’
‘I told you nothing’s wrong,’ stopped Jordan. Could he risk going on, hinting at the apprehension? He didn’t have any alternative, so much and so quickly did he have to catch up. ‘Has anyone, more than one person maybe, been asking about me?’
John Blake frowned, uncertainly. ‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’d have remembered, Mr Jordan. You know I would.’
‘Yes, I do know you would.’
‘What shall I do – say – if anyone does come asking questions?’
He had to close the conversation, end it. ‘Tell them that you’re not sure about anything: that you need to think. But get some method of contact, like a visiting card. And let me have it.’
‘Of course, Mr Jordan. You know you can trust me.’
‘I know that, John,’ insisted the man who didn’t trust anybody and wasn’t sure he could any longer trust himself. ‘We’re not talking anything world shattering. I just don’t want to miss out on a business deal that’s looking good. I’m caught up in a competition I want to win, just as they do.’
‘I understand,’ said the man, nodding sagely at the imagined confidence.
Back in his apartment Jordan made coffee he didn’t want, merely occupying the time until offices woke up and became occupied, looking down at the bureau and its sleeping, so far unused computer, tempted to access the Appleton and Drake website. Not without more preparation and planning, he cautioned himself. He’d already made too many mistakes, allowed too much carelessness: every step he took, every move he made, from now on had to be the correct one, thought out and evaluated. The thin ice was already creaking underfoot.
Jordan stifled his impatience until nine thirty before telephoning the American embassy in Grosvenor Square, ignoring the recorded, single digit invitations to self-select what he wanted until a human voice came on the line. His impatience flared again at the pedantic questioning for his reason to be put through to the legal department, but he curbed it again, eventually getting a connection without disclosing his name, already having a false one ready if he was repeatedly pressed, which he wasn’t. It was a softly spoken, southern-accented woman who picked up the receiver. Frowning at his own realization of the threadbare cover-up, Jordan said he was calling on behalf of an English friend whom it appeared likely was about to become involved in maybe more than one, although definitely linked, court cases in North Carolina. He was seeking the name of a London legal firm with experience of American law to which his friend could approach for guidance.
‘I’m afraid we are not allowed to provide that sort of recommendation, for the obvious reasons,’ said the woman. ‘If the advice of such a recommendation were flawed or in error, the American government could lay itself open to separate legal action for damages.’
‘All I’m seeking is the name of a legal firm which could provide guidance in a divorce situation,’ pressed Jordan.
‘Sir, I’ve already told you we cannot provide recommendations for any legal opinion of any kind. And for that reason we don’t hold the names of any English firms qualified to help you…’ The pause was timed. ‘Or your friend. I’m sorry.’
‘Wait!’ pleaded Jordan, fearing that the woman was about to ring off. ‘Do you know any other agency or organization that could help?’
‘The same caveat applies, I’m afraid. You’ll have to proceed through English legal or government sources.’
‘There must surely be American law firms with English affiliates!’
‘Like you, I’m sure there must be,’ agreed the woman. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have a list of them.’ Before replacing the telephone, she said, ‘Have a nice day.’
Jordan didn’t imagine he would and it was not yet ten in the morning.
Her name was Lesley Corbin. She wore a severe black business suit, black framed glasses, but no wedding ring, which in the circumstances of the meeting didn’t interest Harvey Jordan any more than her suppressed attractiveness. The appointment had been arranged by a secretary who hadn’t indicated a gender: he’d wrongly assumed Lesley Corbin to be a man, not a woman, yet another mistake to add to his increasing, self-criticising list. After further refusals to recommend a suitable law firm, for the same reason as the American embassy, from the Law Society and the Anglo-American Society, Jordan had chosen the woman’s firm from Waterlows’ Solicitor and Barristers Directory from which he’d chosen his most recent identity theft victim.
He would have felt more comfortable if Lesley Corbin had been a man. After the briefest of preliminary introductions it took her a full ten minutes, which he timed from the sonorously ticking clock on the mantle above an unlit fire, to go through the contents of the American letter, frequently referring back and forth between the different statements of claim. It seemed much longer.
‘I expect you to be completely honest, answering all my questions,’ she began, when she finally looked up.
‘Of course I will be,’ lied Jordan.
‘And understand that I am not legally qualified to offer advice on American divorce law.’
‘That was made clear when I made the appointment. What I’m really seeking is a reference to a firm or a lawyer who can help me. In Waterlows this firm is described as being international. When I called, I was told you were their foremost divorce specialist.’
‘It is and I am. But not in divorce matters in the United States with the added complications of linked damages claims; in America divorce legislation varies from state to state, with state by state Bar examinations. I know what alienation of affections is but I’ve no idea what criminal conversation means.’ There was just the slightest of lisps.
‘All I’m seeking is guidance – a reference – to someone who can help me.’
The woman looked down at the papers strewn around her desk. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Are you in a relationship that could be construed as a common law marriage?’
‘No.’
‘Did you seduce Alyce Appleton?’
‘No.’
‘Did you sleep with Alyce Appleton?’
‘Yes. We had a brief affair, a holiday romance.’
‘So you seduced her?’
‘No,’ again refused Jordan. ‘That makes it sound as if I pursued her: persuaded her against her will. I didn’t force myself upon her. She was quite willing. Eager, in fact.’
‘As you were?’
‘As I was,’ agreed Jordan. He hadn’t so far had to lie.
‘Did you know she was married?’
Jordan hesitated. ‘Yes. She wore a wedding ring as well as an engagement ring. But she told me she was getting a divorce from her husband.’
‘Did she tell you before or after you slept together?’
Jordan had to think. ‘After. She made it sound as if she initiated proceedings against him, for his adultery-’
‘And was getting her own back,’ interrupted the lawyer.
‘Exactly that.’ He gestured to the papers lying between them on the desk. ‘That claim makes it look as if she’s the guilty party and I’m the cause.’
‘That’s precisely what it looks like: as it’s supposed to appear. The husband’s lawyers are making him out the innocent party.’
‘It’s not true. Before we even got together she spent one morning reading stuff she later told me were divorce papers. Everything had already been started.’
‘Did she show the divorce papers to you? Did you read them?’
‘Of course not.’
‘So she could have been lying?’
The question brought Jordan up short. ‘No…! She wouldn’t…’
‘We’re not talking love here, are we? We’re talking a holiday romance of what… one, two weeks?’
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