But it wasn’t a young man. Mr. Kipp saw the protruding belly of age, white tufts of hair on the wrinkled chest, and the wattled neck.
Mr. Kipp felt outraged. “That man is old,” he protested, struggling ineffectively against his straps.
And then he glanced at the face of his neighbor, and he realized that his supposition about the function of the youthful peasants was quite unfounded, and he also realized more fully why Dr. Benavides and his associates had been so insistent that he leave no traces whatever that might lead the authorities north to Durango.
The old man on the stretcher was well known to him. It was, in fact, Gorgos, who was regarding him with a rather wicked grin.
“Thanks for the kidneys, Kipp,” said Gorgos. “This time, I outbid you.”
Dr. Benavides smiled benignly down. “You’re the donor in this case, Mr. Kipp,” he explained.
And then the anesthetic mask was applied, quite firmly, to Mr. Kipp’s face.
Mouse in a Trap
by Michael Gilbert{©1970 by Michael Gilbert.}
The legal firm of Messrs. Lamplough, Fairchild and Brett found itself enmeshed in a little real-estate deal involving two of its valued clients. And the final resolution of the problem was — how do the lawyers say it? — “entirely without prejudice”…
When two people fall out and decide to seek legal advice over their dispute it may seem surprising to you that they should both go to the same firm of solicitors. It is only superficially surprising. For, if both of them have used the same firm for a long time, neither may see any reason why he should go elsewhere to oblige the other party. After all, they can always consult different partners. And anyway, in a small country town, there may only be one good firm. This explains why the offices of Messrs. Lamplough, Fairchild and Brett recently received visits, on successive mornings, both from Mr. Snuggs and Sir Charles Pellat.
These offices occupy an early Georgian building in the little Square behind the Corn-market. The brass plate is so worn with age and elbow grease that the names on it are almost illegible. No one living can remember Mr. Lamplough. There is a portrait of him in the waiting room which exhibits a crop of benevolent mutton-chop whiskers. If you look very closely you can see the rat-trap mouth behind them.
Mr. Cyprian Fairchild, the senior partner, is the grandson of the original Fairchild, and is himself approaching the age of retirement. Older clients value his advice. They realize that he may not be entirely au fait with the complexities of modern legislation, but they look on him as an old friend and a man of the world. The younger generation of lawyers in the office, headed by the junior partner, Mr. Roger Brett, privately consider him an old fuddy-duddy.
Mr. Snuggs parked his brand-new Three Litre Austin across the backs of two smaller cars, neatly blocking their exit, entered the office with the deliberate tread which befitted an independent tradesman and a man of property, and was shown up to the second-floor room of young Mr. Brett.
“It’s the roof, at the front,” said Mr. Snuggs. “Not the new bit over the back extension. That’s perfect and will be for another fifty years.”
“It should be,” said Mr. Brett, “seeing what it cost your landlord to put it up.”
“He can afford it,” said Mr. Snuggs. “No. It’s the front bit. Two tiles off in the gale last week, and Alfred and Henry ran a ladder up yesterday and stripped off a few more tiles. We found just what we expected. Wet rot.”
Mr. Brett said, “Tchk tchk,” and made a note. He reflected that it was the fourth such discovery that Mr. Snuggs and his sons had made in the past few years. The others had been dry rot, rising damp, and wood-worm. All had been rectified at considerable expense, by their long-suffering landlord, Sir Charles Pellat.
“Did you mention it to Sir Charles?”
“I did.”
“I don’t suppose he was pleased.”
“He was upset,” said Mr. Snuggs complacently. “But I told him, it’s your property. You’ve got to keep it in repair. Roof and main timbers. That’s what the lease says, isn’t it?”
“That’s roughly correct. Of course, he did build on that rear extension for you three years ago. That was an improvement. He didn’t have to do that.”
“He was improving his own property. It’ll come back to him when we go. He may not get it himself — he’s an old man. But it’ll come back to his family, won’t it?”
“That’s roughly correct.”
“Then he’s just investing his own money in his own property.”
“That’s certainly one way of looking at it,” said Mr. Brett. “Did he agree to make the repairs?”
“What he said was, seeing as me and my two boys were all builders, why didn’t we do it ourselves. Well, I wasn’t falling for that! I said, we don’t mix business with pleasure, Sir Charles. We’d rather get an outside firm to do it, then we’d know the job would be done properly. I suggested Palmer’s.”
Mr. Brett made another note. He knew that Palmer’s were the most expensive builders in the district. He didn’t think that Sir Charles would be very pleased. He fancied he would be seeing him quite soon.
This prediction was promptly fulfilled. At eleven o’clock on the following morning an aged Rolls-Royce pulled into the Square and parked across the backs of three smaller cars.
Sir Charles was tall and thin. He still retained, in his walk and his talk, a ghost of the cavalry subaltern he had been in the first World War. He refused a seat, and stood beside the fine bow-window of Mr. Cyprian Fairchild’s ground-floor office.
“It’s that damned fellow Snuggs,” he said.
“At it again, is he?”
“He never stops. Why the devil I ever let him have the lodge I don’t know!”
“When your lodgekeeper left, you had to let it to someone.”
“Should have chosen an old lady. A nice old lady. Not a bounder like Snuggs.”
“You couldn’t tell.”
“Might have known. Fellow’s a builder. Bound to be a crook. They all are.”
“That’s a bit sweeping,” said Mr. Fairchild. “There are honest builders. You happen to have struck a bad ’un, that’s all. What does he want now?”
“He wants a new front roof. Cost five hundred pounds. Got the estimate here.”
“How much did you pay for that back extension?”
“Fifteen hundred. That was three years ago. Cost more now. And that’s on top of what I paid for rebuilding the whole chimney and putting in new casement windows downstairs. To say nothing of regular annual repairs. I calculated the other day” — Sir Charles fished a scrap of paper out of his waistcoat pocket — “that lodge has cost me the thick end of five thousand pounds since the Snuggses went in.”
“I suppose it’s an investment,” said Mr. Fairchild gloomily.
“Investment! Who for? Me? I’ve got no heir, apart from my sister Lucretia, and she’s got all the money she wants. And anyway, what sort of investment is it for God’s sake? The place must be the best fitted-out cottage in England by now. Worth eight thousand pounds at least. If I had that money invested I’d get — never was much good at sums.”
“At six per cent you’d get four hundred and eighty pounds a year.”
“And the rent I get is thirty-five shillings a week. How much is that a year?”
“Just over ninety pounds.”