you imagine I can help you?'
'I need a lawyer,' he said. 'And you're my lawyer.'
'Now that's where you're making your mistake,' she said. 'Way back, when Robco Engineering made you redundant and tried to stiff you for your severance money, then I was your lawyer. And OK, from time to time, as your persistence in maintaining this pretence that you're a PI has dropped you in the mire, I've given a helping hand. But that was out of, God help me, mere charity and pity for a dumb creature. Now, all those folk out there who have come to me with serious life-threatening problems which I should be dealing with this very moment, I am their lawyer. But I am not your lawyer, Sixsmith. And even if I was, I don't do motor insurance!'
She thrust the letter back at him. He took it and let his eyes drift up to a poster on the wall behind her. It read:
SHAKESPEARE SAID
'Kill All The Lawyers'.
Except, of course, us.
We're here for your protection,
not our profit.
IF YOU KNOW YOU'RE RIGHT, WE KNOW YOUR RIGHTS!
Pointing, he said, 'I don't see where it says, excepting Joe Sixsmith.'
'OK, OK,' said Butcher. 'Don't go wee pie on me. Look, I'm really no good for you, what you need is a specialist. There's this guy I know he owes me a sort of favour ...'
She smiled rather grimly. Joe guessed that in lawyer-speak, a sort of favour meant you knew something to put the black on a guy.
'You mind stepping outside a moment, Joe. I don't like witnesses to extortion.'
He went out. Expectant eyes focused on him. He smiled guiltily. The door opened and he slipped back in.
'Heard of Poll-Pott?' she said.
'Butcher, I'm not going to Cambodia.'
'Ho ho. Pollinger, Potter, Naysmith, Montaigne and lies,' she said.
'That Poll-Pott,' he said. 'With those posh offices in Old-maid Row?'
That's them, except when they charge like they do, they don't have offices, they have chambers.'
'Sort of chamber poll-pot,' said Joe, who was often stimulated to wit by Butcher's presence.
'Jesus Anyway, Peter Potter and I used to be sort of buddies way back, before he became too rich to afford me. He specializes in insurance cases.'
'And he'll look into mine?'
'Not so much look into as glance at. He'll give you five minutes to tell your tale of woe then he'll spare five seconds to tell you whether you've got a hope in hell. You want more, you'll have to make an appointment and start paying by the parsec for his professional services. Sorry, that's the best I can do, and even that has cost me dear.'
'It's great,' Joe assured her. 'When do I see him?'
'In the next half hour. After that, don't bother.'
'What's he doing?' said Joe, looking at his watch which said quarter past five. 'Jetting off to Bermuda for his hols?'
'Don't kick a gift horse in the teeth, Sixsmith. Pete Potter may be self-seeking, hedonistic, and fascist, but he makes the big insurance companies reach for their bulletproof vests. You can be round there in five minutes if you step smartly.'
'No, I can't,' said Joe. 'The policy's back in my flat.'
'Oh God. Why do I bother? And why are you still cluttering up my workspace? Don't step smartly, run like hell!'
Joe ran like hell.
Two.
Even running like hell and driving like Jehu couldn't get Joe back to his flat and out to Oldmaid Row much before a quarter to six.
Still, he thought, if the guy's as good as Butcher cracks him up to be, couple of minutes should be plenty to confirm I've got a cast-iron case.
He rehearsed it as he kerb-crawled the elegant Regency terrace looking for the chambers.
Back in the autumn, his car had nose-dived through a cattle grid and been bombed by rubble from a ruinous gate arch. Ram Ray had produced an estimate for repairs running into a couple of thousand. 'No sweat,' the Penthouse assessor had said. 'Cause of accident, faulty cattle grid. The estate owner pays.' But when it turned out that the ownership of the estate was in dispute and that the current occupier was about to start a long prison sentence, the tune changed. This was when Mrs. Airey, the senior claims inspector, appeared. She came to look at the remains of the car, sucked in her breath sharply, said it was clearly a write-off and if Joe cared to submit his own estimate of value with supporting documentation, it would be taken into account. Joe made his submission. Penthouse made their offer, Joe thought it was a misprint. He pointed out that his car was close to vintage status. They suggested it missed by a good thirty years and pointed out that the same model was still being manufactured in India. In fact, if they took the price of a new one from Ram Ray and projected twenty-five years depreciation, the value came to something less than one hundred. So the argument swayed for a good three months till finally
