himself saying, I've consulted Messrs Pollinger, Potter, Naysmith, lies and Montaigne of Oldmaid Row.'
She was giving him an oddly doubting look. OK, so she'd read the papers and knew that Poll-Pott were short a couple of names from the team sheet, but so what? Premier-division outfit like that could surely rustle up an international-strength reserve side.
'And they advised you to go ahead?' she said, incredulous this side of politeness.
He hadn't actually told the lie direct so far, but now he was in too deep to back off.
That's right,' he said, adding on the sheep-as-a-lamb principle, They were real enthusiastic about my chances.'
'Well,' she said, rising from behind her desk and offering her hand and an almost sympathetic smile. 'In that case, Mr. Sixsmith, we'll see you in court.'
As he stood waiting for the lift, he tried to reassure himself it had gone OK. So she hadn't caved in and offered to renegotiate, but she wouldn't, would she? Not before she'd tossed it around with her legal eagles. Then, he hoped, they'd decide it wasn't worth the risk of losing and offer a settlement.
The lift arrived. He got in. Instead of going down it continued its upward journey to the top floor. When the door opened, you could tell just by the different quality of the carpet that this was where the high fliers roosted. A hard-faced young man with Security written all over him got in and leaned his finger on the Door Open button. You came this high, you got an escort, thought Joe. Hard Face was giving him a what-the-hell-is-this? look. Joe said, 'I was on my way down,' by way of explanation. Hard Face didn't reply, but his unblinking gaze signalled, better you should have stepped out of a window.
Voices were approaching, presumably belonging to the important people the lift was being held for.
One was saying, 'Like I say, this is a matter which requires the instant attention of the board. Some may be impressed, like me, that you have come in person to offer your reassurance. Others, I'm afraid, may find even more cause for alarm in that. Goodbye, Darby. We'll be in touch.'
'Goodbye, Harold.'
Harold, Joe could now see, was a short breathless man who didn't look happy. And Darby he knew, from his picture at least. Darby was Darby Pollinger, founder and headman of Poll-Pott.
Maybe he was having trouble with his motor too, thought Joe.
But he knew that wasn't the answer. That lay in Mrs. Airey's reaction when he said Poll-Pott had advised him he had a case. No wonder she'd found this hard to believe. He'd bet his pension if he had one that Penthouse's legal advisers were none other than Poll-Pott!
Pollinger's gaze hardly touched Joe as he entered the lift, but he felt like he'd been fully registered.
In the foyer Hard Face held the main door open for the lawyer. Joe rushed forward before he could close it, said, Thanks, my man. Hey, you ought to get someone to call a plumber, all this water running down the walls,' and got out with only minor damage to his trailing ankle.
A step behind Pollinger, he followed his exact path to the managing director's bay. There the lawyer paused with his hand on the door handle of the Merc.
'It's Sixsmith, I believe,' he said.
'That's what I believe too,' said Joe.
Pollinger slid into the driving seat, reached over and opened the passenger door.
'If you have a moment to spare, I'd appreciate a little conversation, Mr. Sixsmith,' he said.
Joe looked down at the soft leather seat. He'd got into worse messes than this.
'Why not?' he said.
It was nice in there. He kept the interior of the Magic Mini as clean as he could, but it still ponged faintly of oil and takeaways and (don't even think it, but too late! Whitey's disgruntled face had already appeared at the Mini's window) cat.
Nothing here though but the intoxicatingly elusive smell of money.
'First things first, Mr. Sixsmith,' said Pollinger. 'Could we just remove the very faint possibility that you are following me?'
'Shoot!' exclaimed Joe indignantly. 'Why should I be doing that? I was in there on private and personal business.'
'Yes, I believe you. I did not think it possible that you would be so obvious if I were under surveillance.'
Joe looked carefully to see if there was space for an implied even before the you, but found none.
'Well, you're not. Not by me anyway. Why would you think you might be?'
'In view of what's been happening recently, I should have thought that was obvious. Protection or suspicion, take your choice.'
Joe digested this then said, 'I get you. But either or both, that would be a cop job. I only work at what I get paid for.'
'From what I have heard, that's not strictly true, Mr. Sixsmith,' said Pollinger. 'Who, for instance, paid you to go round to poor Sandra's flat? Or Felix's house?'
'I thought he was in trouble,' said Joe.
'Which he was. That was good hearted of you. And Sandra, did you think she was in trouble too?'
'No,' said Joe, who found lying so uncomfortable that he didn't bother with it except as a last resort. 'I thought she might have been the one who killed Mr. Potter.'
