Dundridge arrived promptly at the offices of Ganglion, Turnbull and Shrine and was kept waiting for ten minutes. He sat in an outer office clutching his briefcase and looking miserably at the sporting prints on the walls. They didn’t suggest the sophisticated modern approach to life that he felt an understanding of his particular case required. Nor did Mr Ganglion, who finally deigned to see him. He was an elderly man with gold-rimmed glasses over which he looked at Dundridge critically. Dundridge sat down in front of his desk and tried to think how to begin.
“And what did you wish to consult me about, Mr Dundridge?” Mr Ganglion enquired. “I think you should know in advance that if this has anything to do with the motorway we are not prepared to handle it.”
Dundridge shook his head. “It hasn’t got anything to do with the motorway, well not exactly,” he said. “The thing is that I’m being blackmailed.”
Mr Ganglion put the tips of his fingers together and tapped them. “Blackmailed? Indeed. An unusual crime in this part of the world. I can’t remember when we last had a case of blackmail. Still it does make a change, I must say. Yes, blackmail. You interest me, Mr Dundridge. Do go on.”
Dundridge swallowed nervously. He hadn’t come to interest Mr Ganglion or at least not in the way his smile suggested. “It’s like this,” he said. “I went to a party at the Golf Club and I met this girl…”
“A girl, eh?” said Mr Ganglion and drew his chair up to the desk. “An attractive girl I daresay.”
“Yes,” said Dundridge.
“And you went home with her, I suppose,” said Mr Ganglion, his eyes alight with a very genuine interest now.
“No,” said Dundridge. “At least I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” said Mr Ganglion. “Surely you know what you did?”
“That’s the whole point,” Dundridge said, “I don’t know what I did.” He stopped. He did know what he had done. The photographs proclaimed his actions all too clearly. “Well actually… I know what I did and all that…”
“Yes,” Mr Ganglion said encouragingly.
“The thing is I don’t know where I did it.”
“In a field perhaps?”
Dundridge shook his head. “Not in a field.”
“In the back of a car?”
“No,” said Dundridge. “The thing is that I was unconscious.”
“Were you really? Extraordinary. Unconscious?”
“You see, I had a Campari before we left. It tasted bitter but then Campari does, doesn’t it?”
“I have no idea,” said Mr Ganglion, “what Campari tastes like but I’ll take your word for it.”
“Very bitter,” said Dundridge, “and we got into the car and that’s the last thing I remember.”
“How very unfortunate,” said Mr Ganglion, clearly disappointed that he wasn’t going to hear the more intimate details of the encounter.
“The next thing I knew I was sitting in my car in a lay-by.”
“A lay-by. Very appropriate. And what happened next?”
Dundridge shifted nervously in his chair. This was the part he had been dreading. “I got some photographs.”
Mr Ganglion’s flagging interest revived immediately. “Did you really? Splendid. Photographs indeed.”
“And a demand for a thousand pounds.”
“A thousand pounds? Did you pay it?”
“No,” said Dundridge. “No I didn’t.”
“You mean they weren’t worth it?”
Dundridge chewed his lip. “I don’t know what they’re worth,” he muttered bitterly.
“Then you’ve still got them,” said Mr Ganglion. “Good. Good. Well I’ll soon tell you what I think of them.”
“I’d rather…” Dundridge began but Mr Ganglion insisted.
“The evidence,” he said, “let’s have a look at the evidence of blackmail. Most important.”
“They’re pretty awful,” said Dundridge.
“Bound to be,” said Mr Ganglion. “For a thousand pounds they must be quite revolting.”
“They are,” said Dundridge. Encouraged by Mr Ganglion’s broad-mindedness, he opened his briefcase and took out the envelope. “The thing is you’ve got to remember I was unconscious at the time.”
Mr Ganglion nodded understandingly. “Of course, my dear fellow, of course.” He reached out and took the envelope and opened it. “Good God,” he muttered as he looked at the first one. Dundridge squirmed in his chair and stared at the ceiling, and listened while Mr Ganglion thumbed through the photographs, grunting in an ecstasy of disgust and astonishment.
“Well?” he asked when Mr Ganglion sat back exhausted in his chair. The solicitor was staring at him incredulously.
“A thousand pounds? Is that really all they asked?” he said. Dundridge nodded. “Well, all I can say is that you got off damned lightly.”
“But I didn’t pay,” Dundridge reminded him. Mr Ganglion goggled at him.
“You didn’t? You mean to tell me you baulked at a mere thousand pounds after having…” he stopped at a loss for words while his finger wavered over a particularly revolting photograph.
“I couldn’t,” said Dundridge feeling hard done by.
“Couldn’t?”
“They never called me back. I had one phone call and I’ve been waiting for another.”
“I see,” said Mr Ganglion. He looked back at the photograph. “And you’ve no idea who this remarkable woman is?”
“None at all. I only met her the once.”
“Once is enough by the look of things,” Mr Ganglion said. “And no more phone calls? No letters?”
“Not until last night,” said Dundridge, “and then I got a message from the girl at the desk at the Regional Planning Board.”
“The girl at the desk at the Regional Planning Board,” said Mr Ganglion, eagerly reaching for a pencil. “And what’s her name?”
“She’s got nothing to do with it,” Dundridge said, “she was simply phoning to give me the message. It said Lady Maud Lynchwood had called and wanted me to know that she had some photographs of particular interest to me…” He stopped. Mr Ganglion had half-risen from his seat and was glaring at him furiously.
“Lady Maud?” he yelled. “You come in here with this set of the most revolting photographs I’ve ever set eyes on and have the audacity to tell me that Lady Maud Lynchwood has something to do with them. My God, sir, I’ve half a mind to horsewhip you. Lady Maud Lynchwood is one of our most respected clients, a dear sweet lady, a woman of the highest virtues, a member of one of the best families…” He fell back into his chair, speechless.
“But -” Dundridge began.
“But me no buts,” said Mr Ganglion, trembling with rage. “Get out of my office. If I have one more word out of you, sir, I shall institute proceedings for slander immediately. Do you hear me? One more word here or anywhere else. One breath of rumour from you and I won’t hesitate, do you hear me?”
Dundridge could still hear him fulminating as he dashed downstairs and into the street clutching his briefcase. It was only when he got back to his apartment that he realized he had left his photographs on Mr Ganglion’s desk. They could stay there for all he cared. He wasn’t going back for the beastly things.
Behind him Mr Ganglion simmered down. On the desk in front of him Dundridge and the masked woman lay frozen in two-dimensional contortions. Mr Ganglion adjusted his bifocals and studied them with interest. Then he put the photographs into the envelope and the envelope into his safe. The good name of the Handymans was safe with him. Mind you, come to think of it, he wouldn’t put anything past her. Remarkable woman, Maud, quite remarkable.
By the time they reached London Lady Maud had explained Blott’s new duties to him.
“You will hire a taxi and wait outside his flat until he comes out and then you will follow him wherever he goes. Particularly in the evening. I want to know where he spends his nights. If he goes into a block of flats, go in after him and make a note of the floor the lift stops at. Do you understand?”