Open Writing

Grote rang. He and I had joined the Daily Blare at the same time but we'd lost touch when he went into the civil service.

Now he asked me to meet him at the Tavern, just off Leicester Square. I bought him a brandy and waited for him to speak.

'My section chief is trying to have me killed,' he said nervously.

I didn't even blink. Nothing surprised me in those days.

'But why?'

'Because I know too much.'

I looked at him. He'd aged beyond his years. I got him another brandy.

'How do you know he's trying to have you killed?'

'His wife told me.'

'What did she say, exactly?'

'I'm afraid I can't reveal that. Just take my word for it, will you?'

'What is she like, his wife?'

'A dazzler.'

'So what do you want me to do?'

'Nothing. All I can say is that if anything happens to me you must bear in mind what I've just told you and act according to your conscience.'

'Conscience, on the Blare!' I almost yelled.
*
A few weeks later the section chief died in a car crash. At the inquest mention was made of faulty brakes but foul play wasn't suggested.

Grote and I met at the Tavern again. He looked cheerful and younger. This time I let him buy the drinks.

Jokingly I said, 'You must thank whoever it was who fixed those brakes.'

'I already have,' he said, smugly. 'And do you know what she said? She said she was glad to have been of service . . . Now isn't that something?'

I looked at him. 'It certainly is,' I said, 'it most certainly is.'