Bond Street Story by Norman Collins

handkerchief across his forehead and listened.
    But, even though he was sympathetic, he seemed somehow to be disapproving as well. For when Mr. Privett had finished Mr. Bloot only frowned and shook his head.
    â€œYurss, I know,” he said. “But it’s bad just the same. Doesn’t do to get mixed up with the police. Not men in our position. Cahn’t afford it. Bahnd to leak aht in the long run.”
    As soon as he had finished speaking, he shook his head again. He had assumed the air of immense authority of a man who has studied the effects of even quite casual encounters with authority, and has been shocked and chastened by what he has seen. Mr. Privett felt a small cold rivulet of fear running down his spine.
    â€œBut there hasn’t been a summons or anything like that,” he explained hurriedly. “They only took down a few particulars. It isn’t as if anybody had been killed. I probably shan’t never hear from them again. Never.”
    Mr. Bloot thrust out his nether lip.
    â€œYur’ll ’ear all right,” he said. “Yur mark my words. Yur’ll ’ear.”
    Then came that ominous head shake once more, and Mr. Privett glanced up nervously at the clock. It now showed 11.15. That meant that it was time for both Mr. Bloot and Mr. Privett to be getting back to their particular floors. Mr. Privett got stiffly to his feet.
    But Mr. Bloot stopped him.
    â€œWot yur need,” he said, prodding into Mr. Privett’s side with his forefinger to emphasize the significance of the remark, “is er solicitor. That’s what yur need. Er solicitor. Someone to representyur. Yur didn’t ought to have come back down into the shop at all. What yur ought to do is to walk straight out of here now, and find a solicitor before it’s too late.” Mr. Bloot paused. He was breathing heavily again. “But yur better make some inquiries first,” he went on. “A divorce lawyer wouldn’t help yur. Or a police court man. What yur need is er naccident specialist. The others’d be worse tha no one.”
    Another small, icy drop ran down Mr. Privett’s spine. It seemed that whichever way he turned he was faced by dangers. So, both to bring the conversation to an end and to keep up his own spirits, he tried to pooh-pooh the whole affair.
    â€œI don’t want no solicitor,” he said. “It’s making too much of it.”
    But Mr. Bloot would allow none of that.
    â€œWot about your counter-claim?” he demanded.
    â€œMy what?”
    Mr. Bloot pursed his lips. He was really at the top of his form by now. Immense. Knowledgeable. Majestic.
    â€œYur want a new boat, don’t yur?” he asked. “Oo d’yur think’s going to pay for that? Yur or the motor-coach company? And how much d’yer think yur’d get out of the motor-coach company if yur write to them yurself? Nothing. They probably wouldn’t even answer. But if it’s ur solicitor. He’d take ’em in Court if they didn’t. And there’s damages, too.” Mr. Bloot’s eyes were misty and unfocused for a moment at the thought of the huge, almost unassessable damages that were Mr. Privett’s simply for the asking. “Properly ’andled this ought to be worth ’undreds to yur. Literally ’undreds. But only if your solicitor gets in first.”
    Mr. Privett was silent for a moment.
    â€œYou’re quite right,” he said at last. “I see that now. I’d better do something about it.”
    He was ashamed, bitterly ashamed, to think how he had misjudged Mr. Bloot. At first, he had seemed merely off-hand. Disinterested. Even callous. Some of the time he had not appeared to be listening at all, just sitting there concentrating on his tea. But that had only been Mr. Bloot’s way. Because all the while he had been really worrying about his friend, working out wonderful schemes for him. Mr. Privett saw now