Mike Dixon

Clary broke off the conversation and left the hotel.
Humphrey adjusted his hat and went downstairs. The women
were huddled around a walking frame and appeared to
be waiting for him. He put on his most charming manner.
„Good evening, ladies!‟
They were well into their eighties. Two frail old women
with sunken eyes and a huge woman with a bandaged leg.
Humphrey smiled benevolently. „I believe Clary has just
shown you a picture of some young ladies. I have a better
one here.‟
He produced a laser print showing the faces of Doris and
her companion, computer-enhanced to remove blemishes on
the original photograph. The three women looked at it but
said nothing.
„A friend of theirs – a former American serviceman –
wants to get in touch with them. I understand he‟s very well
off.‟
There was still no response and he decided that all three
were in an advanced state of mental decline.
„He‟s got lots of money,‟ he shouted.
This time he got a reaction. The biggest of the three
picked up her walking frame and lunged towards him.
„What are you snooping around here for?‟
„I‟m working for a solicitor. I‟m trying to locate certain
persons who are beneficiaries of a will.‟
„That‟s not what you told Clary.‟
Humphrey was thrown on the defensive. Two of the old
dears might be gaga but this one definitely wasn‟t.
„I‟m also writing a book. I‟m combining the two.‟
„Who sent you here?‟
„I‟ve told you.‟
„You liar!‟
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