D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

“Go back? Are you mad? After all that’s happened, you want to quit?”

She touched him then, and it jolted him like an electric cattle prod. “Yes, please....”

He looked into her eyes, and again he saw something there, a longing. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She withdrew, shaking her head. “No, it’s nothing. We’ll keep going. I’ve no right to prevent you from finding the truth about your father. It’s what my father would have wanted.”

Confused, Michael was unprepared when Erika leaned over and caressed his face, placing a delicate kiss on his nose. She then moved over to the other twin bed and lay down, her face turned away from him.

Michael stared at her, his mind aswirl. A moment later his puzzled frown changed to a boyish grin. Sleep eluded him for the rest of the night.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The offices of Cadwallader & Soames, Solicitors, occupied one of the white stone buildings on a quiet corner of Regent Street several blocks from the bustle of Piccadilly Circus.

As Michael and Erika’s cab pulled over to the curb, his anxiety rose. What if they’d lost what had been entrusted to them? And what if they had it, and refused to relinquish it? These thoughts and others raced through his mind while he stared at the building’s forbidding facade.

“Are you all right?” Erika asked.

He nodded. “I’m fine, let’s go.”

Michael handed the cabby a five-pound note and didn’t bother to wait for the change. Erika clambered out after him. They passed through the stout wooden doors and disappeared inside.

The entry way led up a short flight of stairs covered in a thick forest green carpet that gave underfoot. The walls were paneled in a dark wood and lit by filigreed light fittings that gave off a pale amber glow. It was obvious the firm was no longer the one his mother remembered. It resembled a mausoleum. It was only later he learned that it employed over 200 attorneys.

On reaching the first floor, Michael spotted the receptionist’s desk, a semicircular modern piece wholly out of place with the rest of the decor, yet it added an ominous tone of authority to the woman seated behind it. Middle-aged and dressed severely in a dark suit, the receptionist was everyone’s nightmare schoolmarm: sharp face, graying hair pulled into a tight bun and secured with a carved ivory comb. She wore a headset with a built-in microphone that allowed her hands to remain free to perform other tasks; and she was typing now as she spoke, her thin bloodless fingers a tangled blur.

“Cadwallader and Soames. Yes, Mr. Halleday is expecting your call. Please hold.” She stopped typing only long enough to hit a series of buttons on the compact switchboard. “Mr. Halleday? Mr. Richardson on line five.... Cadwallader and Soames. No, I’m sorry, Mr. Bridges is on holiday until next week. Do you wish to leave word?”

Michael watched while she scribbled something on one of the preprinted pink message slips, tore it off its pad, then slipped it into one of the slots behind her already bulging with messages.

“Excuse me,” Michael said, leaning over the desk, “I’m looking for Mart—”

“Cadwallader and Soames. Yes, Mr. Prentiss. I gave Mr. Gaylord your message over an hour ago. No, I don’t know why he hasn’t returned your call.”

“Excuse me, Ma’am, but—”

“Cadwallader and Soames. Yes, sir. The writs were delivered well before the filing deadline....”

Michael shot Erika an annoyed look, his patience nearing its end. One thing he could never stand was rudeness in any form, especially from those who were supposed to be greeting the public. Erika shook her head and shrugged, apparently at a loss as to what to do. That was fine, for he knew exactly what to do.

Reaching across the desk, Michael grabbed the cable leading from the receptionist’s headset and yanked it out of the switchboard. The receptionist jumped, as if someone had jabbed her with a needle. She lunged for the cable’s end, her eyes blazing. Michael deftly moved it farther away.

“You give me that back, or I shall call security at once.”

Erika smiled at Michael’s audacity.

“That might be a little difficult,” he said, holding up the cable.

The woman fumed. “What is it you want?”

Michael put on his best smile. “So sorry to trouble you, but we’re looking for Martin Cadwallader, a matter of utmost importance.”

The receptionist smiled then, and its cold, merciless expression sent a chill through Michael. She grabbed the cable back and plugged it in. Nearly every light on the switchboard was blinking.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Cadwallader retired some years ago.”

“But surely, someone would be familiar with our business....” Michael couldn’t keep the disappointment from out of his voice. It turned to anger when he saw the gleam of pleasure in the receptionist’s eyes. He wanted to slap her.

The receptionist tapped a series of buttons on the switchboard. “Mr. Ripley to reception.”

Michael started to say something else, but Erika’s tap on his shoulder silenced him. There was no point in trying to win a game of one-upmanship with this woman. They went over and sat down on a leather-covered sofa. It felt cool against the skin of his arm and the smell of leather conditioner was a soothing balm to his spirit, something homely and familiar. A few moments later, a slight young man appeared. He looked as if he’d slept in his too-tight herringbone polyester suit, which clashed with his checked shirt and regimental tie. The young man stopped at the reception desk and spoke with the receptionist, who pointed a long finger at Michael and Erika. He smiled and nodded his thanks and walked over to them, his hand