The Good Thief’s Guide To Amsterdam - Plot & Excerpts
“The American is dead,” he announced. “You’d better get me a lawyer then,” I told him. “One who speaks English, preferably.” When he arrived, it turned out my lawyer actually was English. He told me his name was Henry Rutherford and that he’d been sent on behalf of the British Embassy. Rutherford was short with a large, beach-ball gut and a chipmunk-like face, all swollen cheeks and fatty jowls. His balding head had just a few thickets of fair hair on it and his shirt collar, which seemed at least a size too small, bit into the loose, rolling skin of his neck. He extended a clammy hand to shake, and after I’d given him a brief summary of my arrest and a tailored version of what had led to it, he asked me a more important question. “Where did you school, dear boy?” I told him Kings’ and we had the usual kind of conversation about it. Then he got around to the task at hand and asked me if I’d received any legal advice since my arrest. “They gave me someone Dutch before,”
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