“CLUB DEAD “AH, MR. SMITH! HOW GOOD TO SEE YOU! CAN I OFFER YOU something to drink?” asks the banker. “I don’t think so.” George sits down, uninvited, in the visitor’s chair opposite Sir David Finch’s desk. He wears an overcoat and leather gloves over a sober suit. Sir David is clearly unnerved by Old George’s unheralded appearance in his inner office—his PA didn’t put informal visit by major investor anywhere in his daily schedule, and it is in any case late enough that he was about to leav...e for home. “I’d just like to keep this quick, Sir David. My request the other week—did you act on it?” “Your request? Oh, the off-site meeting? Hmm.” Sir David frowns, and taps his fingers. “I’ll have to ask Sandra what happened to it. I don’t recall attending . . . no.” He pauses, about to touch the intercom on his desk. “Do you mind?” “Be my guest.” It’s delivered with an ironic half smile, but something about Old George’s manner gives Sir David the very peculiar feeling that perhaps he is here in this office by George’s grace and favor.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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