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Barney Smee had got rid of all fifty eventually, through the trade, and had made a cool ten dollars an ounce for himself. The cheque in his pocket was for the sale of the last of the deal, the ultimate two ingots. He was blissfully unaware that in other parts of Britain another four like himself had also spent the autumn filtering fifty 50-ounce ingots each back into the market through the second-hand trade, and had bought them for cash from a silver-haired seller. He swung out of the side street and into the Old Kent Road. As he did so he collided with a man descending from a taxi. Both men apologized to each other and wished each other a merry Christmas. Barney Smee passed on his contented way.

The other man, a solicitor from Guernsey, peered up at the building where he had been dropped, adjusted his hat and made for the entrance. Ten minutes later he was closeted with a somewhat mystified Mother Superior.

'May I ask, Mother Superior, whether Saint Benedict's Orphanage qualifies as a registered charity under the Charities Act?'

'Yes,' said the Mother Superior. 'It does.'

'Good,' said the lawyer. 'Then no infringement has taken place and there will be no application in your case of the capital transfer tax.'

'The what?' she asked.

'Better known as the "gift tax",' said the lawyer with a smile. 'I am happy to tell you that a donor whose identity I cannot reveal, under the rules of confidentiality governing business between client and lawyer, has seen fit to donate a substantial sum to your establishment.'

He waited for a reaction, but the grey-haired old nun was staring at him in bewilderment.

'My client, whose name you will never know, instructed me quite specifically to present myself to you here on this day, Christmas Eve, and present you with this envelope.'

He took an envelope of thick cartridge paper from his briefcase and held it out to the Mother Superior. She took it but made no move to open it.

'I understand it contains a certified bank cheque, purchased from a reputable merchant bank incorporated in Guernsey, drawn on that bank and made out in favour of Saint Benedict's Orphanage. I have not seen the contents, but those were my instructions.'

'No gift tax?' she queried, holding the envelope, irresolute. Charitable donations were few and far between, and usually hard fought for.

'In the, Channel Islands we have a different fiscal system to that of the United Kingdom mainland,' said the lawyer patiently. 'We have no capital transfer tax. We also practise bank confidentiality. A donation within Guernsey or the Islands attracts no tax. If the recipient is domiciled or resident within the UK mainland, then he or she would be liable under mainland tax law. Unless already exempted. Such as by the Charities Act. And now, if you will sign a receipt for one envelope, contents unknown, I will have discharged my duty. My fee is already settled and I would like to get home to my family.'

Two minutes later the Mother Superior was alone. Slowly she ran a letter knife along the envelope and extracted the contents. It was a single certified cheque. When she saw the figure on it she scrabbled for her rosary and began telling it rapidly. When she had regained some of her composure she went to the prie-dieu against the wall and knelt for half an hour in prayer.

Back at her desk, still feeling weak, she stared again at the cheque for two and a half million pounds. Who in the world ever had such money? She tried to think what she should do with so much. An endowment, she thought. A trust fund, perhaps. There was enough to endow the orphanage forever. Certainly enough to fulfill the ambition of her lifetime: to get the orphanage out of the slums of London and establish it in the fresh air of the open countryside. She could double the number of children. She could…

Too many thoughts flooding in, and one trying to get to the front. What was it? Yes, the Sunday newspaper the week before last. Something had caught her eye, caused a pang of longing. That was it, that was where they would go. And enough money in her hands to buy it and endow it for always. A dream come true. An advert in the property columns. For sale, a manor house in Kent with twenty acres of parkland…

В дураках

"SHARP PRACTICE", перевод Маргарита Лобия

Удобно расположившись у окна купе первого класса, судья Комин развернул привычную «Айриш Таймс», пробежал глазами заголовки и сложил газету на коленях — за четыре часа поездки он ещё успеет прочесть её от корки до корки. Судья рассеяно посмотрел в окно — на перроне, как всегда перед отправкой поезда, суетились и толкались пассажиры. Еще пару минут, и локомотив покинет дублинский Кингсбридж и неторопливо покатит в графство Керри. Там, в городке Трали, судью ждала работа. «А как хорошо было бы ехать в купе одному, — мелькнула вдруг мысль. — Посидеть, неспешно полистать документы, подумать».