Death in London 1937

The old fellow, quite dapper in a brown derby that shielded bright blue eyes over apale, fleshy face, double-chinned over a red bow-tie, seemed nevertheless to be slowly collapsing beneath the burden of his own weight. He clutched Nathan’s arm. “Young man,” he insisted, though weakly, “Would you be so kind...” He was faltering. His cataracted blue eyes closed slowly, then managed, laboriously, to open again. He looked up at Nathan’s expectant face. “...currency stabilization...on the gold standard...perils...bloody monetary experiments...reverse...a calamity...Here, my boy, take this, please.” The old man proffered a small notebook, which Nathan, puzzled, and attempting to support the fellow’s faltering constitution, managed to accept with his left hand. Then the old fellow collapsed. “Doctor! A doctor!” yelled Nathan, frantically. A thread of drool dripped from the old man’s open mouth as Nathan struggled to lay his limp body down gently on the sidewalk. At the nearby corner on Haymarket, the lights changed, and traffic commenced.

Nathan and Philip, speechless, knelt beside the stricken man, whose portly, suited body now lay motionless on the sidewalk. His eyes stared blankly upward into the morning mist. A crowd of people stood and stared. Smoke