"7_Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

maybe she'd do it herself. Now there was an idea.
She threw herself crossly into the armchair and watched
the news on television. The news made her cross. She flipped
the remote control and watched something on another channel for
a bit. She didn't know what it was, but it also made her cross.
Perhaps she should phone. She was damned if she was going to
phone. Perhaps if she phoned he would phone her at the same
moment and not be able to get through.
She refused to admit that she had even thought that.
Damn him, where was he? Who cared where he was anyway? She
didn't, that was for sure.
Three times in a row he'd done this. Three times in a row
was enough. She angrily flipped channels one more time. There
was a programme about computers and some interesting new
developments in the field of things you could do with computers
and music.
That was it. That was really it. She knew that she had
told herself that that was it only seconds earlier, but this
was now the final real ultimate it.
She jumped to her feet and went to the phone, gripping an
angry Filofax. She flipped briskly through it and dialled a
number.
"Hello, Michael? Yes, it's Susan. Susan Way. You said I
should call you if I was free this evening and I said I'd
rather be dead in a ditch, remember? Well, I suddenly discover
that I am free, absolutely, completely and utterly free, and
there isn't a decent ditch for miles around. Make your move
while you've goI your chance is my advice to you. I'll be at
the Tangiers Club in half an hour."
She pulled on her shoes and coat, paused when she
remembered that it was Thursday and that she should put a
fresh, extra-long tape on the answering machine, and two
minutes later was out of the front door. When at last the phone
did ring the answering machine said sweetly that Susan Way
could not come to the phone just at the moment, but that if the
caller would like to leave a message, she would get back to
them as soon as possible. Maybe.

Chapter Four...

It was a chill November evening of the old-fashioned type.
The moon looked pale and wan, as if it shouldn't be up on
a night like this. It rose unwillingly and hung like an ill
spectre. Silhouetted against it, dim and hazy through the
dampness which rose from the unwholesome fens, stood the
assorted towers and turrets of St Cedd's, Cambridge, a ghostly
profusion of buildings thrown up over centuries, medieval next
to Victorian, Odeon next to Tudor. Only rising through the mist
did they seem remotely to belong to one another.
Between them scurried figures, hurrying from one dim pool