"Adams, Douglas - Dirk Gently 01 - Holistic Detective Agency" - читать интересную книгу автора (Adams Douglas)

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 dialed 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 got 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 4 ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::]

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 of light
to another, shivering, leaving wraiths of breath which folded
themselves into the cold night behind them.
It was seven o'clock. Many of the figures were heading for the
college dining hall which divided First Court from Second Court, and
from which warm light, reluctantly, streamed. Two figures in particular
seemed ill-matched. One, a young man, was tall, thin and angular; even
muffled inside a heavy dark coat he walked a little like an affronted
heron.
The other was small, roundish, and moved with an ungainly
restlessness, like a number of elderly squirrels trying to escape from
a sack. His own age was on the older side of completely indeterminate.
If you picked a number at random, he was probably a little older than