"SS - Mussolini and the Axeman's Jazz by Poppy Z Brite (Proofed)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brite Poppy Z)

"I thought I told you last time, Duke. My services are unavailable. Now kindly fuck off.Ф

"I feared you would say that. You will not change your mind?Ф

"Not a chance.Ф

"Very well.Ф

D'Antonio expected the wraith to vanish as it had last time. Instead, Francis Ferdinand seemed to break apart before his eyes: The face dissolved into a blur, the fingers elongated into smoke swirls; then there was only a man-shaped shimmer of gossamer strands where the Archduke had been.

When D'Antonio breathed in, they all came rushing toward him.

He felt clammy filaments sliding up his nose, into his mouth, into the lubricated crevices of his eyesockets. They filled his lungs, his stomach; he felt exploratory tendrils venturing into his intestines. A profound nausea gripped him. It was like being devoured alive by grave-worms. The wraith's consciousness was saturating his own, blotting him .out like ink spilled on a letter.

"I offered you the chance to act of your own free with" Francis Ferdinand said. The voice was a hideous papery whisper inside his skull now. "Since you declined, I am given no choice bur to help you along.Ф

Joseph Maggio awoke to the sound of his wife choking on her own blood. Great hot spurts of it bathed his face. A tall figure stood by the bed, instrument of death in his upraised hand. Maggio recognized it as the axe from his own back yard woodpile, gleaming with fresh gore. It fell again with a sound like a cleaver going into a beef neckbone, and his wife was silent.

Maggio struggled to sit up as the killer circled to his side of the bed. He did not recognize the man. For a moment their eyes locked, and Maggio thought, That man is already dead.

"Cagliostro?Ф

It was a raspy whisper, possibly German accented, though the man looked Italian. Wildly, Maggio shook his head. "No, no sir, my name's Joseph Maggio, I just run a little grocery and I never heard of no Cagli-whoever . . . oh Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph please don't hit me with that thing." The blade glittered in a deadly arc. Maggio sprawled halfway off the bed, blinded by a sudden wash of his own blood. The axe fell again and he heard his own skull crunching, felt blade squeak against bone as the killer wrenched it out. Another searing cut, then another, until a merciful blow severed his jugular and he died in a red haze.

It was found that the killer had gained access to the Maggios' home by chiselling out a panel in the back door. The chisel had belonged to Joseph Maggio, as had the axe, which was found in a pool of Wood on the steps. People all over New Orleans searched their yards for axes and chisels, and locked away these potential implements of Hell.

A strange phrase was found chalked on, the pavement a block from the Maggios' house: "Mrs Maggio is going to sit up tonight, just like Mrs Tony.Ф

Its significance has not been discovered to this day.

Maggio's two brothers were arrested on the grounds that the Maggios were Sicilians, and Sicilians were prone to die in family vendettas. They were released by virtue of public drunkenness - they had been out celebrating the younger one's draft notice on the night of the murders, and had stages home scarcely able to move, let alone lift an axe.

The detective in charge of the case was shot to death by a burglar one week after the murders. The investigation languished. News of the Romanov family's murder by Bolsheviks in Russia eclipsed the Maggio tragedy. The temperature climbed as June wore on.

"I detect Cagliostro's influences still at work on this plane," the Archduke said. "We must move on to the next candidate.Ф

Deep inside his own ectoplasm-snared brain, which the wraith kept docile with wine except when he needed to use the body, D'Antonio could only manage a feeble moan of protest: A clear tropical dawn broke over New Orleans as John Zanca parked his wagon of fresh breads and cakes in front of Luigi Donatello's grocery. He could not tell whether the grocer and his wife were awake yet, so he decided to take their order around to the back door. He gathered up a fragrant armful of baked goods still warm from the oven and carried them down the narrow alley that led to the Donatellos' living quarters.

When he saw the back door with its lower left panel neatly chiselled out, his arms went limp. Cakes and loaves rained on the grass at his feet.

After a moment, Zanca stepped forward - careful not to crush any of the baked goods - and knocked softly on the door. He did not want to do so, but there seemed nothing else to do. When it swung open, he nearly screamed.

Before him stood Luigi Donatello, his face crusted with blood, his hair and moustache matted with it. Zanca could see three big gashes in his skull, white edges of bone; wet grey tissue swelling through the cracks. How could the man still be standing?

"My God," moaned Donatello. "My God.Ф

Behind him, Zanca saw Mrs Donatello sprawled on the floor. The top of her head was a gory porridge. The slender stem of her neck was nearly cleaved in two.

"My God. My God. My God.