"Shadow - 350601 - Back Pages - Grace Culver - Kitchen Trap" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Roswell)

"That's just the catch, Redsie. Whoever! There's no lead at all--nothing to give
the boys to work on. If Brophy knew who he was after, the tip died with him."
Jerry Riker, leaning across his stack of finger prints, cut in quickly.
"How about papers? Wallet?"
"There was nothing on the body. And somebody had lifted his key to frisk his
hotel room before the cops hit it. Place was in a mess. Looked like what the
whirlwind left. And--no papers that mattered."
Grace said, "I can't believe it. I can't believe they rubbed out a smart dick like
Pete without--without--"
Bitterly, Big Tim faced her.
"The answer's full of bullets down at the morgue, Redsie. Flannigan ate dinner
with him at some joint on Eighth Street, called Andre's. Favorite hangout of
Pete's. That was seven-thirty or thereabouts. Flannigan finished ahead of Pete and
came on uptown to his night desk. Nobody's located a trace of Brophy after that,
until--until the patrol boat--"
His hard voice cracked and Big Tim's teeth clicked together. It wasn't often
that his emotions got him. That made the moment worse.
"Andre's," said Grace.
Jerry Riker shot a quick look in her direction. Nothing unusual about Brophy's
meal with Flannigan that he could see. But sometimes the Culver got hunches
that were--
"Spill it."
The girl's sherry-colored eyes had narrowed.
"Just thinking. I know that joint. It's new--and terrible! Food's all right. But it's
all over cheap modern art, and the waitresses wear pink-and-orange uniforms.
Once is enough."
Riker was disappointed. This wasn't one of the redhead's times.
"Maybe you frills notice things like that. If the food's decent, a man's not
going to bother about whether there's a picture on the wall or--"
"Pete Brophy would. Not one picture, maybe. But the whole inside of the
place is painted up like lightning striking a junk heap. That sort of stuff made him
nervous. He wouldn't pick it for a hangout, with a dozen places in the
neighborhood serving food just as good. Not unless--"
Tim's big body, leaning forward, creaked his chair.
"Redsie, you may be-- It's just possible--"
"I don't see what Andre's could have to do with a big-league extortion gang,"
Jerry objected. "It's a long way from being the sort of dive a big shot would eat at.
They couldn't pick up anything worthwhile on anybody there, if that's what--"
"I'm going to find out why Pete went there so much," Grace said suddenly.
"It probably doesn't matter," Tim muttered gloomily.
"At least--at least it's doing something."
Jerry eyed her derisively.
"Some day you're gonna do one thing too many, Redsie. Always sticking your
pug nose into trouble."
"And getting it out again!" she answered tartly.
"Luck like that don't hold forever. There's going to come a time you'll wish
you never saw a gun! You'll wish you was where women belong, in some good
guy's kitchen. A guy like me, for instance--"
"Nuts!" Grace said rudely. "Any day I'm not better with a gun than with a
frying pan, I'll want to hear about it. And I'm not so bad with a frying pan, either."