"Carey, M.V. - The Three Investigators 31 - The Mystery of the Scar-Faced Beggar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Carey M.V)

Ernie said something, and there was laughter in the crowd. Then there was silence. Pete saw faces, all of them turned towards him, waiting.

Pete wanted to run. He wanted to get away, out of the crowd and down the drive, before these people found out that he was a spy.

The man next to Pete said something softly. Was it just a question? Or was it a threat?

Suddenly Pete put his hand to his throat. He opened his mouth and pointed and made a sound that was half-gasp and half-gurgle. Then he shook his head.

"Aha!" said the man next to him. "Laryngitis!"

Pete nodded, forcing a smile. There was laughter and Pete sat, weak with relief. His neighbour patted him sympathetically. The crowd turned away. Ernie made some remark and pointed to another person in the audience, and that person stood and spoke. At last Ernie and one of his friends began to pass a basket down the rows of chairs. The young woman with the blonde hair spoke again, evidently urging the audience to be generous.

The basket was heaped with paper money when it reached Pete. He put a dollar on top of the pile and passed it along. And then someone called out from the top of the driveway, and the basket was whisked out of sight.

There was a shuffle and a rush, and Ernie and two other men were suddenly seated in front of the audience with guitars and an accordion. Ernie struck a chord on his guitar. The accordionist began to play and the blonde young woman sang softly.

The audience joined in a melody that was sweet and simple, like a country song sung by children.

Pete heard the roar of a motorcycle. He turned as a uniformed highway patrolman sped up the drive.

The singers wavered and the song died.

The highway patrolman left his motorcycle and went to clear the area near the lectern. "Sorry to interrupt you folks," he said. "Who's in charge here?"

"I am." Ernie stood up. "What's the matter? We have permission from Mr. Sanderson to rehearse here."

"Sanderson?" The highway patrolman looked towards the motel office. "He the guy who owns this place?"

"That's right. We rented the community room from him. Want to see the receipt?

"No. I believe you. But this isn't the community room, and didn't Sanderson--or somebody--tell you the motel is unsafe? Why do you suppose it's closed? The ground is unstable after all the rain, and the hill can slide any minute. What are you doing here, anyway? Who are all these people?"

Ernie's smile was beautifully innocent. "We're the Sunset Hills Music Federation," he said. "We're practising for the Country Music Jamboree at the Coliseum on the twenty-seventh."

The officer stared at the audience. "All of you?" he said. "You're all rehearsing for thisа.а.а. this jamboree?"

"The Country Music Jamboree is for large amateur groups," said Ernie patiently, "and yes, Mr. Sanderson did say the hill was unstable. But it was too late to cancel the rehearsal, and some people here come from as far away as Laguna, so we decided to practise out here in the open. It's safer. Even if the motel goes, nobody will get hurt, huh?"

"Don't count on it," said the highway patrolman. He raised his voice. "Sorry, folks, but I've got to ask you all to leave just as quickly as you can. Don't panic, but there is some risk, so don't delay. Come on now. Move out, please. Never mind about the chairs. Just leave them and go."

The crowd began to stream out, quietly and in good order. As Pete started down the hill, he heard Ernie saying to the officer, "Well, okay, but give me a chance to pack my guitar, will you?"

Pete shook his head in amazement. He could only think, wait till Jupe hears about this!





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