"Dann,_Jack_-_The_Diamond_Pit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dann Jack)

Caught off guard, I just smoked my cigarette.
"And you didn't offer _me_ a cigarette."
I gave her the cigarette, which she smoked, inhaling deeply. She didn't cough -- she just cleared her throat, as though she were about to give a formal speech. "Well, are you going to say it?"
"How could you be sure I'd mean it?"
"Because I know you do."
"And what about you?"
"Do you think I'd let you do what you just did if I didn't?"
I knew better than to fall into that trap.
"I love you," I said, trying to arouse her again.
"I know you do," Phoebe said, surrendering, or pretending to.
"But there is something else."
Phoebe pulled away and watched me.
"You've had company here before. Your sister said as much."
"Ah, so we're on that old stick again."
"Well, I still can't get what your father said out of my mind."
"And what would that be?" Phoebe sat up again and leaned against the tree. Her blouse was open, her hair was mussed, and I must admit I could not imagine anyone being more beautiful, alluring, and piquant.
"That unless you behave, you won't be able to keep me until September."
"Morgan said that, remember? And he lies."
"I need to know," I said, insistent.
"I've only had one friend from school ever visit me for vacation," Phoebe said. "A girlfriend. And you wouldn't have liked her, anyway."
"Why?"
"You just wouldn't. _I_ didn't like her very much. I -- "
"Yes -- ?"
"That's all. Now, are you done with your Twenty Questions?"
"Does your sister usually have guests?" I asked.
"So now it's Forty Questions, is it," Phoebe said, and she buttoned her blouse.
I felt the sudden distance between us, but I couldn't stop. "Well, does she?"
"Yes, this is the first summer she's been alone. Poppa's punishing her."
"Why?"
"Because she has a big mouth. She takes after Uncle George." She looked around, and although she didn't act nervous, I knew she was. I could feel it radiating from her.
"Your father doesn't let your guests return home, does he." That was a statement, not a question.
"What do you want from me?" Phoebe asked.
"The truth."
"Why? Will it make you free?"
I waited for an answer.
Phoebe looked directly at me as she spoke, as if the truth would be a reproach. "You're right -- Father doesn't allow the guests to return home."
Then he imprisons them, like he did me?"
"No," she whispered, watching, studying me. "That wouldn't be fair to the family."
"The family?"
"To us."
"Why?"
"Because we'd feel terrible. Mother would have a breakdown. She's had one already."
"So you _murder_ them?"
She flinched at that, but kept looking at me, unafraid yet vulnerable. "There is no -- there is really no other choice. Marion and Morgan need friends. And Poppa is too considerate to force them to be hermits."
"Considerate? I -- "
"You'd think we starved and tortured them," Phoebe said. "Invited guests are shown every courtesy. They have the best time of their lives -- good company, good food, the best quarters, and Marion and Morgan and Mother shower them with presents. Whatever they fancy they get, and when their time comes, they simply go to sleep. It's really very pleasant, I would imagine. It really is -- It always happens in August or September, but Marion and Morgan never know exactly when. It's easier for them, that way."
"And what about their poor families?" I asked, aghast.
"We explain that they caught typhus and passed away, and Poppa _always_ sends flowers."
"How lovely. And when is my time going to be, hey? This month or next."
"Well, you do have to give me lessons for my recital," Phoebe said. She was playing with me, yet I was convinced that she had told me the truth. Jefferson would never allow anyone to give up his secrets. It was a miracle that he allowed his brother George to live -- perhaps he was a trifle sentimental.