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

"Would you like to kiss me now?" Phoebe asked, as we looked out at a herd of Master Jefferson's zebras grazing on a hill beyond the gardens. I said something inane about Isaac lurking behind us -- which he was -- and the moment passed.
Of course I wanted to kiss her. But she looked so vulnerable -- and she was so young.
"Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"Airplanes, I think. Listen -- "
Sure enough, I could hear engines. But I couldn't see anything in that eggshell sky, which was the exact color of Phoebe's eyes.
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*Five*
An alarm sounded and a chill caught the air as we made our way back to the castle, which Phoebe called _Adamas_. She told me with breathless conviction that the king of France hadn't lived in anything half as nice, and she ought to know, she said, because Poppa had all the plans of the greatest castles in the world, and he made sure that his was the best. She was excited about reaching the roof garden so we could watch the airplanes through the telescope there.
Although she hurried to the castle, she was not in the least afraid. Isaac tried to say something to her, but she had only to shout something quick and guttural at him and he fell back behind us, properly cowed.
Then a porcine, well-dressed young man flanked by what I took for two slaves caught up with us by the Roman ruins beside the pool. He was nervous and out of breath, and kept looking at the sky as if lightning were going to strike him down at any second. Just ahead was a marble staircase that led to the western exposures of one of the buildings that adjoined the chateau. I could see a glint of metal: the telescope mounted on the embrasure.
"Father sent me to find you," he said, out of breath. "You won't believe how angry he is. You're supposed to be in the bunkers, and not legging around with _him_." He meant me, and his eyebrows knitted together and his face got all scrunched up when he said "him." I couldn't help but smile.
"You won't even get to keep him until September, if you act like that," the young man continued. "And that's _exactly_ what Father said. I didn't make it up."
The alarm sounded again.
"Now come on, for crying out loud, or do you want to get killed out here?"
"Those airplanes are probably just mail carriers, like always," Phoebe said. "And mail carriers don't carry bombs. But they're all gone now."
She cocked her head, obviously listening for the sound of airplane engines. Everything was quiet, but for the wind.
"You see, false alarm. All that trouble for nothing -- and I _was_ coming back."
"Well, you can tell that to Father," the young man said.
"You're not my boss, Mr. Near Beer."
The young man blushed at that, and Phoebe said, "Mr. Orsatti, this is my brother, Morgan."
Morgan gave me a slight nod, then shouted something at Isaac; but I couldn't understand a word.
"Isaac had nothing to do with it," Phoebe said. "It was my idea. And if you dare say one word -- "
I heard the sudden drone of an engine, and then the deafening, bone-shaking _stucka-stucka_ of anti-aircraft guns, which were mounted on the castle fortifications above.
There was another burst -- and another.
"You see?" Morgan screamed at Phoebe, and he grabbed her. But she broke free. Isaac stepped over to her, as if to intervene. The guns fired again. I heard a distant explosion, but couldn't see any airplanes -- the castle blocked the view. One of Jefferson's slaves shouted something to Isaac, who looked nervously at Phoebe and then at me, before running after Morgan and his fellows.
"Morgan is such a flat tire," Phoebe said. "And I'll bet you ten thousand dollars right now that those enemy airplanes don't have any guns." She paused, then explained, "According to Poppa, everybody is the enemy. And so Morgan is always so-oh afraid we're going to get bombed. I know that Poppa scares the bunk out of him about it to make a man out of him, but Morgan is just a flat tire."
I followed her up the marble staircase, across a patio, and up several more staircases to the roof garden. I could see Jefferson's slaves manning the anti-aircraft guns, which were quiet now. Ghostly pink billowing clouds were filling up the sky like suds in a bathtub. From the position of the sun, I could see it was late afternoon. But how could that be? I must have slept through the morning.
I stared at an oily trail of black smoke left by a plane that had been shot out of the sky. But I could also hear the distant thrumming of an engine. Perhaps it was one of Jefferson's. Or perhaps one of the intruders had escaped into the swollen pink and purple curtain of storm clouds. Phoebe tossed her bonnet onto a wrought iron chair and looked through the brass telescope, swinging it around so hard, it was a wonder she could see _anything_.
"There it is," she said. "Right over -- there -- Poppa's guns got it. See the smoke in the canyon? Something's burning. Positively. But I can't make out very much. I can't see for jellybeans without my glasses. Here, you try." She pulled away from the telescope, brushing my face with her curly hair, and I could smell her perfume, lilac sweet and damp. I looked through the eyepiece. There was indeed a plane burning. I couldn't see it well through the smoke, but it looked like a Curtiss Jenny. I wondered if the pilot made it to safety and tried to cover the area by moving the telescope around, but Phoebe became impatient and insisted that I return it to her immediately. After a time she said, "I can't see anything. Do you want to bet on the pilot?"
"What do you mean?"
"A thousand dollars that Poppa's slaves find him alive and put him in the pit." She shrugged. "If he's dead, you win."
"I wouldn't make such a bet," I said. "And I certainly don't have a thousand dollars."
Phoebe pulled a magnificent diamond and ruby ring from her index finger and slipped it onto my pinkie. "That should cover your side of the bet." She smiled mischievously and said, "Now we're engaged."
"I can't accept this," I said, handing her back the ring.
"Perhaps I made a mistake about you, Mr. Paul Orsatti."
"It's very beautiful, but I don't think your father -- "
"He won't care. He's going to be too upset to care about anything, which means he won't be bothering too much about you." She took my hand, slipped the ring over my finger again.
"What do you mean?"
"There was another plane," Phoebe said. "Couldn't you hear it?"
"Yes, but I thought it might have been your father's."
Phoebe laughed at that, a soft, sexy, whispery laugh. "Not unless he was flying it. Or Morgan." She laughed again. "Or Uncle George."
"You've got plenty of -- slaves."
She seemed astonished. "Why, you couldn't allow a slave to fly an airplane."
"Why not?"
"Because -- you just couldn't. But it doesn't matter. Poppa will surely find out who was flying that plane and what company he worked for and fix it all up. He always fixes everything up."
"You mean he'll have him killed."
She shook her head and looked genuinely hurt. "Poppa's an honorable man. He'll have him brought back here to live and give him everything he could want. We don't just go around murdering people, you know." When I didn't say anything, she asked, "Are you sorry?"
"About what?"
"What you said about my father."