"Elrod, P N - Vampire Files 09 - Lady Crymsyn E-Txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

"Not me. Bobbi. The talent has its own entrance up top, and I've had a door cut
in the backstage wall so we can haul in big things like scenery or that pianoЧ"
"Mr. Fleming!" Leon Kell emerged from the service door behind the bar on the far
side of the room. Since it was impossible for me to supervise anything during
the day, I had to hire people to do it in my stead. Leon seemed the brightest
and had the right kind of experience, so he was put in charge of hiring others
and making sure things went smoothly. Every night I'd stop by to check the
progress as his crew started from the top and worked their way down, giving Lady
Crymsyn the works and then some. "You sure got here fast."
He was right on that. I hadn't stopped to shave. I shifted from being the proud
entrepreneur to serious problem-solver. "What's going on?"
"This way." He motioned for us to come over.
I'd asked what, not where, but followed him downstairs.
The harsh glare of the unshaded bulbs strung along the cellar's exposed ceiling
rafters showed up the labor yet to be done. Rubble was scattered over the floor,
along with shovels and wheelbarrows to carry it away. Dust hung lazily in the
close air, and behind me Escott gave in to an enormous sneeze.
The original cellar had been divided upЧunnecessarily, I thoughtЧby several
thick brick walls, creating a number of tiny rooms and alcoves. At one point in
the building's forty-year history those dismal holes were servant quarters. And
I thought times were tough now. I replaced the walls with metal columns and
cross beams to hold up the building. The basement gained floor space and lost
rats' nests and other undesirable leftovers from previous occupants. Once the
cleanup work was done, in would go a layer of cement to even out the floor and
walls. It would still be a basement, but it wouldn't look like a medieval
torture chamber.
Along with the lesser dressing rooms, the area would be used for storage and
take deliveries via an alley doorway and ramp at the back. That door was
wide-open, and clustered near it were the idle workmen, smoking on my time as
I'd expected. They watched us come down the stairs, but didn't bother to move.
It must have been a long dayЧ most looked tiredЧbut there was also a wariness to
them as they frowned in my direction.
"It's over here," said Leon, guiding us across the room. He was short and wide
and moved with a stumping kind of gait, but covered ground fast. His attitude
seemed to be halfway between relief and agitation at my arrival, indicating he
wasn't sure how I'd take his news.
The rubble got worse at the other end of the room. Leon picked a path to a
corner where the last alcove still stood. Part of the divider was torn down, but
there was something odd about the back wall it butted up against.
"You see it, Mr. Fleming?" he asked, pointing. "This here outer part goes right
to the building's wall about twelve feet, but the room inside only goes back
about nine."
"I see it," I said, doing my best to ignore the cold-pit feeling trying to
situate itself in my gut.
There was a dank smell in the air I noticed while speaking. I don't breathe
regularly and took an experimental sniff. It wasn't unbearable, only a musty mix
of decay and dust. I'd known it once before about twenty years ago when I was
serving in France. Me and a few of the boys in my unit got a furlough in Paris,
and on one of our too-short days instead of getting drunk and enjoying female
company as usual we took a tour of some old catacombs. We didn't stay long. The