"Fontana,.D.C.-.Questor.Tapes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fontana D C)

"My husband was very proud of his garden. I've had it kept as he liked it."
"My data does not ... I mean to say, I did not know you were married."
She smiled briefly, a sad expression flitting across her lips. "I'm a widow, Mr. Questor. Lord Trimble died ten years ago of a heart attack." She paused, then went on softly. "I was very much in love with him."
"I am sorry you were deprived of his presence and his affection. I am sure it was a great loss."
"Yes." She looked at him levelly. "Can you explain why you left Mr. Robinson with me?"
Questor began to move slowly down the path, hands clasped behind his back in imitation of some image his data banks had given him. Lady Helena moved beside him, watching him closely.
"Well?"
Questor saw no reason why he should not respond honestly. Certainly Jerry had accomplished his mission by now. "To secure information by making love to you. I trust you told him what you know of Vaslovik."
Lady Helena stopped, her mouth open in an unladylike gape. Then she brought herself back into control and found her voice. "Mr. Questor, are you trying to be funny?"
"Humor is a quality which seems to elude me."
She raised her eyebrows. That was an understatement possibly the leading contender for understatement of the
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decade. She folded her arms and calmly resumed the walk along the white gravel path of the garden. "So this is what your friend could not be dishonest about," she said, leading him.
Questor tilted his head to the right, puzzled. "He did not make love to you?"
She cleared her throat, faintly embarrassed. "Nor did he receive any information." She glanced at him and decided to venture the next question as coolly as the female of the species was able. "Is it now your intention to begin where he left off?"
"If vital to an information exchange, I am fully functional. Is it required?"
Lady Helena stopped for the second time in the space of a few minutes-startled, puzzled, and intrigued by this man. He met her eyes with his own direct, bright stare; and she found herself demurely looking away. "I ... I don't believe I've ever had quite so much trouble knowing how to respond to a question."
"I have merely answered your queries as factually as possible."
She lifted her eyes and studied him for a long moment. She believed him completely ... as she believed Jerry Robinson. But this man was not Jerry. This Questor was different in some strange and utterly fascinating way which she did not understand nor want to resist. "Perhaps I've forgotten how to deal with honest men," she said finally. She leaned forward slightly, provocatively. "Suppose I were to admit I knew this Vaslovik of yours?"
"I would be gratified."
Lady Helena felt her mouth falling open again and snapped it shut, annoyed. But the man was so obviously leveling with her, she fought down her irritation. Still, some of her annoyance showed in her voice. "You would be gratified? That would be the sum of it?"
"What was Vaslovik's payment for the information you provided him?"
She was too startled to answer for an instant, then she said, "I would prefer to hear your best offer, Mr. Questor."
Questor tilted his head to the right, considering it very
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carefully. Then he brought his gaze back to rest on her, and she noticed that his usually unreadable eyes had softened. "I have a ... commodity which I did not know until recently that I could offer." He held out his hand to her formally. "Will you accept my friendship?"
Lady Helena felt her heart jerk and begin to pound so wildly that she was positive they would hear it in the house. She could not speak around the lump that had climbed into her throat, so she simply put her hand in Questor's. His touch was gentle and firm as he politely shook hands with her-and she wondered why she wanted to cry.
Some people said Scotland Yard never closed, never slept, never ceased to function for even a moment. Walter Phillips, Darro's aide, was ready to believe it. Unlike Darro, he had never been able to sleep on planes; and by now, the time difference, jet lag, and plain lack of sleep had begun to catch up to him. He slumped in a chair, watching a police artist finishing a quite accurate sketch of Questor, as identified by the two stewardesses and the immigration official from the airport. Darro was prodding their memories further.
The immigration man studied the sketch closely. "It's getting close now, I'd say, sir. His hair may have been darker. ..."
"No," Lydia Parker said. "If anything, just a bit lighter." The other girl nodded in agreement.
Darro turned to the artist. "Lighter. I'll trust the female eye on that."
A Scotland Yard inspector entered the room and came to Darro's side. Darro glanced at him questioningly. The inspector extended a paper. "Since you asked to see anything at all unusual, sir, here's a report from a Soho district club. A rather remarkable run of luck."
Darro snatched the paper from the man's hand and examined it. "That's not an extraordinary run of luck, Inspector. That's an android using his computer at full capacity. Get me the people who saw him in there."

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"Mr. Darro, you're talking about twenty or more people, some of whom would certainly not come forward."
Darro turned on him, his big frame somehow menacing. "Inspector, I do not care how you do it ... who you have to talk to, cajole, connive, or otherwise convince anyone who saw the android to come in here. But they are to be here in one hour flat. Is that understood?"
The inspector pulled his mouth in a grimace of distaste, but he nodded. "Yes, sir, I do. I can't say I understand why you're so upset about this robot, though."
"If you had ever met this android, Inspector, you would. Believe me ... you would."
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Jerry Robinson was only faintly aware of a knock at the door of the room. He sighed and curled a little deeper into the comfortable couch. He had almost made it back into the dream he had been enjoying when a hand tapped Ms shoulder gently.
"Mr. Robinson," said Randolph. "Sir?"
Jerry shook off the butler's hand, but Randolph did not give up easily. "Mr. Robinson."
Jerry finally managed to pry open his eyes and look around, disoriented, momentarily confused by his surroundings. He heard Randolph's voice asking him some question, but he ignored it for the moment. He was fully dressed, except for the suit jacket, which he had pulled over himself as a blanket. He remembered returning to the guest suite after he had left Lady Helena and waiting there for Questor. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.
"Will you take breakfast here or on the terrace, sir?" Randolph asked patiently for the third time.
Jerry realized that Questor was not in the sitting room area, nor did he seem to be in the bedrooms. Questor didn't sleep; but, until now, he had always told Jerry where he would be. Jerry jumped up, pushing past Randolph, and looked into the adjoining bedroom. "Questor?"
"Mr. Robinson-" Randolph began again.
Jerry whirled back to him anxiously. "Have you seen Questor around?"
"Not this morning, sir."
"Last night?"