"Randall Garrett - Lord Darcy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garrett Randall)

wake up sober.

Sir Pierre stopped before a heavy, polished, carved oak door, selected a key from one of the many at
his belt, and turned it in the lock. Then he went into the elevator and the door locked automatically
behind him. He pressed the switch and waited in patient silence as he was lifted up four floors to the
Count's personal suite.

By now, my lord the Count would have bathed, shaved, and dressed. He would also have poured down
an eye-opener consisting of half a water glass of fine Champagne brandy. He would not eat breakfast
until eight. The Count had no valet in the strict sense of the term. Sir Reginald Beauvay held that title, but
he was never called upon to exercise the more personal functions of his office. The Count did not like to
be seen until he was thoroughly presentable.

The elevator stopped. Sir Pierre stepped out into the corridor and walked along it toward the door at
the far end. At exactly seven o'clock, he rapped briskly on the great door which bore the
gilt-and-polychrome arms of the House D'Evreux.

For the first time in seventeen years, there was no answer.

Sir Pierre waited for the growled command to enter for a full minute, unable to believe his ears. Then,
almost timidly, he rapped again.

There was still no answer.

Then, bracing himself for the verbal onslaught that would follow if he had erred, Sir Pierre turned the
handle and opened the door just as if he had heard the Count's voice telling him to come in.

"Good morning, my lord," he said, as he always had for seventeen years.

But the room was empty, and there was no answer.

He looked around the huge room. The morning sunlight streamed in through the high mullioned windows
and spread a diamond-checkered pattern across the tapestry on the far wall, lighting up the brilliant
hunting scene in a blaze of color.

"My lord?"

Nothing. Not a sound.
The bedroom door was open. Sir Pierre walked across to it and looked in.

He saw immediately why my lord the Count had not answered, and that, indeed, he would never answer
again.

My lord the Count lay flat on his back, his arms spread wide, his eyes staring at the ceiling. He was still
clad in his gold and scarlet evening clothes. But the great stain on the front of his coat was not the same
shade of scarlet as the rest of the cloth, and the stain had a bullet hole in its center.

Sir Pierre looked at him without moving for a long moment. Then he stepped over, knelt, and touched
one of the Count's hands with the back of his own. It was quite cool. He had been dead for hours.