"Ron Goulart - The Prisoner of Blackwood Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

was thick. Harry narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing one particular linden tree
some hundred yards behind him.
After a few seconds, he decided there wasn't anyone watching from
behind that tree after all. He lit one of the thin black cigars he favored and
resumed walking.
"Things sure can change one hell of a lot in just over a year," he said to
himself as he thought of the lovely golden-haired princess.
Zevenburg was noted for its profusion of sidewalk cafes, and one of the
most popular, as many know, was Penzler's. Located in a twisting lane off
Prinz Rollo Strasse and bordered by a row of lilac trees, it was always
crowded with a mixture of discriminating local denizens and well-to-do
tourists.
At a few minutes past the hour of seven on the evening in question, a
portly man in a gray suit, flamboyant double-breasted waistcoat and
astonishing green silk cravat was pointing impatiently at three overturned
demitasse cups that rested on his small table next to one of the lilac trees.
"Come, Rudi, my boy, it's painfully simple. Don't dawdle so."
The small frail waiter hunched, shifted his feet, tugged at his black bow
tie, rubbed his perspiring palms once again on his long white apron.
"Well, Herr Lorenzo, I think maybe perhapsтАФ"
 "My boy, what did I tell you my name was?"
Rudi smacked himself on the temple with the heel of his hand. "Forgive
me, my mind was wandering," he apologized. "Well, Herr Great Lorenzo, I
think maybe the cube of sugar must be under . . ." His hand, trembling
slightly, hovered over the center cup in the row of three and then darted to
the one on the left. ". . . yes, under this cup."
"Ah, what a pity," sighed the Great Lorenzo. "You're wrong once again,
Rudi, and that makes six more free brandies you owe me. Plus the five
eclairs from our earlier round of fun."
At a nearby table a handsome red-haired woman in a satin dress began
giggling over something her thickset gentleman companion had said. Her
fluffy feather boa nearly slipped from her shoulders as she swayed in her
chair.
"Might I," inquired the waiter tentatively, "see for myself it isn't under
there, Herr LorenтАФ Herr Great Lorenzo?"
"Eh? You doubt myтАФ Ah, but of course. I am a stranger in your land."
The Great Lorenzo fluffed his graying muttonchop whiskers. "To you I am
merely a wandering minstrel who happens to be starring, twice nightly, in
a magical extravaganza at the nearby Rupert Theater. Were this America,
my boy, were this my own, my native land, you'd be fully aware that the
Great Lorenzo is a man of unimpeachable honesty and unassailable
integrity. Two years ago in Chicago, in fact, I was prevented from running
for a prestigious public office on the grounds that I was simply too
honest." Giving a shrug, he lifted the cup the waiter had tapped.
There was nothing beneath it but crisp white tablecloth.
"Forgive me, Herr Great Lorenzo, for ever doubtingтАФ"
"Think nothing of it, my lad." The Great Lorenzo made a dismissing
gesture with his plump beringed right hand. "Now, rather than cringing
here and delivering any further tearful apologies, why don't you instead
trot into that inspired kitchen of yours and fetch me the first of my