"Charles L. Harness - The Rose" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harness Charles L)

"Sure, fourth floor, but you're early." The door opened wider. "Say, haven't I seen you somewhere
before?"

Recognition was simultaneous. It was that animated stack of purple dresses, the ancient vendress of love
philters.

"Come in, dearie," purred the old one, "and I'll mix you up something special."

"Never mind," said Anna hurriedly. "I've got to see Mr. Jacques." She turned and ran toward the
stairway.

A horrid floating cackle whipped and goaded her flight, until she stumbled out on the final landing and set
up an insensate skirling on the first door she came to.

From within an irritated voice called: "Aren't you getting a little tired of that? Why don't you come in and
rest your knuckles?"

"Oh." She felt faintly foolish. "It's meтАФAnna van Tuyl."

"Shall I take the door off its hinges, doctor?"

Anna turned the knob and stepped inside.

Ruy Jacques stood with his back to her, palette in hand, facing an easel bathed in the slanting shafts of the
setting sun. He was apparently blocking in a caricature of a nude model lying, face averted, on a couch
beyond the easel.
Anna felt a sharp pang of disappointment. She'd wanted him to herself a little while. Her glance flicked
about the studio.

Framed canvases obscured by dust were stacked willy-nilly about the walls of the big room. Here and
there were bits of statuary. Behind a nearby screen, the disarray of a cot peeped out at her. Beyond the
screen was a wire-phono. In the opposite wall was a door that evidently opened into the model's
dressing alcove. In the opposite corner stood a battered electronic piano, which she recognized as the
Fourier audiosynthesizer type.

She gave an involuntary gasp as the figure of a man suddenly separated from the piano and bowed to
her.

Colonel Grade.

So the lovely model with the invisible face must beтАФMartha Jacques.

There was no possibility of mistake, for now the model had turned her face a little, and acknowledged
Anna's faltering stare with complacent mockery.

Of all evenings, why did Martha Jacques have to pick this one?

The artist faced the easel again. His harsh jeer floated back to the psychiatrist: "Behold the perfect female
body!"