"Simon Hawke - Wizard 4 - The Wizard of Rue Morgue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hawke Simon)

day when he had met his mentor Francois Benet. He had become a famous man, a
flamboyant personality often written about in the gossip columns. He knew that
thousands of struggling artists in the city would kill to be in his position, and yet he
could find little pleasure in the pinnacle of success he had achieved. Despite his
popularity, he felt that he was only second-rate. He felt that he was stagnating, that his
work was becoming derivative of itself, and for all his frenzied social life, he was a
lonely man. It seemed to him that everything in his life had become repetitive and
somehow automatic. He desperately longed for something different, something new.
He was wealthy now, but he continued to live simply, in a garret like a starving
artist, spending his money on entertainment and assisting other artists less fortunate
than himself. Conscience money, he called it. He had financed several galleries and
restaurants, merely to help his friends and taking no profit for himself. His famous
temper was still with him and he was arrested fairly regularly for brawling in one night
spot or another; it was practically expected of him and the Paris police generally
regarded his escapades with nothing more than mild amusement. They always treated
him with courtesy. They were courteous when they came to see him the next morning,
but they were not at all amused.
He had passed out on the sofa, fully dressed, and he awoke with a hangover,
startled out of sleep by the relentless pounding on the door. He had no idea what time it
was and his head felt as if it were being squeezed slowly in a vise. Each knock on the


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door was like a hammer blow directly to his skull. He swore and lurched up off the
sofa, then swore again as he struck his shin on the coffee table.
"All right! All right! I'm coming!" he shouted, pressing his hands up to his temples
at the pain caused by the sound of his own voice.
He opened the door to admit two police officers dressed in civilian clothing.
"Police, Monsieur Siegal," one of the men said, giving his name the French
pronunciation and showing him his badge and identification. "We would like to ask
you a few questions, please."
Max groaned. "What is it now?" he said in a surly tone. "Whom did I assault this
time?"
The two men exchanged glances. "May we come in, monsieur?"
"Yes, yes, come in, come in," Max said, standing aside to let them enter. "Pardon
the mess, but I was drunk last night."
They glanced at one another once again.
"You have been drinking heavily, monsieur?"
"Of course, I have been drinking heavily. I'm always drinking heavily. Don't you
read the newspapers? What is it you want? If you're going to place me under arrest, get
on with it, but kindly do it quietly. My head is simply killing me."
Another exchange of glances.
"Monsieur Siegal," said the other man, "are you familiar with a young woman by
the name of Joelle Muset?"
"Joelle?" said Max. He grunted. "Ah, lovely Joelle. I should have known she
would be trouble."
Another meaningful exchange of glances. "We understand that she was here last
night," the first policeman said. "To model for one of your paintings."
"Yes, yes, she was here," said Max, slumping back down onto the sofa and putting
his head in his hands. "The whole thing was a mistake," he said." It was never meant to