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

happen. I should have known that it would lead to trouble, the silly little bitch.
She had probably told the police he had assaulted her, to get even with him for not
succumbing to her nubile charms. He'd been through this sort of thing before. There
would be reporters and an investigation, possibly a trial; it would get very tiresome
now, tiresome and stickyтАФ
"Marcel. . ." said one of the policemen. "Have a look at this."
Max looked up. They were both standing by the easel, looking at the painting of
Joelle that he'd smashed over the easel in a fit of pique.
"What happened here, monsieur?" the one named Marcel said, pointing to the
ruined painting, on which Joelle's face was still clearly visible. The easel impaled her
image right through the chest. "You had an argument last night? A fight, no? The
famous Siegal temper? She was, perhaps, not quite as obliging as you'd hoped?"
Max could see where this was leading, but he was simply too hung over to deal
with it. He sighed. "Look, why don't you just arrest me and get it over with?" he said
with resignation. "I simply can't take this now. Let my lawyer handle it. I haven't got
the stomach for it anymore."




12
 There was a brief moment of silence as the two policemen looked at one another,
and then the one named Marcel said, "Monsieur Siegal, it is my duty to inform you that
I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Joelle Muset."
Max's head jerked up. "What? Wait a minuteтАФ"
"Please come along quietly, monsieur."
"Wait! What the hell are you talking about?" He leaped up from the couch and
swayed unsteadily, fighting a sudden surge of dizziness and nausea. "Joelle's been
murdered?"
"Come along, monsieurтАФ"
The policeman reached for his arm, but Max shook him off furiously. "Let go of
me, damn you! I'm trying to tell youтАФ"
It was the wrong response. He suddenly found himself thrown to the floor and
handcuffed. Stunned, he tried to protest as they hauled him back up to his feet and
quickly patted him down.
"Wait a minute! Wait! This is all wrong! There's been some sort of mistake!"
"Tell it to the inspector, monsieur," Marcel said. "Please come along peaceably.
Resisting will only make it worse for you."
Stunned, Max allowed himself to be half marched, half carried outside. The
bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He felt sick and he couldn't think clearly. This
can't be happening, he thought, but it was happening and through the fog of his
hangover, he suddenly realized that what he'd said to them made things look very bad,
indeed. She'd been at
his studio, modeling nude, and the painting ... the painting! God, the way he'd
smashed it down over the easel, they must think . . . they did think it! They thought he'd
gotten drunk and killed her. And there was no way he could account for his
whereabouts last night. He had been drunk, at home. Alone. As they escorted him to
the waiting police car, he realized that there was no way he could prove his innocence.
"I didn't kill her," he said as they got into the car.
In a daze, he kept saying it over and over again as they drove down to police