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

headquarters.




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 Chapter
TWO

Inspector Armand Renaud was having his morning coffee and croissant when
Legault came bursting into his office without knocking, saying, "You'll never guess
who's outside, asking for you."
Renaud sighed and put down his croissant. It seemed he couldn't even have his
morning coffee without being interrupted. "All right, who?" he said wearily.
"Jacqueline Monet," Legault said.
Renaud stared at him. "You're joking. The Jacqueline Monet?"
"The very same."
"And she wants to speak with me?"
"She asked for you by name. She won't say what it's about."
Renaud quickly brushed the stray croissant crumbs off his desk with his
crumpled-up paper napkin, then pushed his hair back with his fingertips and
straightened his tie. He looked up to see Legault grinning at him.
"What are you grinning at? Send her in."
Still grinning, Legault left and a moment later, she came through the door. She
was even more beautiful in the flesh than she was in her photographs. Jacqueline
Monet was in her late forties. Her exact age was subject to some question, but she had
the figure of a woman in her twenties. With a face and body like that, she could easily
have landed a spot in the chorus of any Montmartre nightclub. Her legs were long and
her waist was girlishly trim. She wore a well-tailored neo-Edwardian suit of dark
crimson brocade, with white lace at the throat and cuffs. In her high-heeled boots, she
was just under six feet tall and her long, thick, gray-streaked hair was a rich mahogany
color. She wore it loose, down past her shoulders. He got to his feet as she came up to
his desk.
"Mademoiselle Monet," he said, offering his hand. "I am Inspector Armand
Renaud. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"
She took his hand in a strong grip. "I seem to have interrupted your morning
coffee, Inspector," she said in a deep and sexy voice. "I would like to speak with you in
private concerning a matter of some importance. There is a small cafe across the street.
Perhaps I could buy you an espresso?"
"Allow me the pleasure of buying you one," said Renaud. He picked up his jacket.
"After you, mademoiselle."
Every eye in the station house followed them as they went outside and down the
stairs. There wasn't a police officer in all of France who did not know who Jacqueline
Monet was and the idea of her strolling casually into a police station as if she owned
the place was typical of the brazen effrontery for which she had become famous.
Infamous, perhaps, would have been a better word. In any other country except France,


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the sight of a notorious criminal walking into a police station with such an air of