"Heinlein, Robert A - The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

"Why does it worry you? Think somebody might have gotten into the apartment last night?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure-that's what I was thinking." But his brow was still wrinkled.
Cynthia looked at him, then went back into the bedroom. There she gathered up her purse, went through it rapidly, then opened a small, concealed drawer in her dressing table. "If anyone did manage to get in, they didn't get much. Got your wallet? Everything in it? How about your watch?"
He made a quick check and reported, "They're all right. You must have left the chair there and I just didn't notice it. Ready to go?"
"Be right with you."
He said no more about it. Privately he was thinking what an involved mess a few subconscious memories and a club sandwich just before turning in could make. He must have noticed the chair just before turning out the light-hence its appearance in the nightmare. He dismissed the matter.


V


Hoag was waiting for them. "Come in," he said. "Come in. Welcome, madame, to my little hide-away. Will you sit down? Have we time for a cup of tea? I'm afraid, he added apologetically, "that I haven't coffee in the house."
"I guess we have," agreed Randall. "Yesterday you left the house at eight fifty-three and it's only eight thirty-five now. I think we ought to leave at the same time."
"Good." Hoag bustled away, to return at once with a tea service on a tray, which he placed on a table at Cynthia's knees. "Will you pour, Mrs. Randall? It's Chinese tea," he added. "My own blend."
"I'd be pleased." He did not look at all sinister this morning, she was forced to admit. He was just a fussy little bachelor with worry lines around his eyes-and a most exquisite apartment. His pictures were good, just how good she had not the training to tell, but they looked like originals. There were not too many of them, either, she noticed with approval. Arty little bachelors were usually worse than old maids for crowding a room full of too much.
Not Mr. Hoag's flat. It had an airy perfection to it as pleasing, in its way, as a Brahms waltz. She wanted to ask him where he had gotten his drapes.
He accepted a cup of tea from her, cradled it in his hand and sniffed the aroma before sipping from it. He then turned to Randall. "I'm afraid, sir, that we are off on a wild-goose chase this morning."
"Perhaps. Why do you think so?"
"Well, you see, I really am at a loss as to what to do next. Your telephone call- I was preparing my morning tea-I don't keep a servant-as usual, when you called. I suppose I am more or less in a brown fog in the early mornings-absent-minded, you know, just doing the things one does when one gets up, making one's toilet and all that with one's thoughts elsewhere. When you telephoned I was quite bemused and it took me a moment to recall who you were and what business we had with each other. In a way the conversation cleared my head, made me consciously aware of myself, that is to say, but now-" He shrugged helplessly. "Now I haven't the slightest idea of what I am to do next."
Randall nodded. "I had that possibility in mind when I phoned you. I don't claim to be a psychologist but it seemed possible that your transition from your nighttime self to your daytime self took place as you left your apartment and that any interruption in your routine might throw you off."
"Then why-"
"It won't matter. You see, we shadowed you yesterday; we know where you go."
"You do? Tell me, sir! Tell me."
"Not so fast. We lost track of you at the last minute. What I had in mind is this; We could guide you along the same track, right up to the point where we lost track of you yesterday. At that point I am hoping that your habitual routine will carry you on through-and we will be in right at your heels."
"You say 'we.' Does Mrs. Randall assist you in this?"

Randall hesitated, realizing that he had been caught out in a slight prevarication. Cynthia moved in and took over the ball.
"Not ordinarily, Mr. Hoag, but this seemed like an exceptional case. We felt that you would not enjoy having your private affairs looked into by the ordinary run of hired operator, so Mr. Randall has undertaken to attend to your case personally, with my help when necessary."
"Oh, I say, that's awfully kind of you!"
"Not at all."
"But it is-it is. But, uh, in that case-I wonder if I have paid you enough. Do not the services of the head of the firm come a little higher?"
Hoag was looking at Cynthia; Randall signaled to her an emphatic "Yes"-which she chose to ignore. "What you have already paid, Mr. Hoag, seems sufficient. If additional involvements come up later, we can discuss them then."
"I suppose so." He paused and pulled at his lower lip. "I do appreciate your thoughtfulness in keeping my affairs to yourselves. I shouldn't like-" He turned suddenly to Randall. "Tell me-what would your attitude be if it should develop that my daytime life is-scandalous?" The word seemed to hurt him.
"I can keep scandal to myself."
"Suppose it were worse than that. Suppose it were-criminal. Beastly."
Randall stopped to choose his words. "I am licensed by the State of Illinois. Under that license I am obliged to regard myself as a special police officer in a limited sense. I certainly could not cover up any major felony. But it's not my business to turn clients in for any ordinary peccadillo. I can assure you that it would have to be something pretty serious for me to be willing to turn over a client to the police."
"But you can't assure me that you would not do so?"
"No," he said flatly.
Hoag sighed. "I suppose I'll just have to trust to your good judgment." He held up his right hand and looked at his nails. "No. No, I can't risk it. Mr. Randall, suppose you did find something you did not approve of-couldn't you just call me up and tell me that you were dropping the case?"
"No."
He covered his eyes and did not answer at once. When he did his voice was barely audible. "You've found nothing-yet?" Randall shook his head. "Then perhaps it is wiser to drop the matter now. Some things are better never known."
His evident distress and helplessness, combined with the favorable impression his apartment had made on her, aroused in Cynthia a sympathy which she would have thought impossible the evening before. She leaned toward him. "Why should you be so distressed, Mr. Hoag? You have no reason to think that you have done anything to be afraid of-have you?"
"No. No, nothing really. Nothing but an overpowering apprehension."
"But why?"
"Mrs. Randall, have you ever heard a noise behind you and been afraid to look around? Have you ever awakened in the night and kept your eyes tightly shut rather than find out what it was that had startled you? Some evils reach their full effect only when acknowledged and faced.
"I don't dare face this one," he added. "I thought that I did, but I was mistaken."
"Come now," she said kindly, "facts are never as bad as our fears-"
"Why do you say so? Why shouldn't they be much worse?"
"Why, because they just aren't." She stopped, suddenly conscious that her Pollyanna saying had no truth in it, that it was the sort of thing adults use to pacify children. She thought of her own mother, who had gone to the hospital, fearing an appendectomy-which her friends and loving family privately diagnosed as hypochondria-there to die, of cancer.
No, the facts were frequently worse than our most nervous fears.