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

He himself had been staring unbrokenly at his hands. To be caught at a dinner party with untidy manicure would have been distressing enough-if he had been able to understand it.
But he had no slightest idea how his nails had become dirtied. At his work? Obviously-but what did he do in the daytime?
He did not know.
УTell us, Mr. Hoag. I was right, was I not?Ф
He pulled his eyes away from those horrid fingernails and said faintly, УI must ask to be excused.Ф With that he had fled from the table. He had found his way to the lavatory where, conquering an irrational revulsion, he had cleaned out the gummy reddish-brown filth with the blade of his penknife. The stuff stuck to the blade; he wiped it on cleansing tissue, wadded it up, and stuck it into a pocket of his waistcoat. Then he had scrubbed his nails, over and over again.
He could not recall when he had become convinced that the stuff was blood, was human blood.
He had managed to find his bowler, his coat, gloves, and stick without recourse to the maid. He let himself out and got away from there as fast as he could.
Thinking it over in the quiet of the dingy hotel room he was convinced that his first fear had been instinctive revulsion at the sight of the dark-red under his nails. It was only on second thought that he had realized that he did not remember where he had dirtied his nails because he had no recollection of where he had been that day, nor the day before, nor any of the days before that. He did not know what his profession was.
It was preposterous, but it was terribly frightening.

He skipped dinner entirely rather than leave the dingy quiet of the hotel room; about ten oТclock he drew a tub of water just as hot as he could get it and let himself soak. It relaxed him somewhat and his twisted thoughts quieted down. In any case, he consoled himself, if he could not remember his occupation, then he certainly could not return to it. No chance again of finding that grisly horror under his fingernails.
He dried himself off and crawled under the covers. In spite of the strange bed he managed to get to sleep.
A nightmare jerked him awake, although he did not realize it at first, as the tawdry surroundings seemed to fit the nightmare. When he did recall where he was and why he was there the nightmare seemed preferable, but by that time it was gone, washed out of his mind. His watch told him that it was his usual getting-up time; he rang for the bellman and arranged for a breakfast tray to be fetched from around the corner.
By the time it arrived he was dressed in the only clothes he had with him and was becoming anxious to get home. He drank two cups of indifferent coffee standing up, fiddled with the food, then left the hotel.
After letting himself into his apartment he hung up his coat and hat, took off his gloves, and went as usual straight to his dressing room. He had carefully scrubbed the nails of his left hand and was just commencing on his right when he noticed what he was doing.
The nails of his left hand were white and clean; those of the right were dark and dirty. Carefully holding himself in check he straightened up, stepped over and examined his watch where he had laid it on his dresser, then compared the time with that shown by the electric clock in his bedroom. It was ten minutes past six P.M.-his usual time for returning home in the evening.
He might not recall his profession; his profession had certainly not forgotten him.


II


The firm of Randall & Craig, Confidential Investigation, maintained its night phone in a double apartment. This was convenient, as Randall had married Craig early in their association. The junior partner had just put the supper dishes to soak and was trying to find out whether or not she wanted to keep the book-of-the-month when the telephone rang. She reached out, took the receiver, and said, УYes?Ф in noncommittal tones.
To this she added, УYes.Ф
The senior partner stopped what he was doing-he was engaged in a ticklish piece of scientific research, involving deadly weapons, ballistics and some esoteric aspects of aero-dynamics; specifically he was trying to perfect his overhand throw with darts, using a rotogravure likeness of cafщ societyТs latest glamour girl thumbtacked to the bread board as a target. One dart had nailed her left eye; he was trying to match it in the right.
УYes,Ф his wife said again.
УTry saying СNo,ТФ he suggested.
She cupped the mouthpiece. УShut up and hand me a pencil.Ф She made a long arm across the breakfast-nook table and obtained a stenographerТs pad from a hook there. УYes. Go ahead.Ф Accepting the pencil she made several lines of the hooks and scrawls that stenographers use in place of writing. УIt seems most likely,Ф she said at last. УMr. Randall is not usually in at this hour. He much prefers to see clients during office hours. Mr. Craig? No, IТm sure Mr. Craig couldnТt help you. Positive. So? Hold the line and IТll find out.Ф
Randall made one more try at the lovely lady; the dart stuck in the leg of the radio-record player. УWell?Ф
УThere is a character on the other end of this who wants to see you very badly tonight. Name of Hoag, Jonathan Hoag. Claims that it is a physical impossibility for him to come to see you in the daytime. DidnТt want to state his business and got all mixed up when he tried to.Ф
УGentleman or lug?Ф
УGentleman.Ф
УMoney?Ф
УSounds like it. DidnТt seem worried about it. Better take it, Teddy. April 15th is coming up.Ф
УO.K. Pass it over.Ф
She waved him back and spoke again into the phone. УIТve managed to locate Mr. Randall. I think he will be able to speak with you in a moment or two. Will you hold the line, please?Ф Still holding the phone away from her husband she consulted her watch, carefully counted off thirty seconds, then said, УReady with Mr. Randall. Go ahead, Mr. Hoag,Ф and slipped the instrument to her husband.
УEdward Randall speaking. What is it, Mr. Hoag?
УOh, really now, Mr. Hoag, I think you had better come in in the morning. We are all human and we like our rest-I do, anyhow.
УI must warn you, Mr. Hoag, my prices go up when the sun goes down.
УWell, now, let me see-I was just leaving for home. Matter of fact, I just talked with my wife so sheТs expecting me. You know how women are. But if you could stop by my home in twenty minutes, at . . . uh . . . seventeen minutes past eight, we could talk for a few minutes. All right-got a pencil handy? Here is the address-Ф He cradled the phone.
УWhat am I this time? Wife, partner, or secretary?Ф
УWhat do you think? You talked to him.Ф
УСWife,Т IТd guess. His voice sounded prissy.Ф
УO.K.Ф
УIТll change to a dinner gown. And you had better get your toys up off the floor, Brain.Ф
УOh, I donТt know. It gives a nice touch of eccentricity.Ф
УMaybe youТd like some shag tobacco in a carpet slipper. Or some Regie cigarettes.Ф She moved around the room, switching off the overhead lights and arranging table and floor lamps so that the chair a visitor would naturally sit in would be well lighted.
Without answering he gathered up his darts and the bread board, stopping as he did so to moisten his finger and rub the spot where he had marred the radio, then dumped the whole collection into the kitchen and closed the door. In the subdued light, with the kitchen and breakfast nook no longer visible, the room looked serenely opulent.

УHow do you do, sir? Mr. Hoag, my dear. Mr. Hoag . . . Mrs. Randall.Ф