"Robert A. Heinlein - The unpleasant profession of Johathan Ho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

were no better in his eyes. Those of eight or nine, the shapeless stringy age, seemed to
him to have tattletale written in their pinched faces -- mean souls, born for trouble-
making and cruel gossip. Their slightly older sisters, gutter-wise too young, seemed
entirely concerned with advertising their arrogant new sex -- not for Hoag's benefit, but
for their pimply counterparts loafing around the drugstore.
Even the brats in baby carriages -- Hoag fancied that he liked babies, enjoyed
himself in the role of honorary uncle. Not these. Snotty-nosed and sour-smelling, squalid
and squalling --
The little hotel was like a thousand others, definitely third rate without pretension,
a single bit of neon reading: "Hotel Manchester, Transient & Permanent," a lobby only a
half lot wide, long and narrow and a little dark. They are stopped at by drummers careful
of their expense accounts and are lived in by bachelors who can't afford better. The single
elevator is an iron-grille cage, somewhat disguised with bronze paint. The lobby floor is
tile, the cuspidors are brass. In addition to the clerk's desk there are two discouraged
potted palms and eight leather armchairs. Unattached old men, who seem never to have
had a past, sit in these chairs, live in the rooms above, and every now and then one is
found hanging in his room, necktie to light fixture.

Hoag backed into the door of the Manchester to avoid being caught in a surge of
children charging along the sidewalk. Some sort of game, apparently -- he caught the tail
end of a shrill chant, " -- give him a slap to shut his trap; the last one home's a dirty Jap!"
"Looking for someone, sir? Or did you wish a room?"
He turned quickly around, a little surprised. A room? What he wanted was his
own snug apartment but at the moment a room, any room at all, in which he could be
alone with a locked door between himself and the world seemed the most desirable thing
possible. "Yes, I do want a room."
The clerk turned the register around. "With or without? Five fifty with, three and
a half without."
"With."
The clerk watched him sign, but did not reach for the key until Hoag counted out
five ones and a half. "Glad to have you with us. Bill! Show Mr. Hoag up to 412."
The lone bellman ushered him into the cage, looked him up and down with one
eye, noting the expensive cut of his topcoat and the absence of baggage. Once in 412 he
raised the window a trifle, switched on the bathroom light, and stood by the door.
"Looking for something?" he suggested. "Need any help?"
Hoag tipped him. "Get out," he said hoarsely.
The bellman wiped off the smirk. "Suit yourself," he shrugged.
The room contained one double bed, one chest of drawers with mirror, one
straight chair and one armchair. Over the bed was a framed print titled "The Colosseum
by Moonlight." But the door was lockable and equipped with a bolt as well and the
window faced the alley, away from the street. Hoag sat down in the armchair. It had a
broken spring, but he did not mind.
He took off his gloves and stared at his nails. They were quite clean. Could the
whole thing have been hallucination? Had he ever gone to consult Dr. Potbury? A man
who has had amnesia may have it again, he supposed, and hallucinations as well.
Even so, it could not all be hallucinations; he remembered the incident too
vividly. Or could it be? He strained to recall exactly what had happened.

Today was Wednesday, his customary day off. Yesterday he had returned home
from work as usual. He had been getting ready to dress for dinner -- somewhat absent --