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

"That's a lawyer for you! I know I'm right. Aren't I, Mr. Hoag?"
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.
"Tell us, Mr. Hoag. I was right, was I not?"
He pulled his eyes away from those horrid fingernails and said faintly, "I must ask
to be excused." 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 o'clock 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.