"Himes, Chester - The Big Gold Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Himes Chester)

"None! No human hand was raised against her," Sweet Prophet said.
"Who poisoned the bottle of water?" Sergeant Ratigan asked.
"The water was not poisoned," Sweet Prophet denied. "I blessed it with my own hand."
"How is it then that she died after drinking it?" Ratigan asked.
"If you think she died from drinking that water, bring me a gallon of it and I will drink it all," Sweet Prophet said.
"What did she do for a living?" the sergeant asked.
"She was a cook for a white family in Westchester County," Sweet Prophet said.
"What kind of woman was she?" Ratigan asked.
"An upright, God-fearing, Christian woman," Sweet Prophet said.
"Do you have any idea why someone might want to poison her?" Ratigan asked.
"No one would have ever wanted to poison her," Sweet Prophet stated emphatically. "She was a great cook and a steady wage-earner. No one on God's green earth would poison that type of woman."
"How about a jealous husband or a disgruntled lover?" the sergeant asked.
"Only the Almighty Father, who is swayed neither by the color of the skin nor the smartness of the brain, but judges only by the sincerity of the heart, would have called Sister Wright from her life on Earth to offer her a seat in heaven -- as useful as she was to everybody," Sweet Prophet said.
One of the four gilded telephones on the desk began to ring. Sweet Prophet looked at them without moving, and a sedately dressed middle-aged woman, who had been standing impassively by the wall behind him, stepped forward and miraculously picked up the right one.
"The blessed Sweet Prophet's Temple of Wonderful Prayer," she enunciated in a well-modulated voice.
The harsh sound of a voice at the other end came into the room, but the words were indistinct.
"Very well," the woman replied and, looking up toward the sergeant, said, "It is for you, sir, if you are Sergeant Ratigan."
The sergeant got to his feet and reached across the desk for the receiver.
"Ratigan," he bellowed. "Shoot!"
The sound of the harsh voice, metallic and indistinct, poured into the dense, listening silence, punctuated by Ratigan saying, "Yeah. . . Yeah.. . Well, that's that. . ."
He hung up the receiver and said to his assistants, "Let's go."


3

A dilapidated moving van, minus the name of the owner or any identifying inscription save for a license plate almost obliterated by dirt, drew up in front of a four-storied brick tenement on 118th Street. The block was parallel to the one on 117th Street where the baptism had taken place a short time before.
Two big overall-clad colored men, one of whom had been driving, and a small, white-haired Jew, wearing a black suit and a brown felt hat, got out.
"Hey, auntie," the Jew called to a big black woman leaning from a first-floor window. "What floor does Rufus Wright live on?"
The woman gave him an evil look. "If you means Alberta Wright, she lives on the top floor."
The Jew's eyebrows shot upward, but he didn't reply.
"If Rufus has brought in a woman, we won't touch it," he said to his helpers as they climbed the smelly stairs.
The helpers said nothing.
On the fourth floor, a slick-looking Negro with straightened hair beckoned from the rear door and said, "Psst." He was wearing a pink sport shirt, a green silk suit and yellow linen shoes, and he had a wide, confidential grin.
The Jew and his helpers entered the parlor of a two-room flat.
The Negro closed the door and locked it, then said, "All right, daddy-O, let's get on."
The Jew looked about suspiciously. "You're alone, ain't you?" He had been around colored people so long he talked like one.
"Ain't I always?" the Negro countered.
"You know I got to get it straight."
"All right, set up your alibis."
The Jew frowned. "That's a bad word," he said, but the Negro didn't argue the point. The Jew asked, "Your name is Rufus Wright, ain't it?"
"Right," Rufus said.
The helpers, standing just inside the doorway, sniggered. Every time the Jew bought anything from Rufus, he went through the same act.
"This Is your place, ain't it?"
"Right."
"You own the furniture, don't you?"
"Right."
"Who is this woman, Alberta Wright?" the Jew threw in suddenly.
"Her? She's my wife," Rufus said, without batting an eye.
"Why didn't you stick to being a bachelor?" the Jew complained. "That was safer."
"Well, you see, daddy-O, this time it's different," Rufus said. "This time it's on her account that I got to sell my furniture."