"Innes, Hammond - The Killer Mine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Innes Hammond)

Her face paled and she glanced quickly over her shoulder at the stairs which ascended in a rigid line to the unlighted interior of the house. 'Sylvia! Sylvia!' she called out in a hoarse, agitated voice.

A door at the top of the stairs opened and the girl I had seen before stood framed in the flood of light. 'What is it, Auntie?'

'There's a gentleman inquiring for Mr Jones.'

The door was instantly closed, shutting out the light, and the girl came down the stairs. She was still dressed in her yellow jumper and green corduroys. But her face was pale and drawn as she faced me in the doorway. 'What do you want?' she asked. And then almost in the same breath: 'He's not back yet. I told you he won't be back till tomorrow. Why've you come again -now?' Her voice dropped uncertainly on the last word.

'I'd said I'd come back this evening,' I reminded her. Then my eyes fell to her hand. There was blood on it, and more on her slacks. And there was an impersonal, familiar smell about her. A surgical smell. Iodine!

She saw the direction of my gaze. 'One of our lodgers,' she muttered. 'He's cut himself on a glass. Excuse me, I must go up and finish bandaging his arm.' As soon as she'd said the word 'arm' her eyes widened. For a second she stared straight at me, quite still. Then panic leapt into her fear-struck eyes and she flung herself at the door.

But I brushed her and the door back and stepped inside. 'He's back, isn't he?' I said, closing the door. 'He's back and he's hurt.'

She leapt to the stairs and stood there, panting, barring my way like a tigress defending her young. 'What do you want with him?' she breathed. 'Why have you come? All that about coming from Italy at his request - that was all lies, wasn't it? You were asking questions about him down at the harbour this afternoon. That's what I was told. Why?'

I said, 'Look, I don't mean any harm. It's true what I said this morning.' I fished the letter out of my wallet again. 'There, if you don't believe me, read that letter. That's his handwriting, isn't it?'

She nodded, But she didn't read it immediately. She stood there with her eyes fixed on mine as though I were a wild beast and she was afraid to release me from her gaze. 'Read it,' I said. 'Then perhaps you'll believe what I say.'

Reluctantly she lowered her eyes. She read through. Then she folded it carefully and handed it back. Her face had lost the strained look. But the wide eyes looked tired and drained. 'Was Maria -- his girl?' she asked. Her voice was soft, yet somehow harsh.

'Oh, God!' I said. 'She was nobody. Just a girl in a trattoria.'

The door at the top of the stairs opened and Dave Tanner's voice called down sharply, 'What the devil are you doing, girl? Come and fix this arm before I lose any more blood.' His figure was black against the light from the room behind. The wide shaft of light showed the grey cupids on the peeling wall-paper. Across it sprawled his shadow. He was in his shirt sleeves and held a bloodstained towel to his left arm. His hair was damp with the rain, or maybe it was sweat. 'Who the hell was it anyway?'

'It's all right, Dave,' she answered. 'It's a friend of yours. I'll come and fix that arm now.'

'A friend of mine?' he echoed.

'Yes,' I called up to him. 'It's me - Jim Pryce.'

'Jim Pryce!' He peered down into the unlighted hallway. His face caught the light. It was drained of all colour, the bones standing out like a caricature in marble. 'A helluva moment you've chosen to come visiting,' he said. Then impatiently: 'Well, come on up, man. Don't stand there gaping at me as though I were Jesus Christ.'

The girl suddenly came to life and hurried up the stairs. I followed her. We went into the bedroom and she shut the door and started to work on his arm. 'What happened?' I asked.

'Oh, just a spot of trouble,' he said vaguely and his face contracted with pain as the girl dabbed iodine into what was obviously a bullet wound.

'Who was Maria?' the girl suddenly asked.

'That's a pretty nasty wound,' I said quickly.

'It's nothing - nothing whatever. A flesh wound, that's all. What did you say, Syl?'

'I asked who was Maria?' the girl said and dabbed iodine into the wound so that the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead.

'Just a girl,' he snapped. He looked across at me. His black eyes gleamed in his taut face. 'What've you been telling her?'

'Nothing,' I said. 'I had to show her your letter. She wouldn't let me in.'