"Kuttner, Henry - Private Eye UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

Now, thought Clay, this much can be assumed: jf I stand to lose by VandermanТs death instead of gaining, that will help considerably. I must juggle that somehow. But I mustnТt forget that at present I have an obvious motive. First, he stole Bea. Second, he beat me up.
So I must make it seem as though heТs done me a favorЧsomehow.
I must have an opportunity to study Vanderman carefully, and it must be a normal, logical, waterproof opportunity. Private secretary. Something like that. The EyeТs in the future now, after the fact, but itТs watching me . .
I must remember that. ItТs watching me now!
All right. Normally, IТd have thought of murder at this point. That canТt and shouldnТt be disguised. I must work out of the mood gradually, but meanwhile . .
He smiled.
Going off to buy a gun, he felt uncomfortable, as though that prescient Eye, years in the future, could with a wink summon the police. But it was separated from him by a barrier of time that only the natural processes could shorten. And, in fact, it had been watching him since his birth. You could look at it that way. .
He could defy it. The Eye couldnТt read thoughts.
He bought the gun and lay in wait for Vanderman in a dark alley. But first he got thoroughly drunk. Drunk enough to satisfy the Eye.
After that .

УFeel better now?Ф Vanderman asked, pouring another coffee.
Clay buried his face in his hands.
УI was crazy,Ф he said, his voice muffled. УI must have been. YouТd better t-turn me over to the police.Ф
УWe can forget about that end of it, Clay. You were drunk, thatТs all. And I...well,I
УI pull a gun on you ... try to kill you . . . and you bring me up to your place and . .
УYou didnТt use that gun, Clay. Remember that. YouТre no killer. All this has been my fault. I neednТt have been so blasted tough with you,Ф Vanderman said, looking like Coeur-de-Lion in spite of uncalculated amber fluorescence.
УIТm no good. IТm a failure. Every time I try to do something, a man like you comes along and does it better. IТm a second-rater.Ф
УClay, stop talking like that. YouТre just upset, thatТs all. Listen to me. YouТre going to straighten up. IТm going to see that you do. Starting tomorrow, weТll work something out. Now drink your coffee.Ф
УYou know,Ф Clay said, УyouТre quite a guy.Ф

So the magnanimous idiotТs fallen for it, Clay thought, as he was drifting happily off to sleep. Fine. That begins to take care of the Eye. Moreover, it starts the ball rolling with Vanderman. Let a man do you a favor and heТs yom pal. Well, VandermariТs going to do me a lot more favors. In fact, before IТm through, IТll have every motive for wanting to keep him alive.
Every motive visible to the naked Eye.
Probably Clay had not heretofore applied his talents in the right direction, for there was nothing second-rate about the way he executed his homicide plan. In that, he proved very capable. He needed a suitable channel for his ability, and perhaps he needed a patron. Vanderman fulfilled that function; probably it salved his conscience for stealing Bea. Being the man he was, Vanderman needed to avoid even the appearance of ignobility. Naturally strong and ruthless, he told himself he was sentimental. His sentimentality never reached the point of actually inconveniencing him, and Clay knew enough to stay within the limits.
Nevertheless it is nerve-racking to know youТre living under the scrutiny of an extratemporal Eye. As he walked into the lobby of the V Building a month later, Clay realized that light vibrations reflected from his own body were driving irretrievably into the polished onyx walls and floor, photographing themselves there, waiting for a machine to unlock them, someday, sometime, for some man perhaps in this very city, who as yet didnТt know even the name of Sam Clay. Then, sitting in his relaxer in the spiral lift moving swiftly up inside the walls, he knew that those walls were capturing his image, stealing it, like some superstition he remembered . . . ah?
VandermanТs private secretary greeted him. Clay let his gaze wander freely across that young personТs neatly dressed figure and mildly attractive face. She said that Mr. Vanderman was out, and the appointment was for three, not two, wasnТt it? Clay referred to a notebook. He snapped his fingers.
УThreeЧyouТre right, Miss Wells. I was so sure it was two I didnТt even bother to check up. Do you think he might be back sooner? I mean, is he out or in conference?Ф
УHeТs out, all right, Mr. Clay,Ф Miss Wells said. УI donТt think heТll be back much sooner than three. IТm sorry.Ф
УWell, may I wait in here?Ф
She smiled at him efficiently. УOf course. ThereТs stereo and the magazine spools are in that case.Ф
She went back to her work, and Clay skimmed through an article about the care and handling of lunar filchards. It gave him an opportunity to start a conversation by asking Miss Wells if she liked flichards. It turned out that she had no opinion whatsoever of filchards, but the ice had been broken.
This is the cocktail acquaintance, Clay thought. I may have a broken heart, but, naturally, IТm lonesome.
The trick wasnТt to get engaged to Miss Wells so much as to fall in love with her convincingly. The Eye never slept. Clay was beginning to wake at night with a nervous start and lie there looking up at the ceiling. But darkness was no shield.
УThe question is,Ф said the sociologist at this point, Уwhether or not Clay was acting for an audience.Ф
УYou mean us?Ф
УExactly. It just occurred to me. Do you think heТs been behaving perfectly naturally?Ф
The engineer pondered.
УIТd say yes. A man doesnТt marry a girl only to carry out some other plan, does he? After all, heТd get himself involved in a whole new batch of responsibilities.Ф
УClay hasnТt married Josephine Wells yet, however,Ф the sociologist countered. УBesides, that responsibility angle might have applied a few hundred years ago, but not now.Ф He went off at random. УImagine a society where, after divorce, a man was forced to support a perfectly healthy, competent woman! It was vestigial, I knowЧa throwback to the days when only males could earn a livingЧbut imagine the sort of women who were willing to accept such support. That was reversion to infancy if I ever . .
The engineer coughed.
УOh,Ф the sociologist said. УOh, . . . yes. The question is, would Clay have got himself engaged to a woman unless he really .
УEngagements can be broken.Ф
УThis one hasnТt been broken yet, as far as we know. And we know.Ф
УA normal man wouldnТt plan on marrying a girl he didnТt care anything about, unless he had some stronger motiveЧIТll go along that far.Ф
УBut how normal is Clay?Ф the sociologist wondered. УDid he know in advance weТd check back on his past? Did you notice that he cheated at solitaire?Ф
УProving?Ф
УThere are all kinds of trivial things you donТt do if you think people are looking. Picking up a penny in the street, drinking soup out of the bowl, posing before a mirrorЧthe sort of foolish or petty things everyone does when alone. Either ClayТs innocent, or heТs a very clever man

He was a very clever man. He never intended the engagement to get as far as marriage, though he knew that in one respect marriage would be a precaution. If a man talks in his sleep, his wife will certainly mention the fact. Clay considered gagging himself at night if the necessity should arise. Then he realized that if he talked in his sleep at all, there was no insurance against talking too much the very first time he had an auditor. He couldnТt risk such a break. But there was no necessity, after all. ClayТs problem, when he thought it over, was simply: how can I be sure I donТt talk in my sleep?
He solved that easily enough by renting a narcohypnotic supplementary course in common trade dialects. This involved studying while awake and getting the information repeated in his ear during slumber. As a necessary preparation for the course, he was instructed to set up a recorder and chart the depth of his sleep, so the narcohypnosis could be keyed to his individual rhythms. He did this several times, rechecked once a month thereafter and was satisfied. There was no need to gag himself at night.