"Kuttner, Henry - Red Gem of Mercury" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

before a door, thrust it open, and gestured. Vane stepped over the threshold.
He heard the door shut behind him--and lock. He was in a bare room, empty save
for curtains that covered one wall. There were no windows. Two men stepped out
from behind the drapes. They held guns aimed unwaveringly at Vane.
"Pasqual's busy," one of them said jeeringly. "He sent us to--"
Briefly the odd lassitude left Vane as he realized the death that menaced him.
He snapped, "Drop those guns! Quick!"
"Like hell !"
The automatics clanked on the bare floor. The killers stared down at them, at
Vane, and simultaneously lunged forward. They halted in mid-course, paralyzed.
Vane said, "Go tell Pasqual I want to see him."
The two turned Stimy and vanished behind the curtains. A door shut metallically.
The lawyer rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand, wincing as he felt the chill
surface of the jewel. He felt weak and sick. And tired. His thoughts spun
chaotically. What--
The room was moving. No, it was his dizziness. There was a choking, unfamilar
odor in Vane's nostrils. Reeling a little, he went to the drapes and drew them
aside.
There was a metal door in the wall. It was locked.
Vane felt icy cold. His head was bursting.
It was extremely difficult to move. He turned, staggered, and fell full length
on the bare floor.
His body was like ice. He could not move a muscle. He was paralyzed. . .
Gas! Pasqual had pumped anaesthetic gas into the room. Vane recognized the
strange odor now. But what manner of gas could have this effect? His brain was
perfectly clear, yet he was immobile as a statue. He lay, waiting.
TIME passed. A burly man in a gas mask pulled through the drapes, a gun in one
hand. He paused to eye the figure on the floor. Then he pocketed the gun, bent,
picked up Vane, and carried him into the next room, shutting the door carefully
behind him.
Vane's vision was restricted. He could only stare up at the ceiling. Then a new
face appeared, swart, thick-lipped, and brutal. It was Pasqual.
The stocky gangster stood looking down at Vane. His hoarse voice asked, "Dead?"
"Yeah." The other man was removing his gas mask.
Pasqual put his palm flat on Vane's breast. He took a small mirror from his
pocket and held it to the lawyer's lips.
"He's stiff, all right," the gangster nodded, rising. "Didn't take much gas to
knock him out, either. I dunno what he did to Jim and Oscar, but they said he
hexed 'em. Well--" Pasqual's gold teeth flashed in a grin. "That settles one
thing. It was Tony Apollo who fell into the gorge up in the mountains. This
calls for a celebration, all right."
He pulled at his thick lip, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. "I don't
want Vane's body found here. Get the boys to dump him in the river."
The Homburg was still jammed over Vane's forehead. Pasqual bent, tugged at it,
and changed his mind. He stood up again.
"Okay," he grunted. "Snap it up. When the boys get back, they can help
celebrate. I spent a cool thousand on champagne."
He went out. Vane tried desperately to move, to speak. It was useless. Yet he
wasn't dead. He could hear and see. But he wasn't breathing. His heart had
stopped beating. Poison gas--that didn't explain it.