"Kyle, Duncan - Terror's Cradle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kyle Duncan)

The girl smiled as she handed me the cable: FLY VEGAS RHODES EXCLUSIVE BOUGHT STOP REGISTERED DIME PALACE SCOWN.

I sighed, told the girl I would not, after all, be a passenger to London and humped my bag over to the news stand in search of the key to Scown's cryptogram. They sold me the early afternoon edition and it was all on page one, brightly displayed. Superstars sell newspapers. The story said that one Susannah Rhodes, film actress, was in a state of some embarrassment and the state of Nevada. A corpse had been discovered in her hotel bathroom. The message was perfectly clear. Scown, bless his border-reiving ancestors, knew I hated doing showbusiness stories. I could almost hear the underlying pleasure in his subdued snarl as he dictated the cable. No story, Sellers? I'll send you on a bloody story. Also there was the implicit heavy sarcasm of the words EXCLUSIVE BOUGHT. In Scownese they meant: even you can't foul this up.

So not many hours later I was standing a few thousand miles away at the bar of the Flamingo, Las Vegas, waiting for the film company PR man, with my sweat drying too quickly in the air conditioning. Washington had been crackling cold; Las Vegas was going through one of its occasional winter heat waves, with temperatures around ninety.

I'd been waiting an hour, but at least I was reasonably sure he'd be along. Strings must certainly have been pulled. Scown sat on the board of a TV company which had diversified into films and was the principal backer of the Rhodes vehicle, so I had my little edge on the army of assembled press and television boys who'd been there hours before me.

From the bar I could see most of the gaming room, with its careful lighting, low enough to flatter the women and strong enough to let the staff keep its wary eyes on everything and everybody. Sweet Muzak was playing: heavily orchestrated and optimistic strings to keep the mind off the losings, yet loud enough to overlay the endless cranking of handles and whirring mechanical money swallowers.

The man didn't stop as he threaded his way across the gaming room. He was big and slim, wearing casual clothes so immaculately new and pressed they'd have made a marine warrant officer look wrinkled. He also wore, on what I could see of his face, the kind of set, non-committal, negative expression you see on mildly-hostile bank managers. His eyes were hidden behind big square sunglasses with mirror lenses and all I could see in them was a couple of reflections of myself.

He glanced along the bar and came straight over. 'You Sellers?'

'Yes.'

'Dave Spinetti.' He didn't offer to shake hands.

'Drink?'

'Coke.'

I ordered. Drinks are easier to order and delivered faster in Las Vegas than anywhere else on earth.

He beat about no bushes. 'How much you paying?'

I shook my head. 'Fixed in London. My paper and her agent. All agreed. I'm just here to talk to her.'

The corners of his mouth turned down. 'You and a million more.'

I said, 'But.'

'Yeah, I know.' He didn't like it. This time his palm wasn't to be crossed with gold. The deal had been done. There were no big percentages to be played. Perhaps he'd find a few scrapings, but they'd be small.

I said, 'Tell me about it.'

"You've seen the afternoon papers?'

I nodded. 'Very bald. Very careful. Very uninformative. What happened?'

He took a pull at his Coke, almost as though it were whisky. No thirst there just the need for a crutch. "When she woke up there was this dead guy in her bathroom. That's all there is.'

I said, 'With a bullet through his head and she didn't hear the shot.'

He nodded grimly. "Right'

'And she didn't know him?'

'Yeah. She didn't know him.'