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

The corners of his mouth turned down. The police . . . unfortunately they insist that -'

I said, 'We're deeply concerned about Miss Hay, of course. But we're worried too about the production of the magazine, the schedule.'

Morelius was looking at me carefully. He said, 'We meet our schedules, Mr Sellers. Always we meet them.'

'Doesn't look as though you will this time.'

'No. But the fault is not ours. And there is a clause in the contract covering events such -'

'We're not thinking, are we,' I said pointedly, 'of just one little contract?'

He blinked a couple of times, feeling the nutcracker squeeze, then said defensively, 'This is not fair. We -'

I interrupted him again. 'This contract is for six issues of forty thousand copies. Woman's Week is two million copies a week for the foreseeable future. That's number one. Number two is that Mr Scown is fond of Alison Hay.'

Morelius was blinking even harder. 'You mean, personally . . .?'

'Not like that,' I said. 'But it's as if she were his daughter.'

He hesitated. 'The police would be angry.'

I said, 'The police don't place two-million-copy print orders. Mr Scown will also be angry.'

Morelius thought for a moment. 'You will undertake to be most careful?'

'Certainly.'

Then, reluctantly he conceded. 'I show you. One moment please.' He picked up the phone and spoke in Swedish. When he'd finished, he said, 'I will be told if the police come here. If they do, you will have time to come away from the room. You will do that?'

'Of course.'

The room was plain and tidy. All magazine printers have places like it, where editorial production people can work. There were a couple of desks, a layout table, a frosted glass with a light beneath it for transparency viewing, a couple of telephones, a photo-copying machine.

'Thanks.'

He didn't want to leave me. I said 'You must have other problems.'

'Please. If the police come, you will -'

I nodded. 'Like a rat down a rope. So let's not waste time.'

He left me to it.

There were a few rough layouts on the desk, some black and white prints in a wire basket, and that was all. Alsa must have taken the briefcase and the artwork portfolio back to the Scanda Hotel. I sat at the desk and began to go through the material carefully. The pictures were the usual Russian propaganda stuff: new cities mushrooming out of the Siberian vastness, kids at a ballet school, more kids doing exercises in a beautifully equipped gymnasium, watchmakers at work. A few had pencil marks on the back in Alsa's writing; she'd sized one or two up provisionally. It all seemed very innocent The layouts were roughs for various pages in the magazine, with type areas and pictures blocked in and not much else. A few were front-cover designs, with scribbled-in picture outlines and a few rough type styles for the title. Russian Life. They didn't look particularly exciting, though one was fairly striking: a rough map of Russia with flags sticking out of it. Alsa clearly intended to put a picture inside each flag. Nice idea if the artists didn't foul it up and the printers got the register right and didn't blur the edges.

I stayed for an hour or so, and went through the stuff carefully three times, but there was nothing I could see that might give me a lead. All the same, I made quite a few photo-copies in case there was something important I'd missed. When I'd finished I left everything as I'd found it, picked up the key Morelius had left on the table, locked the door behind me and went back to Morelius' office.

'No police?'