"THE BROKEN GUN" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Amour Louis)

Only it was not that simple. As I walked past the window of the motel office the
clerk tapped on the glass and I went in. "Some calls for you, Mr. Sheridan. I didn't
see you come in earlier."
He handed me a small sheaf of papers. A telegram from my publisher reminding me of
our appointment
in Beverly Hills, just ten days away. A telephone call from a newspaperwoman who
wished to do a feature story on me. The last was a scrawled message in an unfamiliar
hand:
I have informations. I will come at one o'clock a.m. Manuel Alvarez
I walked back outside. Riley was just getting into a police car, but he stopped when
I called. He glanced at the message, and listened to my explanation.
"Why one o'clock in the morning?" he said.
"You've got me. As I said, I never heard of the man. Not that it matters. In my business
we meet all kinds."
"Mind if I keep this?"
"Go ahead." Then my curiosity got the better of me. "Sergeant, if you know anything
about the man, please tell me. Something might ring a bell."
He considered that for a moment, then said, "He was the only honest one of a very
disreputable family. His brothers have been in trouble of one kind or another since
they were youngsters."
Nothing came of our talk, and I went back to bed. Morning came too soon. My first
appointment was for nine o'clock, and while I waited for a cab I bought a newspaper.
The item was on the inside of the front page and gave only the bare facts of the
story. Yet there was one difference, a difference that began with the headline:
SECOND BROTHER SLAIN IN TWO WEEKS
Pete Alvarez had been shot to death by a deputy sheriff while attempting to escape
arrest for stealing cattle.
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There was one more thing. The final paragraph stated: The brothers are survived by
a third, Pio Alvarez, of the same address. It added the fact that Pio Alvarez had
recently been released from prison.
Pio? Pio Alvarez? Sergeant Pio Alvarez?
Unknowingly, then, I had given Riley false information. It was true that I knew nothing
of Manuel Alvarez, but I knew a great deal about Pio.
We had served in the same battalion in Korea, where Pio had been court-martialed
three times, suffered company punishment too many times to remember, but had proved
a first-class fighting man. We had been wounded within hours of each other, been
captured at the same time, and together we had escaped. We had fought together in
Korea, and having watched him operate, I was glad of it.
Two-thirds of the blood in his veins, he told me proudly, was Apache. One-third was
Spanish-Yaqui, from Sonora.
By blood and inclination he knew only one way to fight, and he fought to win. During
the long trek of our escape he had chances to fight, and we survived. With any man
other than Pio I might not have made it.
My first thought on seeing that article was to reach for a dime and call him. My
second was simply to forget it.
Pio and I had fought side by side. We had slept in the rain, hiked through the snow,
hunted cover and warmth like wild animals; but that was past, and we lived now in
another world. Pio had always been a troublemaker and I had no reason to believe
he had changed. The chances were good that Manuel, hearing that I was in town and