"George Langelaan - The Fly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Langelaan George)

normal state when I recognize the voice at the other end and when I know what is
wanted of me.
This effort at dominating a purely animal reaction and fear had become so effective
that when my sister-in-law called me at two in the morning, asking me to come over,
but first to warn the police that she had just killed my brother, I quietly asked her
how and why she had killed Andre.
"But, Francois! I can't explain all that over the telephone. Please call the police and
come quickly."
"Maybe I had better see you first, Helene?"
"No, you'd better call the police first; otherwise they will start asking you all sorts of
awkward questions. They'll have enough trouble as it is to believe that I did it alone...
And, by the way, I suppose you ought to tell them that Andre ... Andre's body, is
down at the factory. They may want to go there first."
"Did you say that Andre is at the factory?"
"Yes ... under the steam-hammer."
"Under the what!"
"The steam-hammer! But don't ask so many questions. Please come quickly
Francois! Please understand that I'm afraid ... that my nerves won't stand it much
longer!"
Have you ever tried to explain to a sleepy police officer that your sister-in-law has
just phoned to say that she has killed your brother with a steam-hammer? I repeated
my explanation, but he would not let me.
"Oui, monsieur, oui,I bear ... but who are you? What is your name? Where do you
live? I said, where do you live!"
It was then that Commissaire Charas took over the line and the whole business. He
at least seemed to understand everything. Would I wait for him? Yes, he would pick
me up and take me over to my brother's house. When? In five or ten minutes.
I had just managed to pull on my trousers, wriggle into a sweater and grab a hat and
coat, when a black Citroen, headlights blazing, pulled up at the door.
"I assume you have a night watchman at your factory, Monsieur Delarnbre. Has he
called you?" asked Commissaire Charas, letting in the clutch as I sat down beside
him and slammed the door of the car.
"No, he hasn't. Though of course my brother could have entered the factory through
his laboratory where he often works late at night ... all night sometimes."
"Is Professor Delambre's work connected with your business?"
"No, my brother is, or was, doing research work for the Ministere de l'Air. As he
wanted to be away from Paris and yet within reach of where skilled workmen could
fix up or make gadgets big and small for his experiments, I offered him one of the
old workshops of the factory and he came to live in the first house built by our
grandfather on the top of the hill at the back of the factory."
"Yes, I see. Did he talk about his work? What sort of research work?"
"He rarely talked about it, you know; I suppose the Air Ministry could tell you. I
only know that be was about to carry out a number of experiments he had been
preparing for some months, something to do with the disintegration of matter, he
told me."
Barely slowing down, the Commissaire swung the car off the road, slid it through the
open factory gate and pulled up sharp by a policeman apparently expecting him.
I did not need to hear the policeman's confirmation. I knew now that my brother was
dead, it seemed that I had been told years ago. Shaking like a leaf, I scrambled out
after the Commissaire.