"Keith Laumer - The Monitors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Laumer Keith)

screens and a trapezoidal door. He took the steps in a wobbly jump, banged a fist through the
rotted wire, raked the hook free from its eyelet and was inside, sniffing a sour odor of decayed
wood and imperfectly preserved pears. The door to the interior looked solid; he tried the knob,
and it opened. The inside hall was dark, papered in a puce and pale green pattern that was almost
invisible under the grease layer. There was a door at the far end under a fanl ight that shed a glow
like a sunken ship on a strip of worn carpet that hadn't been pretty even when it still had its hair.
Just as he reached the big brass knob, a door banged open on his left and a bald- domed
gentleman in galluses and armbands flapped a newspaper at him.
"Don't ask," he barked with a rasp like Edison's original recording. "Told you fellers fifty times if
I told you once -- no use coming around before five pee emm, 'cause she ain't in! And if I hear
any more o' that unchristian screeching and hollering you fellers call singing, I'm telephoning
Sheriff Hoskins quicker'n Ned Spratt got religion!"
"I'm with you, pop," Blondel reassured him. "I just came to tell you there's a couple of young
fellows on the way over to serenade her with steel guitars. They said you were scared to call
Hoskins. Said you were picking up KGAS in Peoria on your upper plate. Said you had women in
your room, and kept a bottle hidden under the slipcover on the divan. Watch out for 'em. They're
tricked out fit to kill in a couple of dandelion- yellow zoot suits, and I'll tell you one more thing,"
Blondel leaned close enough to get a whiff of Sen- Sen, "they been drinking!"
Blondel got the door open and was out on the sidewalk before his new acquaintance had
recovered enough breath to yell "Whippersnapper." There were a few people in sight, looking
ordinary enough to be secret agents. Blondel set off at a brisk walk, got as far as the Rexall on
the corner before a squad car pulled into sight a block down. He ducked back, heard loud voices,
saw a small crowd gathering in front of the house from which he had come. The front door was
open, and two tall men in yellow appeared to be having an altercation of some sort with an elderly
gentleman wielding a folded newspaper.
There was a neat flush-panel door set in the imitation stone wall beside Blondel bearing a
polished brass panel with names on it. He palmed it open, was in an asbestos tile and
plasterboard hall with a menu- board directory of room numbers and names. Tan- carpeted stairs
led up. He took them three at a time, whirled around a landing, up more stairs, and was looking
out a wide nailed-shut double- hung window at the street below. The squad car was at the curb
with the doors hanging open. Down the block, two Monitors were advancing at a brisk stride
under the stares of the townsfolk. Blondel ran past closed doors to the far end of the hall, found a
dead end, ran back. The sounds of efficient feet were audible now coming up the steps. A door
ahead of Blondel opened and a lean woman with wide bony hips stepped out, dragging a lad in a
shirt with horizontal stripes -- probably a hint of things to come, Blondel judged from the kick the
tot swung at his ankle as he slid past into an odor of iodoform and closed the door with his hip.
The room was ten feet by twenty. There was a row of hard chairs along one wall, a table with
magazines with torn covers, a desk decorated by a wilted rosebud, a couple of ashtrays on
stands, a clothes tree bearing a coat and hat. Framed diplomas from a dental college made out to
"Rodney H. Maxwell" hung on the pale green wall behind the desk. There was also an inner door,
closed and - - he tried it - - locked. In the hall a shrill female voice seemed to be objecting to
something. The feet sounded closer.
Blondel snatched the hat from the rack, slapped it on the back of his head; he tore a strip from
an issue of Time, with a picture of a ball player who had been dead for three years, wadded it and
jammed it into his right cheek; it made a satisfactory bulge. He dropped into the chair and got a
magazine open just as the door swung back.
A clean-cut, young America face gave him an interested look, glanced around the room.
"Sir, have you seen anyone enter this room during the last minute or two?" His voice was of
the type favored by soap manufacturers.
Blondel gave him a look like a seasick tourist turning down a pork chop.