"Laird Long - Negative Identification" - читать интересную книгу автора (Long Laird)

"No."

"Was Mr. DeWheeler's life insured?"

"No."

My pipe went out with my ideas. "Are you watching the DeWheeler homestead?"

"Yes."

"Any luck?"

"Sure. The boys are getting fresh-baked muffins and cookies every morning. Gained ten pounds."

I left Janner to stew in his own sweaty juices. I actually had other work to take care of.

A week later, the cops pulled the plug on the DeWheeler surveillance, and the unidentified body was planted in the city cemetery. He had a number, but no name. The police had a case file, but no case.

I had some time on my hands, so I decided to take a late-night jaunt in the country via the DeWheeler place. I got there about ten p.m.. The homestead was a two-story brick house built in the middle of a large dirt field. A small wooden barn stood near the house. I had to park my jalopy on the highway two miles away and leg it through the muddy ditches to keep from being spotted.

When I finally reached the joint, I crept up to the lit kitchen window and peered inside. It was the kitchen all right. Mrs. DeWheeler was preparing a snack of crackers and cheese. There was enough to cheese to build a second moon. She set the vittles on a tray, picked it up, and rolled out of the room.

It was a cold night, and the wind took pleasure in slapping my face with an icy hand. The moon was shining down on me with a cool smile on its pockmarked kisser. I hadn't come all this way and ruined a ten-dollar suit, just to go back empty-handed. I quietly pulled the old cow and horse out of the barn and then watched as they waddled a safe distance into the barren field. Then I set fire to the barn.

The wooden building, packed with dry firewood and hay, exploded in flames like the Hindenburg. The inferno soon lit up the night and the house. Just as I had hoped, a man came running out of the house, made a beeline for the water pump, and started filling a bucket. Mrs. DeWheeler, a shawl coiled around her linebacker shoulders, huddled in the doorway watching the barn-burning.

I yelled at the man's back: "Jan DeWheeler!"

The old coot kept pumping the water. He didn't even turn around. So much for that theory. Mrs. DeWheeler, however, responded to my shout - she charged me like an enraged sow. I ran towards the geezer with the bucket of water, praying that my geometry was kosher and I'd reach him before Granny DeWheeler tore a chunk out of my leg.

I did.

I spun the old guy around, then slipped behind him and wrapped my arm around his neck. He became a human shield. I pulled out my .38 and showed it to the charging DeWheeler. Flames flickered off the nickel-plated barrel. That was good enough to slow Mrs. DeWheeler to a trot. She dug in her heels six feet from me and the old timer and snorted.

"What about Myrtle and Rosie?" the old guy squawked from under my arm.

I had started to worry about Mrs. DeWheeler's sisters, when I remembered the cow and the horse.

"I let them loose in the field," I said.

"Eh?"

"I let them loose in the field!"

"Eh?"

"I let them loose in the field!!!" I screamed.

"Oh," the old guy said. I felt his skinny body relax. "Good."