"Jeffrey Lord - Blade 07 - Pearl of Patmos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lord Jeffery)

"When they quarrel," J was saying, "or get too bored with each other, Lady Diana simply takes off
without any explanation. The boredom, I should imagine, is mostly on her side. She takes her checkbook
and a suitcase or two and just goes. Sooner or later she always turns upтАФinNew York , Hong King,
Tangier, the south ofFrance . It is said," and J chuckled, "that the lady has a whim of iron."
They were nearing theTowerofLondon . Blade, listening to J with one ear, sought to reconstruct a
picture of Sir David Throckmorton-Pell in his mind. Pictures of the judge, 'The Rope,' did not appear in
the public prints as often as did those of his wife, but Blade had seen them. He scowled as the image
formed in his mind. Sir David, peruked and black-gowned, his white bands glistening in contrast to the
dark and feral face, the parrot nose and thin lips, the small eyes not quite wide-set enough. A perfect
picture of a hanging judge. The Rope. The old bastard, Blade thought with what he acknowledged was
irrational anger, must be seventy. Or very near.
As the taxi stopped near the ancient Tower, another picture flashed into Blade's mind. He was in the
dock and Sir David on the bench. The Old Bailey was crowded and they all knew. Sir David knew. He
was putting the black kerchief on his periwig as he prepared to announce sentence.
"You, Richard Blade, sometimes using the nom de plume of Hercules, have been tried and found
guilty of the crime of concupiscence toward the Lady Diana. You have, further, known the lady carnally
and in so doing have defiled the coastal waters of Her Majesty. For this heinous crime I sentence you to
hang by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead."
Blade laughed. J was watching him with a puzzled expression. "What is it Richard? We're here, you
know."
"Nothing," said Blade. "Nothing at all, sir. I just thought of something ridiculous."
J paid the cabby. "I wishIcould think of something plausible to tell Lord L. He won't believe traffic.
He only leaves his labs once or twice a year, and then he goes in a limousine to see the Prime Minister."
"I'm sure he will forgive us, sir. Here comes our escort."
The burly Special Branch men who met and escorted them around to the site of the old Watergate
were new to Blade. J saw to that. These men were outsiders, on the fringe of things, never allowed in the
sanctum newly carved from the rock far below the Tower. They served for one tour only and were
forever after bound by the Official Secrets Act.
J and Blade followed the men down a long tunnel, through the now-familiar maze of sub-basements
to a bronze elevator door. One of the Special Branch men pressed a button and they waited. A hydraulic
sighing began in the shaft.
One of the guards, a beaky nosed man with shoulders nearly as wide as Blade's, eyed J and said,
"His Lordship has called up several times, sir. Inquiring for you. Seemed to think you had gotten lost in
the Tower somehow."
J acknowledged this with a nod and a grunt. A moment later the car arrived. J stepped into it with
Blade. He was now permitted to accompany Blade as far as the master computer room, a privilege that
had not been easily won. Lord Leighton was a tyrant in his own domain. There were those, in fact, who
considered the old boffin a tyrant in any domain.
There were no controls in the car. As some signal was given from below it began to dive, down and
down, gaining speed. Blade, and J, had both been through this many times and still could not keep their
stomachs in place.
The elevator car seemed to be in free fall. J clung to a handrail, biting fiercely on his pipe, a look of
near panic on his face. Blade laughed. He knew that Lord L himself manipulated the elevator. His
Lordship was having his little jokeтАФand paying them back for being late.
Brakes gripped and held and the car began to slow. It eased to a stop and the bronze door slid
back. Lord Leighton was waiting for them in a well-lighted foyer, barren except for a desk and two
chairs. His Lordship stood, supporting himself at the desk, his polio-racked body encased in a white
gown that hung on him like a shroud. He was a hunchback and as they moved toward him he grimaced
and shifted his position to ease the constant pain in his hump. He glared at them with his yellow lion's eyes
and directed all his venom at J.