"Lumley, Brian - Necroscope - The Lost Years Volume 2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

'A big secret, is it?' he asked her softly, and heard her sigh of resignation.
But on the other end of the line she was doing some fast thinking.
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'Harry...is a married man," she finally said, 'but separated. He doesn't even know where his wife is. She walked out on him. That was some time ago, years even, but...'
'I see,' lanson said. Tou're still being careful.'
'Inspector,' (now she was pouring it out), 'I thought it might be possible that the man who has been watching my place was a private detective employed by Harry's wife. But believe me, I wasn't trying to throw you a red herring. That's why I didn't tell you about him immediately -- the watcher, I mean. But when you came to my place and mentioned a big dog, and what with Margaret being attacked and all...suddenly it all seemed to connect up.'
'I understand,' lanson said. 'But now tell me: does Harry Keogh have a dog?'
'No, nor even a budgie! But what are you thinking? Please believe me that -- '
' -- I'm trying to believe you, B.J. But no more red herrings, accidental or otherwise, OK?'
'No, of course not. But about last night...was I really followed? By you?'
'By...someone.' he told her. 'But it just happened that I was following him. It was quite accidental, I assure you. No one is investigating you. Well, not the police, anyway.'
'Who, then?' she said. 'I mean, if you were following him...does that mean you know him?'
'No,' he lied (for old McGowan's sake. He'd known him for years and had to give him the benefit of the doubt...for now, anyway). 'But you might be able to help me. I have a picture of our suspect If you can identify him as your watcher, I'm sure I can trace him again, maybe even tie him to the murder at Sma' Auchterbecky.' Then, too, it would be up to McGowan to explain what he was doing watching B.J., her place, and her girls. And doing it since a time before the attack on Margaret Macdowell.
On her end of the line, B J. saw it as another chance to throw a spanner in this Ferenczy scum's works, get him off her back. 'A picture?' she said. 'A photograph? Any time you like, Inspector. Ill be only too pleased to identify him, if I can.'
'Good!' lanson told her. 'Lef s do it now, then. I can be there in half an hour.'
'Very well, 111 be expecting you.'
'And BJ.?'
'Yes?'
'Don't worry. You can be pretty sure that this isn't someone acting on behalf of your Harry's wife.'
No, indeed...
Three of B J.'s girls were there. Along with Bonnie Jean herself, they corroborated what lanson had hoped not to discover, that McGowan -- or someone who looked just like him -- was the watcher who had been plaguing their lives. And he'd been doing it for a very long time, yes. Now lanson must hope it was simply a case of mistaken identity, that the old vet had a double. But quite apart from that, there was this other thing that was weird beyond explanation.
Old Angus's book: the photograph on the dust-jacket. But once again, until all the facts are known, nothing is known...
The publisher was a one-man Edinburgh-based outfit, small potatoes in the vast world of books, that specialized in safaris and travel in remote regions, zoological and ecological topics in general Its offices were in a quiet tree-lined cul-de-sac just outside the city proper towards linlithgow.
It had turned out to be one of those rare bright and invigorating winter mornings when lanson parked his car outside Greentree Publishing Limited, and was seen into the main office -- indeed the only office -- by the head of the firm himself, Jeoffrey Greentree. The Inspector had thought that perhaps the firm had been named for its subjects, and had opened by saying as much. And in fact
'Oh, it has, it has!' Mr Greentree told him, beaming. 'It was sheer good fortune that my name fits the subjects too. Conservation, Inspector. The creatures of the wilds and the woods, and the trees themselves, of course. Green trees, Mother Earth, Gaia! We only use recycled papers, you know? The pages may tend to brown, but the forests stay green. That should be our motto! What can I do for you, sir?'
Beanpole meets bean! lanson thought, but not unkindly. The odd couple!
Jeoffrey Greentree was small and in his sixties, slightly hunched and round-shouldered, soft-voiced and twinkle-eyed. His chin sat forward almost on his chest A bean of a man, yes. But for all that he'd worked with fine print all his life, his eyes were still alert if a little watery. His hair was very thin on top, but his mobile, bushy eyebrows somehow made up for it
And Greentree's office was...something else.
lanson had been in solicitors' offices that were far less cluttered. One entire wall looked like a vertical maze of allegedly 'alphabetically arranged' pigeon-hole shelving. Spilling out of the various compartments were dusty packages of letters, old manuscripts, contracts, proofs...and photographs. lanson was prompted to refer immediately to the reason for his visit
"You can perhaps help me with this,' he said, placing McGowan's
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book on a typically cluttered and dusty desk, and opening it to the back flap that showed old Angus's picture. 'Or if not you yourself, then whoever edited this book for the author, or anyone else who might know something about it It's quite an old book, I know, and it's been in print -- and probably out of print -- for years, but..."
'Sit down, Inspector, please sit," Greentree waved him to a chair (dusty, and covered with page proofs, of course), took up McGowan's book and sat down behind his desk. 'And what have we here? Ah, yes! It's been some time since I happened upon a first edition -- other than my own copy, that is.'
'Definitely a first edition? The whole thing, wrapper and all?'
'Hmm?' Greentree blinked at him questioningly. 'Oh, very definitely, yes. And rare, too! But as I said, I do have my own copy. I keep at least one copy of everything I do. It should be on the shelves there, er, somewhere.1" He waved a hand, and returned to studying the book.
The shelves he referred to covered the wall opposite the maze of documents. lanson stood up, went to them, and tried in vain to locate Angus McGowan's name on the spine of any one of nine hundred to a thousand tides. But
'You might have a little difficulty,' Greentree told him. 'People refer to a book, and eventually return it to the shelves...but rarely in the right place. I gave up long ago. Ah, but that doesn't mean I don't know where they are!'
He joined lanson at the bookshelves. 'But you haven't yet told me, Inspector. Just what is it that interests you in Wild Dogs, Big Cats, anyway?' And with a marksman's aim, almost casually, he reached up a surprisingly long arm, and took a duplicate copy from one of the higher shelves. Blowing dust off it he offered it to lanson.
'Oh, the author's a friend of mine,' the Inspector answered absent-mindedly. 'Angus McGowan, I mean.' He returned to the desk and compared this pristine copy with Strachan's. Condition apart they were identical.
'Indeed? Well, I've only met the man twice myself, though I did speak to him on the phone more frequently. But that was a long time ago. An odd sort of man. I do remember thinking of him, er, that he held his years very well...'
Just why that last statement should hit lanson the way it did wasn't hard to say: it was the very reason he was here. At the same time, however, Mr Greentree might well have produced the answer -- the very ordinary, commonplace answer -- that the Inspector had been seeking to what had become an extraordinary question, if only in his own mind. No mystery here at all, but simply the feet that McGowan 'held his years very well.'
Oh, really? Then why were alarm bells clamouring even now in the back of lanson's mind? "When did you last see him?'