"MacLean, Alistair - The Way to Dusty Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

"One question, Dr Chollet. Why is her leg not in traction ?"

"It would seem, Mr. MacAlpine, that you are not a man who is afraid of the truth."

"Why is her leg not in traction?"

Traction is for broken bones, Mr. MacAlpine. Your daughter's left ankle bone, I'm afraid, is not just broken, it is -- how would you say it in English? -- pulverized, yes I think that is the word, pulverized beyond any hope of remedial surgery. What's left of the bone will have to be fused together."

"Meaning that she can never bend her ankle again?" Chollet inclined his head. "A permanent limp? For life?"

"You can have a second opinion, Mr. MacAlpine. The best orthopaedic specialist in Paris. You are entitled--"

"No. That will not be necessary. The truth is obvious, Dr Chollet. One accepts the obvious." "

"I am deeply sorry, Mr. MacAlpine. She is a lovely child. But I am only a surgeon. Miracles? No. No miracles."

"Thank you, Doctor. You are most kind. I'll be back in about say -- two hours?"

"Please not. She will be asleep for at least twelve hours. Perhaps sixteen."

MacAlpine nodded his head in acceptance and left.

Dunnet pushed away his plate with his untouched meal, looked at MacAlpine's plate, similarly untouched, then at the brooding MacAlpine.

He said: "I don't think either of us, James, is as tough as we thought we were."

"Age, Alexis. It overtakes us all."

"Yes. And at very high speed, it would seem." Dunnet pulled his plate towards him, regarded it sorrowfully then pushed it away again.

"Well, I suppose it's a damn sight better than amputation."

There's that. There's that." MacAlpine pushed back his chair. "A walk, I think, Alexis."

"For the appetite? It won't work. Not with me."

"Nor with me. I just thought it might be interesting to see if Jacobson has turned up anything."

The garage was very long, low, heavily skylighted, brilliantly lit with hanging spotlights and, for a garage, was remarkably clean and tidy. Jacobson was at the inner end, stooped over Harlow's wrecked Coronado, when the metal door screeched open. He straightened, acknowledged the presence of Mac Alpine and Dunnet with a wave of his hand, then returned to his examination of the car.

Dunnet closed the door and said quietly: "Where are the other mechanics?"

MacAlpine said: "You should know by this time. Jacobson always works alone on a crash job. A very low opinion of other mechanics, has Jacobson. Says they either overlook evidence or destroy it by clumsiness."

The two men advanced and watched in silence as Jacobson tightened a connection in the hydraulic brake line. They were not alone in watching him. Directly above them, through an open skylight, the powerful lamps in the garage reflected on something metallic. The metallic object was a hand-held eight millimetre camera and the hands that held them were very steady indeed. They were the hands of Johnny Harlow. His face was as impassive as his hands were motionless, intent and still and totally watchful. It was also totally sober.

MacAlpine said: "Well?"

Jacobson straightened and tenderly massaged an obviously aching back.