"The Sphinx" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

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him and smiled. Without a word, the chauffeur left her side and went down the steps to collect his car, a glossy black Fleetwood limousine with a coaching lamp on the roof. He climbed into it, and waited at the curb with the motor idlingЧnot once looking their way, but as watchful and protective as a fierce dog.
Lorie tied a long red velvet cape around her shoulders and brushed back her hair with her hand. "I think my chauffeur's nervous," she grinned. "Mother told him to keep an eye on. me, and he doesn't like to let me out of his sight."
Gene took Lorie's hand. "Is he always as cagey as that?" he asked her. "I get the feeling that if I nibbled your ear, he'd be out of that car and beating me into a pulp before I could say 'goodbye, Capitol Hill.' "
Lorie laughed. "He's very good at his job. Mother says he's the most conscientious servant she's had for years. He's an expert in kravmaga."
"Kravmaga? What the hell's that?"
"It's a kind of self-defense thing, like kung-fu. I think the Israelis invented it. You totally dedicate yourself to the destruction of your opponent by whatever means possible."
Gene raised his eyebrows. "It sounds like a slightly less hypocritical version of politics."
They stood on the rainy sidewalk waiting for Gene's car to come around from the car park. A footman in yellow livery shuffled around beside them, surreptitiously smoking a cigarette. A few hundred yards away, across the grass, the illuminated spire of the Washington Monument rose like a spectral tombstone in the damp evening air. A siren warbled somewhere over on, M Street.
"You mustn't blame Mathieu for doing his job," Lorie said.
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"Mathieu? That's your chauffeur?"
"He's mute, you know. He can't speak a word. He Worked for the French secret service in Algeria, and the rebels rugged out all his fingernails and cut out his tongue."
"You're kidding."
"No, it's true."
Gene turned his head and looked for a long and thoughtful moment at the Hack Cadillac, still idling quietly by the curb nearby. In the driving mirror he could see Mathieu's eyes, hard and watchful, as if they were floating by themselves in the air.
"A thing like thatЧit must make a guy kind of edgy."
Lorie nodded. "I suppose so. Is this your car?"
Gene's white New Yorker was pulled up to the curb, and the footman opened the doors for them. Gene pressed a dollar into the discreetly placed palms of both footman and carhop and then settled himself down behind the steering wheel.
"Do you want to direct me?" he asked Lorie.
Lorie shook her head. "Mathieu will drive on ahead. All you have to do is follow him."
"No detours?"
"Not unless you want him chasing after us. And I can assure you, he won't let us get away."
Gene pulled away from the curb, traffic signals flash-ing. "Doesn't that ever bother you? Being kept on a tight rein like that? You're a grown-up girl now."
She released the catch of her cape and let it fall back from her shoulders. In the flickering light of passing streetlamps, he could see the shine on her lips, the intense green sparkle of her emerald choker, and the sheen of silk on her breasts. Inside the car, that musky perfume of hers seemed even stronger, and for a girl
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who professed to be so quiet and so moral it seemed peculiarly rampant and aggressive. For some reason it reminded him of an animal in heat
"I suppose you find us strange," said" Lorie huskily. "But you must remember that we're not Americans. This is not our country. That's why we stay close together and guard each other. Apart from that..."
"Apart from that, what?"
She lowered her eyes. "Well, we're different, I suppose. And when you're different, you tend to keep your own company."
Ahead of them, the red taillights of Mathieu's limousine turned left, and Gene followed. It was starting to rain again, and a few drops spattered the windshield. Gene switched on the wipers.
"Can I ask you something?" he said to Lorie.
She nodded. "As long as it's not too personal."
"Well, I guess it is kind of personal, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to but it's the sort of question that a guy always thinks about when he meets a girl as beautiful as you."
"You're flattering me again."
"Damn it, I'm paying you a compliment! Don't people ever pay you compliments? Hasn't a man ever said that to you before?"
She shook her head.
"Anyway," he said, "that was my question. I wanted to know if you had a steady boyfriend. Anyone in tow. I wanted to know if you were tied up with someone, some man, or whether you were free."
Lorie looked away. "Does it matter?" she said.
Gene shrugged. "Well, I don't know. It matters to some girls. If they're going steady with someone, they won't contemplate the possibility of anyone else.
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There's still some loyalty left in the world, although you wouldn't believe it."
She said nothing for a long while, and even when Gene glanced across at her, she didn't turn or smile.
Eventually, as they were driving past the Watergate, she said softly, "There aren't any men. None at all."'
"None?" he said, Surprised. "Not even an aged admirer who pesters you with dinner invitations and buys you emerald chokers?"
She touched the jewels around her neck. "Nobody bought this. It's a family heirloom. And no, there are no old admirers. Not even any young admirers."
The way she said that made him frown at her in disbelief.
"Are you saying you haven't any boyfriends at all?1"
"Not only now, Gene, but never."
He looked ahead at the road, and the glowing rear lights of Mathieu's limousine. He found it completely incredible that a girl with Lorie's looks and figure, should never have dated a boy. He guessed her age at nineteen or twenty, and most Washington groupies by that age had lain on their backs for half, a government department, as well as a minor galaxy of congressmen, and senators. He knew she wasn't a groupie, but even the nicest girl from the nicest family gets to date one boy, even if he's only a carefully selected Harvard frat-tie.