"McCammon, Robert R. - The Wolf's Hour" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

One second passed. Two. Michael tensed, ready to whirl around.
The knifeТs pressure against his spine was gone.
He heard the thief running, back along the alley toward its other entrance on the Rue de la Chine. His first thought was to let the man go, but an idea sparked in his mind and grew incandescent. He turned and ran after the thief; the man was fast, but not fast enough. Before the thief could get to the Rue de la Chine, Michael reached out, grabbed the tall of his flagging, dirty overcoat and almost yanked him out of his shoes. The manЧall five feet two inches of himЧspun around with a muffled curse and swung the knife without aiming. The edge of MichaelТs hand cracked against his wrist, knocking the blade out of his spasming fingers. Then he picked the little man up and slammed him against the gray brick wall.
The thiefТs eyes bulged, pale blue under a mop of dirty brown hair. Michael held his collar and clamped a hand over the manТs mouth and grizzled chin. УSilence,Ф he whispered. Off in the alley somewhere, a cat screeched and ran for cover. УDonТt struggle,Ф Michael said, still speaking German. УYouТre not going anywhere. I want to ask you some questions, and I want to hear the truth from you. Do you understand?Ф
The thief, terrified and shivering, nodded.
УAll right, IТm going to take my hand away from your mouth. You shout once, and IТll break your neck.Ф He shook the man hard, for emphasis, then dropped the hand away. The thief made a soft moaning sound. УYouТre German?Ф Michael asked. The thief nodded. УA deserter?Ф A pause; then a nod. УHow long have you been in Paris?Ф
УSix months. PleaseЕ please let me go. I didnТt stick you, did I?Ф
HeТd been able to hide in Paris, surrounded by Germans, for six months. A good sign, Michael thought. УDonТt whine. What else do you do besides try to stick people? You steal bread from markets, maybe a few pieces of fruit here and there, a pie or two off a shelf?Ф
УYes, yes. All that. PleaseЕ IТm no good as a soldier. IТve got weak nerves. Please, just let me go. All right?Ф
УNo. Do you pick pockets?Ф
УSome. When I have to.Ф The thiefТs eyes narrowed. УWait. Who are you? Not military police. WhatТs your game, huh?Ф
Michael ignored him. УAre you any good at picking pockets?Ф
The thief grinned, a false show of toughness. Under his grizzle and all that street grime, he was perhaps in his mid to late forties. The Germans were indeed scraping the bottom of the barrel for soldiers. УIТm still alive, arenТt I? Now who the hell are you?Ф His eyes glittered with a thought. УAh! Of course. The underground, yes?Ф
УIТll ask the questions. Are you a Nazi?Ф
The man laughed harshly. He spat a wad of phlegm onto the alley stones. УAre you a corpse fucker?Ф
Michael gave a faint smile. Maybe he and the thief werenТt on the same side, but they shared sentiments. He lowered the man to his feet, but kept his hand clenched in the grimy collar. Up at the Rue de la Chine side of the alley, Gaby turned in on her bicycle. УHey!Ф she whispered urgently. УWhatТs wrong?Ф
УIТve met someone,Ф Michael said, Уwho may be useful to us.Ф
УMe? Useful to the underground? Ha!Ф The little man pushed at MichaelТs hand, and Michael unclenched his fingers. УYou two can rot in hell, for all I care!Ф
УIf I were you, IТd keep my voice down.Ф Michael motioned back toward the Rue Tobas. УA Gestapo man is standing across the street over there. There might be a whole nest of them in that building. I donТt think youТd want their attention, would you?Ф
УNeither would you!Ф the man retorted. УSo where does that leave us?Ф
УI have a job for a pickpocket,Ф Michael said.
УWhat?Ф Gaby had gotten off her bicycle. УWhat are you talking about?Ф
УI need some nimble fingers,Ф Michael went on. He stared forcefully at the thief. УNot to pick a pocket, but to put something into a pocket.Ф
УYouТre crazy!Ф the thief said, with a sneer that made his ugly, heavy-browed face even uglier. УMaybe I ought to call for the Gestapo myself, and be done with you!Ф
УBe my guest,Ф Michael offered.
The thief scowled, looked from Michael to Gaby and back again. His shoulders slumped. УOh, to hell with it,Ф he said.
УWhenТs the last time you ate?Ф
УI donТt know. Yesterday, I guess. Why? Are you serving up beer and sausages?Ф
УNo. Onion soup.Ф Michael heard Gaby gasp as she realized what he was about to propose. УAre you on foot?Ф
УMy bikeТs around the corner.Ф He motioned with a thumb toward the Rue de la Chine. УI work the alleys around here.Ф
УYouТre going to take a trip with us. WeТll be riding on either side of you, and if you call to a soldier or otherwise make any difficulties weТll kill you.Ф
УWhy should I go anywhere with you? YouТll probably kill me anyway.Ф
УMaybe we will,Ф Michael said, Уand maybe we wonТt. But at least youТll die with some food in your belly. BesidesЕ we might be able to work out a financial arrangement.Ф He saw the interest flare in the manТs sunken eyes, and he knew heТd tripped the right switch. УWhatТs your name?Ф
The thief paused, still wary. He looked up and down the alley, as if fearful of being overheard. Then: УMausenfeld. Arno Mausenfeld. Ex-field kitchen cook.Ф
Maus, Michael thought. The German word forЕ УIТll call you Mouse,Ф he decided. УLetТs get on our way before curfew.Ф


5

Enraged, Camille no longer resembled a sweet, elderly lady. Her eyes glinted with red, and her face was inflamed from the roots of her snowy hair to the point of her chin. УBringing a German to my home!Ф she shrieked, in the throes of a fit. УIТll have you executed as a traitor for this!Ф She glared at Michael, and looked at Arno Mausenfeld as if he were something that sheТd just scraped off the sole of her shoe. УYou! Get out! IТm not running a shelter for Nazi bums!Ф
УMadam, IТm not a Nazi,Ф Mouse replied, with stern dignity. He drew himself up as tall as he could, but he was still three inches shorter than Camille. УNeither am I a bum.Ф
УGet out! Get out before IЧФ Camille whirled away, ran to a dresser, and opened it. Her hand came out with an old, heavy Lebel revolver. УIТll blow your dirty brains out!Ф she hollered, all her Gallic graciousness gone, and she aimed the pistol at MouseТs head.
Michael caught her wrist, tilted the pistol up, and scooped it from her grip. УNone of that, now,Ф he scolded. УYouТll blow your own hand off with this antique.Ф
УYou deliberately brought this Nazi to my home!Ф Camille raged, showing her teeth. УYouТve compromised our security! Why?Ф
УBecause he can help me do my job,Ф Michael told her. Mouse wandered into the kitchen, his clothes even more wretched and filthy in the light. УI need someone to get a message to the man IТm after. It needs to be done fast, without attracting a lot of attention. I need a pickpocketЧand there he is.Ф He nodded toward the German.
УYouТre out of your mind!Ф Camille said. УUtterly insane! Oh my God, IТve got a madman under my roof!Ф
УI am not!Ф Mouse replied. He stared at Camille, his heavily lined face dark with dirt. УThe doctors said I definitely am not a madman.Ф He picked up the soup-pot lid and inhaled. УNice,Ф he said. УBut bland. If you have paprika, I could spice it up for you.Ф
УDoctors?Ф Gaby asked, frowning. УWhat doctors?Ф
УThe doctors at the nuthouse,Ф Mouse went on. He pushed his hair out of his eyes with dirty fingers and then dipped those same fingers into the pot. He took a taste of onion soup. УOh, yes,Ф he said. УThis could use some paprika. Possibly a touch of garlic, too.Ф
УWhat nuthouse?Ф CamilleТs voice was shrill, and it quavered like an out-of-tune flute.