"A. E. Merritt - Creep, Shadow!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Merritt A. E)

for the worms, grotesquely embellished by the undertaker's cosmetic arts. Sunken eyes that never more
will dwell upon the beauty of the clouds, the sea, the forest. Ears shut forever, and all the memories of life
rotting away within the decaying brain. Painted and powdered symbol of life's futility. I want to remember
friends as they were alive, alert, capable, eager. The coffin picture superimposes itself, and I lose my
friends. The animals order things much better, to my way of thinking. They hide themselves and die. Bill
knew how I felt, so I said:

"You'll not see me there." To shut off any discussion, I asked:

"Had any nibble at your witch bait?"

"Yes and no. Not the real strike I'm hoping for, but attention from unexpected quarters. Dick's lawyers
called me up after I'd left you and asked what he had told me about those cash withdrawals. They said
they'd been trying to find out what he had done with the money, but couldn't. They wouldn't believe me,
of course, when I said I knew absolutely nothing; that I had only vague suspicions and had tried a shot in
the dark. I don't blame them. Stanton's executor called me up this morning to ask the same thing. Said
Stanton had drawn substantial amounts of cash just before he died, and they hadn't been able to trace it."

I whistled:

"That's queer. How about Calhoun and Marston? If they did the same, it'll begin to smell damned fishy."

"I'm trying to find out," he said. "Good-by--"

"Wait a minute, Bill," I said. "I'm a good waiter, and all of that. But I'm getting mighty curious. When do I
see you, and what do you want me to do in the meantime?"
When he answered his voice was as grave as I'd ever heard it.

"Alan, sit tight until I can lay the cards before you. I don't want to say more now, but trust me, there's a
good reason. I'll tell you one thing, though. That interview of yours is another hook--and I'm not sure it
isn't baited even better than mine."

That was on Tuesday. Obviously, I was puzzled and curious to a degree. So much so that if it had been
anybody but Bill who had sat me down in my little corner chair and told me to be quiet, I would have
been exceedingly angry. But Bill knew what he was about--I was sure of that. So I stayed put.

On Wednesday, Dick was buried. I went over my notes and started the first chapter of my book on
Moroccan sorceries. Thursday night, Bill called up.

"There's a small dinner party at Dr. Lowell's tomorrow night," he said. "A Dr. de Keradel and his
daughter. I want you to come. I'll promise you'll be interested."

De Keradel? The name had a familiar sound. "Who is he?" I asked.

"Rene de Keradel, the French psychiatrist. You must have read some of his--"

"Yes, of course," I interrupted. "He took up some of Charcot's hypnotic experiments at the Salpetriere,
didn't he? Carried them on from the point where Charcot had stopped. Left the Salpetriere under a cloud
some years ago. Subjects died, or he was too unorthodox in his conclusions, or something?"