"Michael Moorcock - Seaton Begg - The Case of the Nazi Canary" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

has adopted another name. Margarita Sarfati remains Mussolini's most trusted art advisor, and the Nazis berate the
Duce for keeping a Jewish mistress with decadent modernist tastes. Roosevelt is proclaimed the new Mussolini by
some American papers and the new Stalin by the Hearst press, who are supporting Hitler. And Marion Davies,
Hearst's longtime mistress, is secretly keeping a liason with Max Peters, the Jewish cowboy star who is such a close
friend of Mussolini. Ah, the intrigues of the powerful. . . . The Raubal murder case has proved meat and drink for the
left-wing press. They are thirsty for any sign of Hitler's downfall, it seems. But the public still expects evidence if it's
going to change its loyalties now!"
Taffy hated gossip. Deprived of his Times, he contented himself with the Frankfurter Allgemeine's crossword
puzzle, which he found surprisingly straightforward.
The wind and rain thudded hard against the huge airship's canopy as she swayed at anchor between forward and
stern masts. In spite of the stirring waltz tunes coming over the Tannoy, there was still an air of adventure about
boarding an airship, especially in bad weather when you realized how much you were at the mercy of elemental nature.
Outside the windows, Moss Side Field was obscured by mist and even Manchester's famous chimneys were hardly
visible, wrapped, as they were, in cloaks of their own making. Begg had been pleased to see the smoke.
"Those chimneys are alive, Taffy," he had said upon boarding. "And a live chimney means a living wage for those
poor devils in the factory towns."
Since Begg needed to make notes, they had ordered cabin service. At seven PM sharp, as the lights of London
faded on their starboard bow and they saw below the faint white flecks of waves, there came a discreet knock on their
door. At Begg's command, a short, jolly, red-faced waiter entered their little sitting room. They had already decided on
their menu and the efficient waiter soon converted a writing table to a dining table and laid it with a bright, white cloth.
He then proceeded to bring the first courses, which, while of the heavy German type, were eaten by the pair with
considerable zest. A good white wine helped the meal down.
The signs of dining magically removed, Taffy took up a light novel and read for an hour while Begg continued to
make notes and refer to the newspapers. Eventually, the pathologist could stay awake no longer and, with a yawning
"Good night, old man," decided to turn in. He took the sleeping cubicle to the left of the main room. He knew from
experience not to compete with Seaton Begg, who needed at most five hours' sleep in twenty-four.
Indeed, when Sinclair rose to use the well-designed hidden amenities, it seemed Begg had done no more than
change into his pajamas while retaining his place and posture from the previous night.
Only the scenery below had changed. They had crossed the North Sea and were now making their way above the
neat fields of the German lowlands. In another two hours they would berth in Munich, the Spirit's home port.
Meanwhile there was a full English breakfast to consume and wash down with what, even Sinclair admitted, was a
passable cup of Assam.
Munich Aerodrome had the very latest in winching masts. Disembarking from the fully grounded zeppelin, Begg
and Sinclair descended the ship's staircase. They were greeted at the bottom by a tall, rather cadaverous individual in a
poorly fitting Norfolk jacket of chocolate brown, two swastika armbands in the German colors of black, red, and white,
rather baggy riding breeches, and highly polished polo boots. He offered them a Quo Vadis Roman salute, made
famous in the popular film drama, then immediately began to pump Begg's hand.
"This is such an honor, Sir Seaton. I have read about you so much. I myself have a natural affinity with the British
aristocracy. I so admire your Prince of Wales. The best of English and German blood breed fine specimens of
humanity, eh?" Then his affable manner turned abruptly anxious. "Might I know your eating habits?"
Begg, as Sinclair could tell, was a little taken aback by Herr Hess's intensity.
"Eating habits?"
"I ask because of lunch," Hess confided.
Begg gave every appearance of insouciance as he replied. "A plate of weissw├╝rst and a pint or two of your
marvelous beer will suit us down to the ground, old chap."
Hess frowned. "Both Alf"тАФhe coughed, anxious to let the investigators know he was on such intimate terms with
HitlerтАФ"I mean Herr Hitler and myself are convinced vegans. We are firmly opposed to the cruel treatment of animals
and understand the dangers to health involved in eating their slaughtered meat." He shuddered. "Adolf Hitler is a man
of considerable feeling. He would not harm a fly, let alone another human being. I hope you don't judge us all by Berlin
decadence or aggression, which is largely a foreign and alien invention, anyway."