"Michael Moorcock - The Affair of the Bassin Les Hivers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

former warehouses. Rue Mendoza was no different from scores of similar
alleys, save that a pale blue STP van stood outside one of its entrances,
the red light on its roof turning with slow, almost voluptuous arcs while
uniformed officers questioned the inhabitants of the great warren which had
once housed grain and now was the residence of publicity directors,
television producers and miscellaneous media people, all of whom were
demanding to know why they could not go about their business.

Behind him on the canal, Lapointe could see a faint mist rising from
the water and he heard a dozen radios and Vs, all tuned to the morning
news programmes. So far, at least, the press had not yet got hold of this
story. He stubbed out his cigar against a masonry-clad wall and put it back
in his case, following the uniformed man into the house. He told Le Bec to
remain outside for a minute and question the angry residents as to their
whereabouts and so on before following him upstairs. There were no
elevators in this particular building and Lapointe was forced to climb several
storeys until at last he came to a landing where a pale-faced young man,
still in his pyjamas covered by a blue check dressing gown, stood with his
back to the green and cream wall smoking a long, thin Nat Sherman
cigarette, one of the white Virginia variety. He transferred the cigarette from
right to left and shook hands with Lapointe as he introduced himself.

тАЬBonjour, MтАЩsieu. I am S├йbastien Gris.тАЭ

тАЬCommissaire Lapointe of the S├╗ret├й. WhatтАЩs all this about a fancy
dress party and a dead girl?тАЭ
 Gris opened his mouth, but there was no air in his lungs. His thin
features trembled and his pale blue eyes filled with helpless fury. He could
not speak. He drew a deep breath. тАЬMonsieur, I telephoned the moment I
found her. I have touched nothing, I promise.тАЭ

Lapointe grunted. He looked down at a pretty blonde girl, her fair skin
faintly pockmarked, who lay sprawled in the manтАЩs hallway, a meter or so
from the entrance to his tiny kitchen filling with steam from a forgotten
kettle. Lapointe stepped over the body and went to turn off the gas. Slowly,
the steam dissipated. He took a large paisley handkerchief from his pocket
and mopped at his head and neck. He sighed. тАЬNo name? No identity? No
papers of any kind?тАЭ

The uniformed man confirmed this. тАЬJust what you see, Monsieur le
Commissaire.тАЭ

Lapointe leaned and touched her face. He took something on his
finger and inspected it carefully. тАЬArsenic powder,тАЭ he said. тАЬAnd almost
certainly cochineal for rouge.тАЭ He was growing depressed. тАЬIтАЩve only seen
this once before.тАЭ He recognised the work on her dress. It was authentic.
Though unusually beautiful for the period and with an unblemished skin, she
was as certainly an inhabitant of the early 19th century as he was of the 21st
and, as sure as he was alive, she was dead, murdered by a neat cut across
her throat. тАЬA true beauty and no doubt famous in her age. Murdered and