"O'Donnell, Peter - Modesty Blaise 12 - Dead man's handle" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'Donnell Peter)

"I've been trying to think." He gazed out across the sea. "It's 'appened once or twice before. With Modesty, too. We upset a few nasty people in The Network days, so it's not surprising if one of 'em fancies 'aving a go now and again."
"Will you tell the police?"
He put a hand on hers to steady the tiller, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Malta's a very religious country, Molly. The Pope's Garden, they call it. But I don't think they'd take kindly to my replay of the David and Goliath bit, do you?"
She tossed her head with a grimace of self-annoyance. "I'm sorry, Willie, I wasn't thinking straight."
"I'm not surprised. It's been a nasty few minutes, even for a girl who 'ad Wei Lu for a grandfather."
She managed a shaky laugh. "He wasn't into the heavy stuff. I've never been shot at before." She gave him a startled glance. "My God, Willie, how did you manage that bikini trick? You must have done it before."
"Not with a bikini." He kept his hand on hers, knowing her question was no more than a way of preventing her mind reliving what she had just experienced. "Normally I use a proper sling," he said lightly, "in case I'm with a girl who won't take 'er bikini off as quick as you. It's surprising 'ow accurate you can be with a sling. I do pretty well on the clay pigeon range Modesty's got at 'er cottage down in Wiltshire. Slings are quite interesting, really. Go on, ask me about slings, Molly."
She managed a strained smile, knowing that he was trying to distract her until the immediacy of the shock had passed. "All right, Willie, tell me about slings."
"Well, they're old. As much as ten thousand years old, and blokes who ought to know reckon they were the first ever long range weapon, even before the bow and arrow. They've found manufactured sling missiles on digs in Iraq going back seven thousand years. Pebbles sheathed in baked clay, some small, some as big as your fist. I've seen a sculptured mural in Nineveh showing Assyrian soldiers going into battle, and the slingers are marching behind the archers, so it looks as if they 'ad a greater range. That was one of Sennacherib's campaigns, around seven 'undred B.C. Would you like to 'ear something funny, Molly?"
She nodded, thankful to feel the tension within her easing a little under the soothing of his conversational manner. "Yes, I would, Willie."
"Well, when you get to the Greeks and Romans, they went in for moulding projectiles of lead, and they often put inscriptions on them. Mostly they just carried the number of the legion, or something like that, but some 'ave been found with words scratched on, like 'A blow from Caesar' or 'Up yours, Pompey'."
A moment of laughter surprised her. They had rounded the point now, and when she looked back the long strip of shore was no longer in sight. Willie pressed her hand and said, "These old sculptures usually show slingers whirling their slings parallel to the body, but I reckon they were the 'eavy artillery, using long slings to drop big missiles on massed infantry two or three 'undred yards away. For accuracy I've found I do best with a shorter sling whirled round over the head at a bit of an angle to the ground. What did I just say?"
She gave a guilty start. "Oh . . . about 'Up yours, Pompey'. Wasn't it?"
"I thought so. You only remember the dirty bits."
She laughed again, gave him the tiller, and moved to sit close to him, slipping her arm through his. "Thank you, Willie. Do you think they might try again?"
"Not for a while. They'll be in shock from seeing their button-man chilled. That might put them off for good. Anyway, don't you worry, Molly."
They were coming into the little bay now, and she studied him as he steered for the slipway, thinking how at ease he seemed now, even after the close encounter with death only minutes ago, compared with the fear he had shown that day nine years before at the prospect of returning to Modesty Blaise empty handed. "Yes, all right, Willie," she said quietly. "I won't worry."
They were to fly home next day, and on this last evening of their holiday he took her to the casino to dine, and dance, and gamble a little before returning to the villa. This stood on the Dingli cliffs only a few miles from Ghar Lapsi, and was owned jointly by Modesty Blaise and Willie Garvin, as were half a dozen other occasional residences around the world. It was also protected by a sophisticated alarm system.
In the big bed, under the soft light of a bedside lamp, Molly Chen lay with her small body sprawled over Willie Garvin, gently moving her fingertips in the hair above his ears, and smiling into his eyes. "It's been a lovely break, Willie," she said. "I've enjoyed it so much."
"Me too, Molly. I don't usually go for skinny little Chinese girls, butЧoooh!" She had cut him short by pinching his ears, and now she lowered her head to give his shoulder a gentle bite before settling down with her head pillowed on his chest.
"I bet I make you take that back before we go to sleep," she said.
He chuckled and lay gently stroking her back, thinking how lucky he was in every possible way, and what a pleasing companion Molly Chen was with her gentle hands, her warm little body, and her slow, unhurried approach to making love. After a while she said, "You're so different, it's hard to believe, Willie. I mean, different from the man who came to my grandfather's office that day, just after he'd been taken into Red China as a prisoner."
"Sure," said Willie, and patted her bottom. "I'm different all right."
She lifted her head to look down at him again, and ran a finger along his lower lip. "You were so scared that day. So scared of Modesty Blaise."
He smiled lazily. "I was scared spitless . . . but not of Modesty. Just scared I was going to blow the job she'd given me."
"But you didn't. And now you're someone else. I'm truly happy for you."
"You're definitely a nice girl, Molly."
"And not skinny?"
He felt her comprehensively and shook his head. "Whoever said that must be an idiot."
"Good. Now let's roll over."
"With me on top? That might not be a good idea. Either you get crushed or I get sore elbows."
She laughed, her dark eyes sparkling, and pulled herself higher on his chest to kiss him deeply. After a while she lifted her head and said, "I didn't just mean roll over, like that. I've thought of something new, and I bet you'll enjoy it."
Much later, lying with his arm about her and her head on his shoulder she said sleepily in the darkness. "You're lovely, Willie. I'm going to miss you so much when the circus moves on and you're not there to throw those axes at me any more."

In one of the guest bedrooms of a rambling cottage near the village of Benildon, Dinah Collier prodded her husband in the ribs with an elbow. Professor Stephen Collier opened one reluctant eye and focused it on his Canadian wife, a girl with honey-coloured hair and gentle, sightless eyes.
With a heavy Middle-European accent he said, "Ze managements of zis establishments iss not permitting of womens to hit der spouses mit der elbows."
"All right, how about this?" She took him by the nose, drew his head towards her, and kissed him.
"Zat iss bedder," he said nasally, "but iss still leafing room for improvement."
"Time to get up, tiger. Modesty said breakfast at nine." She threw back the bed-clothes and sat up. "Half an hour for you to make your interminable toilet."
He reached out to put an arm round her waist from behind, and said, "Modesty runs a relaxed establishment. She wouldn't mind if we didn't appear till noon."
She patted his hand. "You do that, honey. I'm hungry."
He said indignantly, "I'm not lying here alone. I didn't even bring my teddy, did I?"
"So on your feet, buster."
Collier grinned. "I know what it is. You just can't wait to get down there and sample another helping of Danny Chavasse, the world champion wooer."
"Danny's very nice, you said so yourself, but he's not trying to woo me, dopey. He's here with Modesty. And anyway he doesn't broadcast his attraction, you know that. She used him in the old days of The Network for handling women, but he has to switch it on."
"Ha! And suppose he switched it on for you, me proud beauty, would you go all rubbery-kneed and cross-eyed and heaving-bosomed as you threw yourself into his sinewy arms, casting old Collier aside like a worn glove?"
She giggled and twisted round, kneeling now, holding his hand. She wore no nightdress, her body was firm and shapely, and Collier thought with a familiar pang how he wished she could see his eyes and know how much he adored her. She said, "I'm not telling old Collier what might happen to my knees, eyes, and bosom, because I want to keep old Collier on his toes. Come on, get up now."
"Or you could get down?"
"Steve, I don't thinkЧah no, dammit, what kind of wife is that? You want me, here I am."
He laughed and patted her thigh. "Raincheck, sweetheart. Modesty's infinitely tolerant, but I agree with you, we mustn't be inconsiderate guests."