"Mike Resnick - Biebermann's Soul" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"Yes?" said Beibermann, puffing a Turkish cigarette through a
golden holder, and eyeing him suspiciously.
The detective pulled out a worn, tattered soul and held it
up.
"This just turned up in a pawn shop in Jersey," said the
detective. "We have every reason to believe that it might be
yours."
"Let me just step into the bathroom and try it on," said
Beibermann, taking it from him.
Beibermann walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind
him. Then he carefully unfolded the soul, smoothing it out here
and there, and trying not to wince at its sorry condition. He did
not try it on, however -- it was quite dirty and shopworn, and
there was no way to know who had been wearing it. Instead he began
examining it thoroughly, looking for telltale signs -- a crease
here, a worn spot there, most of them left over from his college
days -- and came to the inescapable conclusion that he was,
indeed, holding his own soul.
For a moment his elation knew no bounds. Now, at last, he
could go back to producing works of true Art.
Then he stared at himself in the mirror. He'd have to go back
to living on a budget again, and of course there'd be no more
spare time, for he was a meticulous craftsman when he toiled in
the service of his art. Beibermann frowned. The innocent young
things would seek someone else's autograph, the television hosts
would flock to a new bestseller, and the only literary luncheons
he would attend would be for some _other_ author.
He continued staring at the New Improved Beibermann, admiring
the well-trimmed goatee, the satin ascot, the tweed smoking
jacket, the world-weary gaze from beneath half-lowered eyelids.
Then, sighing deeply, he unlocked the door and walked back to the
foyer.
"I'm sorry," he said as he handed the neatly-folded soul back
to the detective, "but this isn't mine."
"I apologize for taking up the valuable time of a world-
famous man life yourself, sir," said the detective. "I could have
sworn this was it."
Beibermann shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"Well, we'll keep plugging away, sir."
"By all means, officer," said Beibermann. He lowered his voice
confidentially. "I trust that you'll be _very_ discreet, though; it
wouldn't do for certain critics to discover that my soul was
missing." He passed a fifty-dollar bill to the detective.
"I quite understand, sir," said the detective, grabbing the
bill and stuffing it into a pocket of his trenchcoat. "You can
depend on me."
Beibermann smiled a winning smile. "I knew I could, officer."
Then he returned to his office and went back to work.
***
He had been dead and buried for seven years before anyone