"Thompson, Jim - Wild Town" - читать интересную книгу автора (Thompson Jim)

You couldn't be sure. . . could you? The room had been dark. They'd hardly exchanged a half-dozen words. And everything had happened so fast, been over and done with in the space of seconds.
Yeah, Bugs thought, there was bound to be some "simple" explanation for the missing money. Just about had to be. Otherwise. . . well, he wouldn't let himself think about that. He preferred to think about Amy Standish, and this new life he was building for himself. And he did.
He turned in early again that morning. He again hung the "Don't Disturb" sign on his door, and left word to the same effect with the telephone operator.
He got another good day's sleep. He had dinner in his room, and by eight o'clock was on his way out of the hotel. Passing the desk, he saw two white oblongs in his key-box. He grinned sourly and went on, leaving them there. . . A pretty stubborn gal, this Joyce Hanlon. Well, let her be. It didn't bother him any.
The school--a combination high and grade--was on the immediate outskirts of town, adjoining the brief blocks of houses which comprised the "old family" section. Bugs idly circled the ancient red-brick structure. Then, since it was stifi well before nine o'clock, he drove back past the austere old houses, looming aloofly in the night like so many box-like fortresses.
Driving as slowly as he could, it took him no more than a couple of minutes. He returned to the school, and parked.
At a minute or so after nine, the double-doors of the school opened and a trickle of people--youngsters and a few adults--came down the walk. A few minutes later, the building lights that had been on went off and Amy came out.
She smiled and squeezed his hand as he helped her into the car. He restarted the motor, asked her where she'd like to go.
"Oh, anywhere. Just so it's not too far. I have to work tomorrow, and I know you don't have much time either."
"Well. Like to turn into town--pick up a couple drinks?"
"No!"--the word came out almost sharply. And then she laughed, with a trace of sadness and apology. "This is a small town, Mac. The people are pretty free and easy about some things, but never their women. And they're the direct opposite of free and easy when it comes to women schoolteachers."
"I see." Bugs yanked the car into gear. "You have to be careful about your reputation."
"Yes," she said evenly. "I have to be careful about my reputation."
They rode over to the highway, to a recently erected drive-in restaurant. After consulting her stiffly, Bugs ordered malted milks and hamburgers. He had no appetite for the repast, but she ate hers to the last bite and swallow. Gaily, making a joke of it, she even finished the Frenchfries he had left on his plate.
By then it was ten o'clock, and time to be going. At least, she said timidly, she was afraid she'd have to. "I was up so late the other night, you know, and . . ."
"I know," Bugs grunted. "But that was on a date with Ford. That made it all right."
"Yes. With someone I've known all my life, someone I supposedly was going to marry it was all right."
"And anything else would be."
"No, _anything_ would not. In fact . . ." She left the sentence unfinished, her voice trailing away wearily--and worriedly. Then, she sighed and said, "I'm sorry Mac. That's about all I can say at this point: that I'm sorry."
"What the hell?" Bugs shrugged. "You don't owe me any explanations."
"No, I don't. Or any apologies, either. I simply said I was sorry because I like you, and I thought it might make you feel better."
Much of Bugs's hurt and anger went away, and his feeling of compassion returned. He stopped the car in front of her house, turned humbly and faced her.
"I'm a dope," he said. "A big fat-headed dope. And you can take that as an apology _and_ explanation."
"All right. . ." Her smile came back. "And, Mac, I would like to see you longer than this. Just for an hour or so, it hardly gives us time to say hello, does it? So would you like to come here and have dinner with me tomorrow night?"
"Would I?" Bugs beamed. "But that would be a lot of trouble for you, and--"
"No, it wouldn't. Not in any way. There's a Negro woman who used to work for the folks. I can get her to come in and help, and by the time she's eaten herself and got things cleared up . . ."
He'd be gone. There'd be a third party with them throughout the evening.
She looked at him, obviously anxious but too proud to press the invitation. Choking back his resentment, Bugs said he'd be very glad to come to dinner.
"Then it's all settled. You can come early, around six, and we'll have the whole evening together. And now"--she leaned back in the seat, held her arms out--"If you'd like to kiss me good night, I'd like to have you."
Bugs drew her to him. He kissed her not at all in the way that he wanted to nor in the way that, subconsciously, he felt that he was entitled to. It was no more than a gentle touching of their lips, and his arms were loose around her body.
She drew her head back, studied his hard face dreamily. She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead and said, "Thank you, Mac. Thank you, very much."
"You're thanking _me?_ What for?"
"You know. For not spoiling things. For not making me feel that. . . But I knew you wouldn't. You couldn't with eyes as kind as yours."
"Yeah," Bugs said gruffly. "Kind of screwy, you mean."
"I mean, kind, good. Like they had seen so much hurt that they could never cry enough."
"Hell, I never cried in my life."
"Then I think it's about time. And I think you'll be happier when you do. But, anyway . . ." Her voice sank to a drowsy murmur. "Kiss me again, Mac. And, Mac, if you want to do it a little harder . . ."
He kissed her again, a very little harder, only a little less chastely. She thanked him simply as she had before. And then they said good night and parted.
Bugs drove back to the hotel, very happy and pleased with himself. Ignoring the tiny voice which jeered him for a chump and insisted that he was a sucker.
He felt good. He had a nice thing going here. Why wonder about its niceness, then? Why take it apart to see what made it tick?
He stopped at the desk, and got the stuff out of his box. He almost tore the letter up before he discovered that it was a letter, and not another of Joyce's call-slips.
Absently his mind still on Amy, he sat down in a corner of the lobby and opened it.

11
Mr. McKenna: You killed Mr. Dudley. I know you did because I was in the bathroom, and I heard everything that happened. And if you are stubborn or uncooperative, I wifi see that Mr. Lou Ford knows about it. You have a choice, Mr. McKenna. You can mail five thousand dollars to me, at the address below, or you can go to jail--perhaps, to the electric chair. Naturally, I'd prefer that you did the former, since telling what I know would necessarily be embarrassing for me, and would make me nothing. But I will do it, if I don't get the money. The choice is up to you, MT. McKenna. Better not delay in making it.
Jean Brown,
c/o General Delivery
Westex City, Texas.
The letter was printed neatly in pencil; the text as well as the address on the envelope. It was postmarked Westex City but that was just a dodge, of course. The blackmailer was right here in the Hanlon, someone who had been on intimate terms with Dudley and who knew enough about him, Bugs, to know that he had two strikes against him.
It had to be. Also, considering the circumstances of the blackmailer's rendezvous with Dudley, it just about had to be a woman. One of two women. For Bugs could think of only two with the necessary qualifications. Both would have some knowledge of his past. Both would have or could have known Dudley well. Both could come and go about the hotel without attracting attention.