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

This was both the beginning and the end of their affair she said in effect. It would have to be, obviously since its continuation was certain to bring tragedy and trouble.
Bugs protested--he felt that he had to--but he was deeply relieved. He wasn't in love with her, nor she with him. And a thing like this, life being as it was, could only drag them both downhill. As the Hanlon's house detective, the official paid to nip potential trouble in the bud, he was in a far better position to avoid discovery than most; than, say, Dudley had been--one of the watched, rather than the watchman. Yet discovery was virtually inevitable, in the long run; and he was in enough of a mess now without taking on another.
Hell, if he could just get out of this present mess; get out of it, and get to feeling right about Amy or stop feeling anything about her. Either accept what had happened between her and Ford, or--.
"There was something else I wanted to tell you, Mr. McKenna. About Mr. Ford. He--"
"Don't," Bugs said. "I don't think you'd better."
"I'm going to," Rosalie said firmly. "He doesn't really suspect me. Probably you guessed that. But that's only part of it. The real reason he wanted to talk to me--"
Bugs cut her off. "Didn't he warn you not to tell me, Rosie? Well, then, let me say it. He figures that there must have been two people, a man and a woman, with Dudley. The woman gave him the chloral, and the man knock-- pushed him out the window. And he's got me figured as the man."
"Yes, sir. And it's so crazy, Mr. McKenna! I mean, why would you--why would anyone do it? If the woman had already killed him, as good as killed him, why--"
"That misunderstanding we had at the post office today" Bugs said. "I imagine Ford asked you about that? No, don't tell me--"
"Of course, I'll tell you! Yes, he did ask me, and--and I didn't know quite what to say Mr. McKenna. I didn't understand it myself, and I was afraid if I tried to lie to him--"
"I'm glad you didn't. You did the right thing, just telling him what happened and letting it go at that. But. . . but that's the set-up, Rosie. It's a pretty weak thread, but he wants to stick me, and he's trying to use that little frammis at the post office to do it."
"But I . . . I don't see how that . . ."
"Well," Bugs said cautiously "it's really pretty simple. I'm just guessing, of course; I don't actually know. But it seems to me that Ford's thinking would just have to run like this: The man doesn't know that the woman is in Dudley's room. Perhaps she's in the bathroom, see? But she knows that he's in there--and knows who he is--and when he apparently kills Dudley and takes the money she came there to steal, why . . ."
He left the sentence unfinished. He could see something of her now, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, and the expression on her face stopped him.
"I see," she said, at last. "You thought I was the woman with Dudley You thought I was trying to blackmail you, and you tried to--"
"No! I didn't really think it, Rosie! I was just desperate, snatching at straws, you know, and--"
"It's all right, Mr. McKenna," she said gently. "I understand. Believe me, when you're what I am, when you've lived as I have, you get a lot of understanding. All that matters is that you don't think that about me now."
"I don't. I never did."
"I'm glad . . . Were you getting up now, Mr. McKenna? I'm doing a room on the floor below, and if you are getting up . . ."
"Sure, save you another trip," Bugs said. "About that time, anyway"
"I'll run along, then. 'Bye, now."
_'Bye, now_. Good-bye, period, to anything more than friendly politeness. Bugs dressed and left the room, wondering why things had to be the way they were. Reluctantly relieved that they were that way.
He ate.
He made his tour of the corridors, and started his backo'-the-house inspection. Except for the kitchens, it was generally inactive, its various entrances and exits closed and locked at this hour. It was part of Bugs's duties to unlock them and have a look around. Making sure that no sneak-thief had wangled his way inside, watchful against the ever-present danger of fire.
Bakery, laundry grocery. Printers', painters', electricians', plumbers' and carpenters' shops. Ice plant and icecream plant. Rug reweaving, upholstering, linen repair. Boiler-room, engine-room, waterworks. . . The hotel was a city and it contained everything necessary for the operation of a city.
Twice during his tour, Bugs encountered Leslie Eaton, once the clerk was hustling toward the valet department, the second time as he was leaving the telephoneswitchboard room. He was carrying a batch of charge slips on every occasion. So, ostensibly, he was in pursuit of his duties. But Bugs guessed that he did a hell of a lot of chasing around that wasn't necessary. Westbrook had always thought so; and Eaton seemed to be absent from the front office about as much as he was there.
The clerk smirked and blushed as they passed. Frowning, Bugs looked after him from the door of the telephone room.
Now, what was there about that guy anyway? What possible connection could there be between Eaton and the jam he was in?
Not a thing that he could think of, although there was a troubled stirring in the deep recesses of his mind. Bugs shrugged, and went on through the door.
It was a three-position board, but only one operator was on duty now. Bugs sat down next to her on one of the longlegged swivel chairs, chatting idly with her between calls, watching the nimbly casual movement of her fingers.
It was interesting. Everything about the hotel was interesting to him. Often since he had come here, he had looked back into the past, compared its drabness and dullness and sameness with the ever-changing, always-intriguing world of the hotel. And he had shuddered over what he had escaped from, felt the deepest gratitude for what he had escaped into.
He never wanted to leave here. It would be nice, of course, if he could rise to a better job, but if he couldn't . . . well, he wouldn't kick. Just staying on here would be enough.
And he was going to do it! He wasn't going to take another rap. He wasn't going to take it on the lam. He was going to stay. Somehow, somehow. Regardless of the price for staying.
He'd shot square with people all his life, and it hadn't got him anywhere. Now, if shooting square wouldn't do the job, he'd get it done the other way
The operator glanced at the clock. Propping her morning call-sheets in front of her, she pushed a plug into the board: "Good morning, sir. It's six o'clock . . ."
Bugs left. He went down to and through the lobby strolled around the block, and entered the coffee shop.
He had breakfast, read the morning paper. By then it was eight o'clock, the end of his shift, and he started for his room.
He heard his name called. He turned and waited as Lou Ford came up the steps from the side entrance.
"Well?" he said.
"You're in trouble," Ford said. "Let's talk about it."

15
They went to Bugs's room. Ford settled himself into the one easy chair, lighted one of his thin black cigars, and spewed out a fragrant cloud of smoke. He fanned it with one hand, staring at Bugs with absent thoughtfulness. Bugs stared back at him stolidly.
There was something different about the deputy today, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Then Ford spoke again, and he realized what it was.
Ford's drawl was gone; his errors and exaggerations of speech. He spoke as any literate person might have.
"I said you were in trouble, Bugs. That may have been putting it a little strong. I might be more accurate to say that you're on the verge of trouble, but that you can avoid it. I can help you to."
"I see."
"I hope so, but I doubt it. Perhaps we'd better let that lie a moment, and go back to the beginning. Back to the day when I took you out of jail and got you your job here." He took another puff from his cigar, tapped the ash into the wastebasket. "Incidentally, I gather that you like it here. You wouldn't mind sticking around permanently."
"That's right."
"I'd like to have you stick around."