"Manly Wade Wellman - The Dead Man's Hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wellman Manly Wade)

said.
At almost the same moment the moon rose, pale and sheeny as a disk of clean,
fresh bone.
The pale light showed them a house, built squarely like old plantation manors, but
smaller. It had once been painted gray, and still looked well kept and clean. No
windows were broken, the pillars of the porch were still sturdy. Around it clung
dark, plump masses of shrubbery and, farther back, tall flourishing trees. A flagged
path led up to the broad steps. Berna knew she should be pleased. But she was not.
From the rear seat Conley dug their suitcases and rolls of bedding. Berna
rummaged for the hamper that held their supper.
She followed her father up the flagstone way, wondering why the night seemed so
cool for this season. Conley set down his burdens, then mounted the porch to try
the door.
"Locked," he grumbled. "The broker said there was never a key." He turned and
studied a window. "We'll have to break the glass."
"May I help?" inquired a gentle voice, and into view, perhaps from the massed
bushes at the porch-side, strolled a man.
He did not stand in the full moonlight, and later Berna would wonder how she
knew he was handsome. Slim white-clad elegance, face of a healthy pallor under a
wide hat, clear-cut features, deep eyes and brows both heavy and gracefulтАФthese
impressions she received. Conley came down off the porch.
"I'm Ward Conley, the new owner of this farm," he introduced himself briskly.
"This is my daughter, Berna."
The stranger bowed. "I am a Shonokin."
"Glad to know you, Mr. Shannon."
"Shonokin," corrected the man.
"People in town said that nobody dared come here," went on Conley.
"They lied. They usually lie." The man's deep eyes studied Berna; they may have
admired. She did not know whether to feel confused or resentful. "Mr. Conley,"
continued the gentle voice, "you are having difficulty?"
"Yes. The door's jammed or locked."
"Let me help." The graceful figure stepped up on the porch, bending over
something. A light glared. He seemed to be holding a little sheaf of home-dipped
tapers, such as Berna had seen in very old-fashioned farmhouses. They looked
knobby and skimpy, but their light was almost blinding. He held it close to the lock
as he stooped. He did not seem to move, but after a moment he turned.
"Now your door is open," he told them. And so it was, swinging gently inward.
"Thanks, Mr. Shonokin," said Conley, more warmly than he had spoken all
evening. "Won't you step inside with us?"
"Not now." Bowing again, the man swept his fingertips over the lights he held,
snuffing them out. Descending the steps lithely, he walked along the stone flags. At
the far end he paused and lifted his hat. Berna saw his hair, long, wavy and black as
soot. He was gone.
"Seems like a nice fellow," grunted Conley. "How about some candles of our
own, Berna?"
She gave him one from the hamper, and he lighted it and led her inside.


"I know that it's a considerable journey, and that the evidence is slim," John
Thunstone was telephoning at Pennsylvania Station. "But I'll get the full story, on the