"Donald E Westlake - Bank Shot" - читать интересную книгу автора (Westlake Donald E)

there wasn't any hurry. Besides, it was psychologically good to keep the pretty

pictures out where the customer could see what she was buying until she'd

actually handed over the ten spot.

Except that what she was really buying with her ten dollars was a receipt.

Which he might as well get out, come to think of it. He opened the snaps on the

attachщ case beside him on the sofa and lifted the lid.

To the left of the sofa was an end table holding a lamp and a cream-colored

European-style telephone, not normal Bell issue. Now, as Dortmunder reached

into his attachщ case for his receipt pad, this telephone said, very softly, "dit-dit-

ditdit-dit-dit-dit-dit-dit."

Dortmunder glanced at it. His left hand was holding the lid of the case up, his

right hand was inside holding the receipt pad, but he didn't move. Somebody

must be dialing an extension somewhere else in the house. Dortmunder frowned

at the phone and it said, "dit." A smaller number that time, probably a 1. Then

"dit," said the phone again, which would be another 1. Dortmunder waited, not

moving, but the phone didn't say anything else.

Just a three-digit number? A high digit first, and then two low ones. What kind

of phone number was...

911. The police emergency number.

Dortmunder took his hand out of the attachщ case without the receipt pad. No

time to pick up the promo papers. He methodically snicked shut the attachщ

case snaps, got to his feet, walked to the door, opened it, and stepped outside.

Carefully closing the door behind him, he walked briskly over the curving slate

path to the sidewalk, turned right, and kept on walking.

What he needed was a store, a movie-theater, a cab, even a church.