"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

a misogynist. But I can't imagine any woman wanting to come and live in this place. As you remarked
earlier, it's rather bleak and remote."
"Even so. . ." Lund grinned cheerfully; anyone less inexperienced than Reade might have guessed
him to be slightly drunk. "Even so, if you don't mind me saying so, you strike me as the marrying kind.
And it's amazing what women'll do. Live anywhere. . ."
He turned his attention back to the second bowl of stew, and in five minutes had emptied it and
was cleaning up the remains of the gravy with bread.
Reade decided to anticipate more personal questions by changing the subject. "Tell me,
Detective Sergeant, why have they sent you here? Have you any connection with the case?"
Lund shook his head, chewing, then swallowed. "No, but it's not worth their while to send a man
all the way from London to see you, is it?"
Reade nodded.
Lund finished his beer in one swallow, and said, "You know, if you don't mind, I'll risk another
drop of that stuff."
Reade smiled, pouring it out, concealing his impatience to be alone. The rain was inaudible, but
he could see it running down the window behind Lund's head.
Lund seemed to read his thoughts; he said, "If this rain'll let up for a minute, I'll make a dash for it.
But it's quite a walk to the village."
"I'm afraid it is. But don't worry, you're not in my way."
"Kind of you. Don't you want to get some work done?"
"I might -- later."
"Do you write every day, or just when you feel like it?"
"Most days. . . it depends."
Lund turned his chair sideways, to face the fire, and stretched out his legs. He was obviously
comfortable and talkative, and Reade began to regret producing the beer. He also knew what the next
question would be.
"Do you write for a set number of hours every day, or do you have to wait for inspiration?"
He said evasively, "I usually work best in the morning."
"Mind if I smoke? I'm not supposed to on duty, of course, but I don't suppose it matters." As he
stuffed the pipe, he said, "Yes, I envy you this kind of life -- I sometimes dream about retiring to the
country -- quiet cottage somewhere, little garden, perhaps a boat to do a bit of fishing. . ." He paused to
light the pipe, sucking slowly until the flame reached his fingertips. "Still, I'm not sure I wouldn't get bored
with it."
Reade did not reply. There was nothing he could say. It would be impolite to answer: Of course
you would. You obviously have nothing in your head. Besides, he felt no dislike of the pleasant-faced,
pipe-smoking man, only total indifference.
Lund leaned forward and picked up one of the letters from the drawer. He tore it open with his
thumb and glanced at the single, typewritten sheet.
"Now this is more interesting. Somebody who doesn't like you at all." He read aloud: " 'It is time
somebody exploded your nasty, vicious little conspiracies. A swine like you has no right to pretend to
understand Blake. You are obviously corrupt through and through. Blake was a poet, a man of the spirit.
. .' It's signed Alison Waite. Do you know her?"
"It's a man, actually. A strange crank who wrote a book trying to prove that Blake was a witch. I
reviewed it in an academic journal."
"Has he threatened you before?"
"Several times. I know his handwriting now, so I don't open the letters."
"Mmm. He might be worth checking up on. I can see we're going to have an interesting time
looking through those." He drank half the glass of beer in a long draught, then set it down again. "There's
a certain interest in being in the police force sometimes. I sometimes think I'd miss it if I retired. People
interest me, you know. Most of 'em have got something interesting about 'em if only you look for it. For