"Фредерик Браун. Night of the Jabberwock (англ) " - читать интересную книгу автора

He said, "If you really want to know, and aren't afraid, you can find
out tonight. There is a meeting, near here. Will you come?"
"May I be frank?"
"Certainly."
I said, "I think it's crazy, but try to keep me away."
"In spite of the fact that there is danger?"
Sure, I was going, danger or no. But maybe I could use his insistence
on warning me to pry something more out of him. So I said, "May I ask what
kind of danger?"
He seemed to hesitate a moment and then he took out his wallet and from
an inner compartment took a newspaper clipping, a short one of about three
paragraphs. He handed it to me.
I read it, and I recognized the type and the setup; it was a clipping
from the Bridgeport Argus. And I remembered now having read it, a couple of
weeks ago. I'd considered clipping it as an exchange item, and then had
decided not to, despite the fact that the heading had caught my interest. It
read:

MAN SLAIN BY UNKNOWN BEAST

The facts were few and simple. A man named Colin Hawks, living outside
Bridgeport, a recluse, had been found dead along a path through the woods.
The man's throat had been torn, and police opinion was that a large and
vicious dog had attacked him. But the reporter who wrote the article
suggested the possibility that a wolf or even a panther or a leopard
escaped from a circus or zoo might have caused the wounds.
I folded the clipping again and handed it back to Smith. It didn't mean
anything, of course. It's easy to find stories like that if one looks for
them. A man named Charles Fort found thousands of them and put them into
four books he had written, books which were on my shelves.
This particular one was less mysterious than most. In fact, there
wasn't any real mystery at all; undoubtedly some vicious dog had done the
killing.
Just the same something prickled at the back of my neck.
It was the headline, really, not the article. It's funny what the word
"unknown" and the thought back of it can do to you. If that story had been
headed "Man Killed by Vicious Dog" or by a lion or a crocodile or any other
specified creature, however fierce and dangerous, there'd have been nothing
frightening about it.
But an "unknown beast" well, if you've got the same kind of
imagination I have, you see what I mean. And if you haven't, I can't
explain.
I looked at Yehudi Smith, just in time to see him toss down his whisky
again like a conjuring trick. I handed him back the clipping and then
refilled our glasses.
I said, "Interesting story. But where's the connection?"
"Our last meeting was in Bridgeport. That's all I can tell you. About
that, I mean. You asked the nature of the danger; that's why I showed you
that. And it's not too late for you to say no. It won't be, for that matter,
until we get there."