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

Carroll that I'd written, and I didn't doubt that he or they, if he really
represented a group did know something about me.
He said, "But well, if I get a chance to meet him and think he'd
really fit in, I might take a chance and ask him. Can you tell me anything
more about him? What does he do for a living, I mean?"
That was harder to answer. I said, "Well, he's writing plays. But I
don't think he makes a living at it; in fact, I don't know that he's ever
sold any. He's a bit of a mystery to Carmel City. He's lived here all his
life except while he was away at college and nobody knows where his money
comes from. Has a swanky car and a place of his own he lived there with his
mother until she died a few years ago and seems to have plenty of spending
money, but nobody knows where it comes from." I grinned. "And it annoys the
hell out of Carmel City not to know. You know how small towns are."
He nodded. "Wouldn't it be a logical assumption that he inherited the
money?"
"From one point of view, yes. But it doesn't seem too likely. His
mother worked all her life as a milliner, and without owning her own shop.
The town, I remember, used to wonder how she managed to own her own house
and send her son to college on what she earned. But she couldn't possibly
have earned enough to have done both of those things and still have left him
enough money to have supported him in idleness Well, maybe, writing plays
isn't idleness, but it isn't remunerative unless you sell them for several
years."
I shrugged. "But there's probably no mystery to it. She must have had
an income from investments her husband had made, and Al either inherited the
income or got the capital from which it came. He probably doesn't talk about
his business because he enjoys being mysterious."
"Was his father wealthy?"
"His father died before he was born, and before Mrs. Grainger moved to
Carmel City. So nobody here knew his father. And I guess that's all I can
tell you about Al, except that he can beat me at chess most of the time, and
that I hope you'll have a chance to meet him."
Smith nodded. "If he comes, we'll see."
He glanced at his empty glass and I took the hint and filled it and my
own. Again I watched the incredible manner of his drinking it, fascinated.
I'd swear that, this time the glass came no closer than six inches from his
lips. Definitely it was a trick I'd have to learn myself. If for no other
reason than that I don't really like the taste of whisky, much as I enjoy
the effects of it. With his way of drinking, it didn't seem that he had the
slightest chance of tasting the stuff. It was there, in the glass, and then
it was gone. His Adam's apple didn't seem to work and if he was talking at
the time he drank there was scarcely an interruption in what he was saying.
The phone rang. I excused myself and answered it.
"Doc," said Clyde Andrews' voice, "this is Clyde Andrews."
"Fine," I said, "I suppose you realize that you sabotaged my this
week's issue by canceling a story on my front page. What's called off this
time?"
"I'm sorry about that, Doc, if it really inconvenienced you, but with
the sale called off, I thought you wouldn't want to run the story and have
people coming around to"