"The Cat Who Turned On and Off" - читать интересную книгу автора (Braun Lilian Jackson)

12

Early Monday morning, Qwilleran opened his eyes suddenly, not knowing what had waked him. Pain in his knee reminded him where he was — in Junktown, city of sore limbs.

Then the sound that had waked him came again — a knock at the door — not an urgent rapping, not a cheery tattoo, but a slow pounding on the door panel, as ominous as it was strange. Wincing a little, he slid his legs out of bed, put on his robe and answered the summons.

Iris Cobb was standing there, her round face strained, her eyes swollen. She was wearing a heavy coat and a woolen scarf over her head.

"I'm sorry," she said in a shaken voice. "I've got trouble. C.C. hasn't come home." "What time is it?" "Five o'clock. He's never been later than two." Qwilleran blinked and shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, as he tried to recall the events of the previous evening. "Do you think the police might have picked him up again?" "If they had, they'd let him phone me. They did last time." "What about the boy who was going with him?" "I've just been around the corner to Mike's house. His mother says he didn't go with C.C. last night. He went to a movie." "Want me to call the police?" "No! I don't want them to know he's been scrounging again. I have a feeling he might have fallen and hurt himself." "Want me to go and see if I can find him?" "Would you? Oh, would you please? I'll go with you." "It'll take me a couple of minutes to get dressed." "I'm sorry to bother you. I'd wake Ben, but he was out drinking half the night." "That's all right." "Dress warm. Wear boots." Her voice, normally musical, had flattened out to a gloomy monotone. "I'll call a taxi.

C.C. took the station wagon." "Do you have a flashlight?" "A small one. C.C. took the big lantern." As Qwilleran, trying not to limp, took the woman's arm and escorted her down the snow-covered steps to the taxi, he said, "This is going to look peculiar, going to a deserted house at this hour. I'll tell the driver to drop us at the corner. It'll still look odd, but…" The cabdriver said, "Fifteenth and Zwinger? There's nothing there! It's a ghost town." "We're being met there by another car," Qwilleran said. "My brother — driving in from downriver. A family emergency." The driver gave an exaggerated shrug and drove them down Zwinger Street. Iris Cobb rode in silence, shivering visibly, and Qwilleran gripped her arm with a steadying hand.

Once she spoke. "I saw something so strange when I was coming home from church yesterday morning.

Hundreds of pigeons circling over Junktown — flying round and round and round — a big black cloud. Their wings were like thunder." At the corner of Fifteenth, Qwilleran gave the driver the folded dollar he had found in his apartment and helped Mrs. Cobb out of the cab. It was a dark night. Other parts of the sky reflected a glow from city lighting, but the street lights in the demolition area were no longer operating.

They waited until the cab was out of sight. Then Qwilleran grasped the woman's arm, and they picked their way across icy ruts where the sidewalk had been cracked by heavy trucks hauling away debris. Several houses had already been leveled, but toward the end of the block stood a large, square, solid house built of stone.

"That's it. That's the one," she said. "It used to have a high iron fence. Some scrounger must have taken it." There was a carriage entrance at the side. The driveway ran under this porte-cochere, and there was evidence of tire tracks, partially filled with snow. How recent they were, it was impossible to tell.

"I suppose he'd park around back, out of sight," Qwilleran said.

They moved cautiously up the driveway.

"Yes, there's the wagon!" she cried. "He must be here…. Can you hear anything?" They stood still. There was dead silence, except for the lonely whine of tires from the expressway across the open fields.

They went in the back door. "I can hardly walk up the steps," Iris said. "My knees are like jelly. I have a terrible feeling — " "Take it easy." Qwilleran guided her with a firm hand. "There's a loose board here." The back door showed signs of having been wrenched open violently. It led into a dust porch and then into a room that had been a large kitchen. Only the upper wall cabinets remained. Lying in the middle of the floor, waiting to be moved out, were a pink marble fireplace and a tarnished brass light fixture.

They paused again and listened. There was no sound.

The rooms were dank and icy.

Flashing the light ahead, Qwilleran led the way through a butler's pantry and then a dining room. Gaping holes indicated that the mantel and chandelier had come from this room. Beyond was the parlor, with a large fireplace still intact.

A wide archway equipped with sliding doors opened into the front hall, and one of them stood ajar.

Qwilleran went through first, and the woman crowded behind him.

The hall was a shambles. He flashed his light over lengths of stair rail, sections of paneling leaning against the wall, pieces of carved molding, and there — at the foot of the stairs…

She screamed. "There he is!" She rushed forward. A large section of paneling lay on top of the sprawled body.

"Oh, my God! Is he — Is he — ?" "Maybe he's unconscious. You stay here," Qwilleran said. "Let me have a look." The slab of black walnut that lay on top of the fallen man was enormously heavy. With difficulty Qwilleran eased it up and tilted it against the wall.

Mrs. Cobb was sobbing. "I'm afraid. Oh, I'm afraid." Then he beamed the light on the face — white under the gray stubble.

She tugged at Qwilleran's coat. "Can you tell? Is he breathing?" "It doesn't look good." "Maybe he's just frozen. Maybe he fell and knocked himself out, and he's been lying here in the cold." She took her husband's icy hand. She leaned over and flooded warm breath over his nose and mouth.

Neither of them heard the footsteps coming through the house. Suddenly the hall was alight, and the glare of a powerful flashlight blinded them. Someone was standing in the doorway that led from the parlor.

"This is the police," said an official voice behind the light. "What are you doing here?" Mrs. Cobb burst into tears. "My husband is hurt. Quick! Get him to a hospital." "What are you doing here?" "There's no time! No time!" she cried hysterically. "Call an ambulance — call an ambulance before it's too late!" One of the officers stepped into the beam of light and bent over the body. He shook his head.

"No! No!" she cried wildly. "They can save him! They can do something, I know! Hurry… hurry!" "Too late, lady." Then he said to his partner, "Tell dispatch we've got a body."!

Mrs. Cobb uttered a long heartbroken wall.

"You'll have to make a statement at headquarters," the officer said.

Qwilleran showed his police card. "I'm with the Daily Fluxion." The officer nodded and relaxed his brusque manner. "Do you mind coming downtown? The detectives will want a statement. Just routine." The newsman put an arm around his landlady to support her. "How did you fellows happen to find us?" he asked.

"A cabbie reported two fares dropped at Zwinger and Fifteenth…. What happened to this man? Did he fall downstairs?" "Looks like it. When he failed to come home, we — " Iris Cobb wailed wretchedly. "He was carrying that panel. He must have slipped-missed his step…. I told him not to come. I told him!" She turned a contorted face to Qwilleran. "What will I do?… What will I do?… I loved that wonderful man!"