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A. Fair: Owls Don't Blink

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A. Fair Owls Don't Blink

Owls Don't Blink: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The French Quarter of New Orleans — where everything happened, where anything happen... the exciting and colorful French Quarter — where the past is the present and there is no future. It was a long trail from New York to Los Angeles to New Orleans, but a girl had disappeared and the New York lawyer with the mouthful of teeth wanted her found — quickly. Donald couldn’t understand why he dragged a private detective all the way from California, but he soon found out. Donald and Bertha followed a devious path — into some lives that preferred anonymity. Bertha discovered pecan waffles and gumbo; Donald found a sprawling body in a quiet apartment — a gun and newspaper clippings behind an old desk drawer — a girl who might have been somebody else — a beautiful nightclub hostess who made the error of falling in love — and a trail that led back to an older, unsolved West Coast murder... And last but not least, he found the perfect answer to Bertha’s foray into war work.

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“Perhaps she got a job.”

“No. She didn’t. She used to come down weekdays around the middle of the day. I used to see her going out for breakfast around eleven o’clock, sometimes not until afternoon.”

“You don’t know whether she’s still in town?”

“I don’t think she is, because she’d have been in. We were friends — well, you know, she liked my work and liked to talk with me. I think she was-say, why do you want to know?”

I said, “I — well — she’s a nice girl. It means a lot to me — I should never have lost track of her,”

“Oh.” She smiled. “Well, I wish I could help you, but I can’t. I’ve got a customer in there. In case she shows up again, do you want to leave a message for her?”

I shook my head and said, “If she’s in town, I’ll find her myself,” and then added with a little smile, “I think it would be better that way.”

“It would for a fact,” the woman said.

I trudged on down the street to a cleaning establishment. It was a combination residence and business place, with a counter half across the front room. I pulled out the picture, said, “Know this girl?”

The woman who was in charge of the place looked at the picture, said, “Yes. She used to place a lot of work through me. That’s Miss Cutler, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Know where she is now?”

“No, I don’t — that is, I can’t tell you where she’s living.”

“She’s here in town, isn’t she?”

“Oh, yes. I saw her on the street about — oh, let me see, I guess it was about six weeks ago. I don’t get uptown very often. This place keeps me tied down. I can’t leave it unless I have someone else to put in charge.”

“What street?” I asked.

“Canal. It was — let me see, it was just about five-thirty in the evening, and she was walking down the street. I don’t think she recognized me. I have a pretty good memory for faces, and I see lots of my customers when I’m out on the street.” She smiled. “Lots of times they know they’ve seen me before, but can’t place me, because they’ve been accustomed to seeing me behind the counter here. I never speak to them unless they speak to me.”

I thanked her and went back to the apartment. Bertha Cool was lounging back in a chair, smoking a cigarette, with a glass of Scotch and soda on the little table by the side of the chair.

“How you doing?” she asked.

“Not too good.”

“Like hunting for a needle in a haystack,” Bertha said. “My God, Donald, I’ve found the most wonderful restaurant.”

“Where?”

“Right up the street here.”

“I thought you’d had your one meal for the day. I didn’t know you were hungry. I just came back now to see if you wanted something to eat.”

“No, lover, not now. I find I get along better if I don’t let myself get too hungry. Just eat a little something to take the keen edge off my appetite.”

I nodded and waited.

A dreamy look of satisfaction came over Bertha’s face. She all but smacked her lips. “Gumbo with rice,” she said, “I thought it would be light.”

“Was it?”

“It was a meal, but what a meal.”

“Had enough?” I asked. “Want to go out for a bite to eat with me now?”

“Don’t you say food to me again, Donald Lam! I’ve had my quota for the day. I’ll have some tea and toast tonight and that’ll be all.”

I said, “Well, I’m going to grab a bite to eat and stay on the job.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing yet.”

Bertha said, “I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Neither do I.”

She said, “That lawyer insisted on my coming. He said that after you’d found her I could talk with her better than you could. He had the money to pay for it, and since he was giving the party, I decided to attend.”

“That’s right.”

Bertha said, “It would be swell if we could get that bonus.”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“How do things look?”

“I can’t tell yet. Well, I’m on my way.”

I went back to Royal Street and walked down toward Canal, picking my way along the sidewalk which had been paved years ago by embedding huge, flat-surfaced rocks in the dirt and connecting them with cement. Some of the rocks had sunk more than others. Some of them had tilted slightly. The general effect was artistic, but not conducive to blind walking.

I was halfway to Canal Street when the idea struck me. I went into a telephone booth and started calling the business colleges.

The second one gave me everything I needed. No, they didn’t know any Edna Cutler, but a Miss Fenn had taken a course and had been a very apt pupil. Yes, they’d been able to place her. She was in one of the banks. She was secretary to the manager. Just a minute and they’d give me the address.

It was that simple.

The manager of the bank was a human sort of chap. I told him that I was trying to get some information which would enable me to close up an estate and asked him if I might talk with his secretary. He said he’d send her out in a few minutes.

Roberta Fenn looked exactly like her pictures. She was perhaps twenty-six from the standpoint of statistics, but she looked around twenty-two or perhaps twenty-three. She had a quick smile, clear, alert eyes, and a well-modulated, pleasant voice. “Something that you wanted to know?” she asked. “Mr. Black said you were trying to close up an estate.”

“That’s right,” I said. “I’m an investigator. I’m trying to find out something about a man who’s connected with a family named Hale.”

Her eyes showed me I’d drawn a blank.

I said, “He has a relative whose name I don’t know, but I believe you’re acquainted with him. I’m not certain exactly how he’s related to Hale.”

“You don’t know this man’s name?”

I said, “No.”

She said, “I don’t have a very wide circle of acquaintances here.”

I said, “This man is tall. He has a high forehead, rather bushy eyebrows, and his hands are very thin with long, tapering fingers. His arras are long. He’s about fifty-five.”

She was frowning thoughtfully as though searching her mental card index.

I watched her closely, said, “I don’t know whether it’s just a habit or whether his teeth don’t fit. Whenever he smiles, he—”

I saw the expression change on her face.

“Oh,” she said and laughed.

“You know who I mean?”

“Yes. How did you happen to come to me?”

I said, “I heard he was in New Orleans and someone said he was going to look you up on a matter of business.”

“But you don’t know his name?”

“No.”

She said, “Archibald Smith is his name. He’s from Chicago. He’s in the insurance business up there.”

“Do you have his Chicago address?”

“Not with me,” she said. “I have it written down at home.”

“Oh!” I let my face show disappointment.

“I could look it up and have it for you tomorrow.”

“That would be fine. Have you known him long, Miss Fenn?”

She said, “No. He came to New Orleans about three or four weeks ago and was here for a couple of days. A friend of mine had given him a letter to me — asked me to show him around a little bit, and I showed him some of the more typical sights — you know, the restaurants and bars and things a tourist wants to see.”

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