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Bill Pronzini: Nightshades

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Bill Pronzini Nightshades

Nightshades: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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“I understand he had a public argument with a man named Coleclaw. No threats then?”

“No. It was a shouting match at our attorney’s office; he was taking depositions from Coleclaw and some of the others from out there. Coleclaw called Munroe a liar and a thief, and a few other things, but he didn’t make any threats.”

“How about Frank O’Daniel? Has he been threatened?”

“No. He’d have told me.”

The smoke from Treacle’s cigar was aggravating both my lungs and my sinuses; I used my hand to shred a thick plume of it. I never did like cigars much-or the men who smoke them in somebody else’s office without asking permission. More ammunition for my campaign to dislike Martin Treacle.

I said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d put that out, Mr. Treacle,” because I’d had enough and I didn’t feel like being tolerant any more.

“Out?” he said blankly.

“Your cigar. The smoke is bothering me.”

He looked at the panatela in a surprised way, looked at me again, and said, “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize…” Then he looked around the office, probably for an ashtray. There wasn’t one in sight. I keep one in my bottom desk drawer, but I decided I didn’t feel like obliging him with it. So I sat there, waiting, and he looked at me again, a little helplessly this time, hesitated, and then got up trailing smoke and went over to the window that looked out on the blank brick wall next door. He tugged at the sash, couldn’t open it, gave me another helpless glance, tugged again, and finally got it to slide up. He threw the cigar out into the airshaft, without looking to see what was down below-not that there was anything flammable down there or I would have said something about it and stopped him. Then he shut the window and dusted his hands and came back to his chair and said, “I’m sorry,” in a nonplussed sort of way. But he didn’t sit down again. Instead he shot the sleeve of his suit coat and glanced at his watch.

“I should be going,” he said. “I’ve got a four o’clock appointment. But if you have more questions…”

“Not right now.”

“Well then,” he said, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. “When will you be going to Redding?”

“Tomorrow, probably.”

“You’ll want to talk to Frank right away, I imagine.”

“Among others.”

“I’ll call him tonight and let him know you’re coming. Is there anything you’ll need, any arrangements he can make for you?”

“Just a list of the Musket Creek residents,” I said. “Plus a little background on each one, if possible.”

“No problem. I’ll tell Miss Irwin to work up something for you.”

“Who’s Miss Irwin?”

“Shirley Irwin, our secretary.” He looked at his watch again. “Well,” he said. Then he paused, looking at me as if he expected me to get up and shake his hand and tell him how much I appreciated his cooperation. I stayed where I was, shaking hands with myself. He said, “Well,” another time, and followed it with, “I’ll be going then. I should be back in Redding myself the day after tomorrow. I expect we’ll see each other again soon.”

“I expect we will, Mr. Treacle,” I said.

He nodded and smiled-earnest and hopeful all the way-and turned for the door. Before he got there, though, it opened and Eberhardt came in looking grumpy. Eb ran into him, and Treacle reacted by hopping awkwardly out of the way like a ruptured jackrabbit. They looked at each other for a couple of seconds. After which Treacle said, “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” and beat it out through the door.

Eberhardt said to me, “What was that?”

“Martin Treacle. Real estate developer from Redding.”

“Yeah? Him?”

“Minor-league,” I said.

“Client?”

“No. One of the objects of a new case.”

“That’s good. Or is it?”

“I’m not sure yet. Could be.”

“Don’t tell me about it yet,” he said. “I got to sit down first and unwind.”

“Unwind from what?”

“That goddamn drive over to Stinson Beach. I hate that goddamn drive. That road scares me to death.”

I nodded sympathetically. The road scared me to death, too. It wound along the cliffsides for miles of sheer-sided dropoffs to rocks and ocean, and it wasn’t in very good repair.

Eberhardt sat down, put his feet up on his desk, and rubbed the scar behind his ear. The scar was from one of the bullets a gunman had pumped into him last August, putting him into a coma for seventeen days; the same gunman had pumped a bullet into me, too, and laid me up in the hospital for a while, and gave me a bad left arm that didn’t quite work the way it used to. The shooting was also the direct reason-there were several indirect ones-for his taking an early retirement from the San Francisco cops. Things had been bad for him for a while after that, until I gave in out of friendship and a smattering of pity and took him into my agency as a full partner. The partnership had worked out much better than I’d imagined it would. Eb was happy, I was happy, neither of us was starving to death as a result of having to split the profits, and that pirate Sam Crawford was getting his blood booty right on time the first of every month. Everything was just dandy-knock wood.

He sighed and ran a hand over the angles and blunt planes of his face. He was a year younger than my fifty-four and looked his age. Kerry said I didn’t look my age now that I’d taken off weight; but she also said the mustache made me look like Brian Keith trying to play Groucho Marx. Kerry has an acid wit sometimes. An off-the-wall wit, too: half the things she thinks are funny I don’t even understand.

“Better,” Eb said, pretty soon. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

“You find your missing heiress?”

“Not yet, but I’m getting close. I found a girlfriend of hers out there at Stinson Beach; the girlfriend lives with a guy who collects driftwood and has hair down to his ass and they put Trudy up for a few days last week. She left on Saturday to go to a retreat up in the Napa Valley.”

“What kind of retreat?”

“What kind you think? It’s called the Temple of Good Karma and Inner Peace, and it’s run by a guru named Mahatma something-or-other-not Gandhi. He’s probably got hair down to his ass too.”

“Your prejudices are showing, Eb.”

“Prejudices? Hell, I got nothing against guys with long hair. I got nothing against good karma or inner peace or gurus, either-unless the whole thing’s a scam to bilk money out of rich kids like Trudy Bigelow, which it usually is.”

“I guess. So you’ve pretty much got things wrapped up, then?”

“Maybe. Depends on whether or not she’s still at the retreat; I’ll go up tomorrow and see. If she is I’ll have to call her old man to find out how he wants to handle it.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the matter? You sound disappointed.”

“Well, I was hoping maybe you could take over this case up in Trinity County. On account of my vacation. But I guess that idea’s out.”

“It is if your case is a hot one.”

“In more ways than one.” I gave him a brief rundown. “So it can’t be put off,” I said. “I’ll have to leave right away. Kerry’s not going to like postponing the vacation-she’s been looking forward to Santa Barbara.”

“Why not take her with you?”

“What?”

“Take her along to Trinity County,” he said. “Nice country up there-Mount Shasta, Shasta Lake, the McCloud River. Good fishing too.”

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