"L. Sprague De Camp - The Stolen Dormouse" - читать интересную книгу автора (De Camp L Sprague)

the brief case and the fancy fountain pen in his breast pocket gave him the feeling that the
hostility of such rabble could no longer affect him.
Then he saw a girl. The daze cleared instantly, to be replaced by one of pinkish hue. She
was a stunning brunette, and she wore the Stromberg colors of green, brown, and yellow. She was
leaning against part of one of the Stromberg booths. Juniper-Hallett had seen her picture, and
knew she was the daughter of His Integrity Billiam Bickham-Smith, chairman of Stromberg. Her name
was Janet BickhamCoates, “Coates” being her mother’s father’s family name.
Juniper-Hallett stood very still, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, and
looking, not at the girl, but at a point three meters to the left of her. He ran over what he knew
of her
—she was just about his age; went in for sports— He was determined to do something about her. At
the moment, he could not think what. If the Strombergs had been friendly, it would have been
simple; some of them undoubtedly knew her to speak to. But as things were, she’d probably be no
more ingratiated by the sight of the Crosley colors—a blueand-yellow-striped coat and red
pants—than the rest of them.
Nor would it be simple to get a suit of Stromberg colors. First, the obligations of
businessmanhood forbade it. Second, the salesman in the clothing department of the drugstore would
make you identify yourself. He’d want no trouble with
the genuine Strombergs for having sold a suit of their colors to an outsider.
And the Strombergs were throwing a big dinner that night. Justin Lane-Walsh appeared. He
put his hat on his head of copper-wire curls and walked past Juniper-Hallett. He slowed down as he
passed, growling: “If it weren’t for the old man’s orders, you dirty Crosley, I’d finish what we
started, sir.”
Juniper-Hallett fell into step beside him. “I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, you dirty
Stromberg. I’d like nothing better, sir.”
“I’m sorry, too. Don’t know what we can do about it.”
Juniper-Hallett felt an idea coming. He said: “Let’s grab some lunch, and then go
somewhere and drink to our mutual sorrow.”
“By the great god Service, that’s an idea!” Lane-Walsh looked down at his enemy with an
almost friendly expression. “Come along, sister.”
“Coming, you big louse.” They went.

“ IR,” said Lane-Walsh over his third drink, “I can just imagine my stick crunching through
that baby face of
yours. Swell thought, huh?”
“I don’t know,” said Juniper-Hallett. He winced every time Lane-Walsh made a crack like
that about his looks. But he was learning, somewhat late in life, not to let such taunts drive him
into a fury. “I find the idea of knocking those big ears loose a lot nicer. Why do all Strombergs
have ears that stick out?”
Lane-Walsh shrugged. “Why are all Crosleys baby-faced shrimps?”
“I wouldn’t call Lord Archwin baby-faced,” said JuniperHallett judiciously. “Any baby with
a face like his would probably scare its parents to death.”
“That’s so. Maybe I judge the rest of ‘em by you. Well,” he held up his glass, “here’s to
an early and bloody settlement of our differences.”
“Right,” said Juniper-Hallett. “May the worst man get all his teeth knocked out. Look,
Justin old scum, what have you heard about the stealing of a dormouse from the Crypt?”


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