"Lloyd Arthur Esbach - Sister Abigail's Collection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eshbach Lloyd Arthur)

who brought it in is known to us — and she wouldn’t be the kind —”

“Get it out of the window,” Moreland cut in. “Engraved on the back you’ll
find the words, ‘For Ann — with all my love — Rob.’“

The man hesitated on the verge of protesting, then shrugged, opened the little
door leading into the window and slid inside. Moreland’s thoughts raced. What was
his next move? If he called the police what could he say? The im-plication would be
dishonesty on the part of someone at the funeral home, the most respected in the
city, and he really had no proof. One thing was cer-tain. No matter what developed,
he wouldn’t leave the piece here. He’d buy it if he had to — but he’d insist on
get-ting the name and address of the woman who had brought it to the pawnshop.
She must be the key. And he had to learn the answer to this impossible af-fair.

The short man reappeared, his gaze fixed on the pendant cradled in one heavy
hand. He nodded grudgingly. “That’s what it says,” then added de-fensively, “but
that doesn’t prove it was stolen.” He changed the subject. “You do nice work, my
friend.”

Moreland’s eyes narrowed and he spoke slowly, enunciating every word.
“Mister, that pendant was buried with my wife in Pleasant View Memorial Park eight
months ago!”

The pawnbroker gasped, his eyes widening. Carefully he placed the jewel on a
square of black velvet on the countertop. He pursed his heavy lips, ob-viously
weighing the situation, then finally spoke.

“My friend, I don’t want any trouble. I don’t know what this is all about —
and I don’t want to know. But first, who are you?”

Moreland produced a business card. “I’m a lawyer. So what’s next?”

The pawnbroker grimaced, then nod-ded. “All I want is to get my investment
back. The woman sold it outright — she always does — and I gave her a hundred.
I’ve been asking three but you can have it for the hundred.”

Moreland grinned sardonically. “I’ll believe fifty. And I want the name and
address of the woman. Otherwise I’ll call the police. Probably should any-way.”

Discussion followed; it ended with Rob Moreland leaving with the silver
pendant, a signed receipt, and an ad-dress: Amelia Lowry, 818 Waverley — a
tree-lined street in the oldest and most respected part of town.
 As he continued on his interrupted way to his office, Moreland’s mind was in
a turmoil. The several blocks’ walk did nothing to bring order to his thoughts. He
greeted his secretary ab-sently and entered his private office, closing the door behind
him.

He placed the opal-and-jade pendant on his desk and stared at it intently, as
though to solve its secret by his con-centration. His thoughts moved back to the
funeral, eight months ago. Tears blurred his vision as he again felt his loss — the end