"Ron Goulart - The Curse of the Obelisk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

admit, the sort of story I do well." She'd taken off the cap and the faint
night breeze brushed at her hair.
Across the small outdoor table from her Harry lit his cigar. "A curse?"
He blew smoke at the marble tabletop.
"Three weeks ago the noted French archaeologist Reynard Courdaud
met a strange end at his villa near Nice," said the reporter. "Then five days
ago Sir Munson Bellhouse died in a fall while hunting in Scotland."
"A death in Nice, another in Scotland. Why does that prompt the Daily
Inquirer to send you here to Paris?"
After savoring a spoonful of the ice, she answered, "You haven't done,
Harry, sufficient research into this affair."
The light spilling out through the stained glass window of the sidewalk
café gave a pale golden glow to her face. Harry looked away for a moment,
toward a plump German tourist who was sipping a solitary absinthe.
"Was Bellhouse an archaeologist, too?"
Jennie nodded. "He was one of the five men who headed the expedition
to the Valley of Jackals in 1895," she said. "They found considerable
treasures, including the dornick that's been dubbed the Osiris Obelisk."
"Is it anything like the one in Central Park or the one right here in town
at the Place de la Concorde?"
"This is a miniature version, only about six feet high. Thing is, one of
the inscriptions started the rumor that—"
"Wait now. Is there a curse on the thing?"
"There was a lot of talk to that effect, back when the Courdaud
expedition first broke into the tomb it was standing in front of. My editors
believe there's a—"
 "Awful slow for a curse. Don't they work faster than that?" He rested his
elbows on the tabletop, watching her faintly freckled face. "Waiting two
years before striking isn't my idea of—"
"Let me give you a few details about Reynard Courdaud's death." She
set her spoon aside. "His valet swears that Courdaud was attacked on his
terrace at dusk by a giant bat. That's one reason I hollered and started
shooting when I saw that thing tonight lurking over your—"
"A giant bat?" Harry sat up.
"Your elbow." Jennie pointed. "You've got something sticky on it."
"Coffee." Fishing out his handkerchief, he wiped at his coat. "This seems
to be my night for . . . hmm."
"What is it?"
He'd brought the stained square of linen up to his nose and was sniffing
at it. "While I'm not an expert on bat lore, I'll bet their droppings don't
smell like machine oil."
She reached across and took the handkerchief. "That's oil sure enough.
What makes you think—"
"While that thing was flying away directly overhead, I looked up."
Crumpling the handkerchief, Jennie said, "This is commencing to look
like one of the oddest curses I've ever investigated."
"This guy in Scotland . . ."
"Sir Munson Bellhouse, one of the most respected archaeologists in
Britain. Haven't you ever heard of—"
"What caused his fall?"