"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 290 - Death has Grey Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Dick's eyes widened in real surprise.
"You know Eric?"
"Certainly," laughed Jerry. "He's right here in New York." Rising, Jerry
clapped a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Come on, we'd better be getting back to
the
table."
"Eric." Dick muttered the name as they walked along. "No, it couldn't be
Eric. It's another name - if any."
Jerry was holding out a case of cigarettes. Dick started to take one with
his left hand, then shifted. He was getting out of that habit on trifling
things that didn't bother his right hand too much.
"Another name -"
"It wasn't a girl's name, was it?" put in Jerry, casually. "Or was it?"
"There was a girl," said Dick, slowly, "but I don't know her name. I
never
heard it. A wonderful girl."
"I thought so."
Dick stared at Jerry blankly.
"Why?"
"Because of the way you've forgotten Claire. You really have, you know. I
don't think she likes it."
Dick wasn't in a mood to care. They had reached their table and under the
flicker of the artificial starlight, Dick began to exercise his right hand
with
a pencil. His chat with Jerry had stirred one recollection, at least. On the
back of an announcement card, Dick was drawing a picture from memory, a
portrait upon which all his vague recollections seemed to gather and focus.
Leaning on his elbows, Jerry was watching, much intrigued. The music
ended, but neither noticed it, until Claire's voice spoke from beside them,
caustic in its light ripple.
"I didn't know you could draw, Dick."
"Learned how, years ago," said Dick, still working on the finishing
touches that were putting just the right expression into the portrait's eyes.
"Thought I'd forgotten how, but I hadn't. Funny, how many things came back to
me."
"She's lovely," said Claire in a tone that meant the opposite. "Who is
she?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe she'll come back to you. Or isn't she one of the things that
you've
forgotten?"
What Claire said didn't count. Holding the finished picture at arm's
length, Dick sat amazed at his own skill. His right hand had certainly gained
something during its idleness, for the picture was a perfect replica of the
sympathetic face that had haunted Dick all during his delirium.
Unless the face had been a sheer fabric of imagination. Unaware of a stir
at the opposite side of the table, Dick kept staring at the sketch until
Jerry's hand started lifting at his elbow. The men were getting up to meet
someone who had just arrived. A bit annoyed, Dick complied with the ceremony,
raising his head as he arose.