"Robert A. Heinlein - The unpleasant profession of Johathan Ho" - читать интересную книгу автора (Heinlein Robert A)

answers from her rather extensive formal study, or straight out of her subconscious, he
neither knew nor gave a hang. They seemed to work. "Something still bothers me," he
added. "You go along for five years, apparently never knowing where or how you work.
Why this sudden yearning to know?"
He told them the story of the dinner-table discussion, the strange substance under
his nails, and the non-co-operative doctor. "I'm frightened," he said miserably. "I thought
it was blood. And now I know it's something -- worse."
Randall looked at him. "Why?"
Hoag moistened his lips. "Because -- " He paused and looked helpless. "You'll
help me, won't you?"
Randall straightened up. "This isn't in my line," he said. "You need help all right,
but you need help from a psychiatrist. Amnesia isn't in my line. I'm a detective."
"But I want a detective. I want you to watch me and find out what I do."
Randall started to refuse; his wife interrupted. "I'm sure we can help you, Mr.
Hoag. Perhaps you should see a psychiatrist -- "
"Oh, no!"
" -- but if you wish to be shadowed, it will be done."
"I don't like it," said Randall. "He doesn't need us."
Hoag laid his gloves on the side table and reached into his breast pocket. "I'll
make it worth your while." He started counting out bills. "I brought only five hundred,"
he said anxiously. "Is it enough?"
"It will do," she told him.
"As a retainer," Randall added. He accepted the money and stuffed it into his side
pocket. "By the way," he added, "if you don't know what you do during business hours
and you have no more background than a hospital, where do you get the money?" He
made his voice casual.
"Oh, I get paid every Sunday. Two hundred dollars, in bills."
When he had gone Randall handed the cash over to his wife. "Pretty little tickets,"
she said, smoothing them out and folding them neatly. "Teddy, why did you try to queer
the pitch?"
"Me? I didn't -- I was just running up the price. The old 'get-away-closer.'"
"That's what I thought. But you almost overdid it."
"Not at all. I knew I could depend on you. You wouldn't let him out of the house
with a nickel left on him."
She smiled happily. "You're a nice man, Teddy. And we have so much in
common. We both like money. How much of his story did you believe?"
"Not a damned word of it."
"Neither did I. He's rather a horrid little beast -- I wonder what he's up to."
"I don't know, but I mean to find out."
"You aren't going to shadow him yourself, are you?"
"Why not? Why pay ten dollars a day to some ex-flattie to muff it?"
"Teddy, I don't like the set-up. Why should he be willing to pay this much" -- she
gestured with the bills -- "to lead you around by the nose?"
"That is what I'm going to find out."
"You be careful. You remember 'The Red-headed League.'"
"The 'Red-headed-' Oh, Sherlock Holmes again. Be your age, Cyn."
"I am. You be yours. That little man is evil."
She left the room and cached the money. When she returned he was down on his
knees by the chair in which Hoag had sat, busy with an insufflator. He looked around as
she came in.