"Higgins, Jack - Prayer For The Dying" - читать интересную книгу автора (Higgins Jack)

"You seem very sure."

"As a young man I was lieutenant in the Special Air Service, Superintendent," da Costa told him calmly. "The Aegean Islands - Yugoslavia. That sort of thing. I'm afraid I had to use a silenced pistol myself on more than one occasion."

Miller and Fitzgerald glanced at each other in surprise and then Father da Costa saw it all in a flash of blinding light. "But of course," he said. "It's impossible to use a silencer with a revolver. It has to be an automatic pistol which means the cartridge case would have been ejected." He crossed to the doorway. "Let me see, the pistol was in his right hand so the cartridge case should be somewhere about here."

"Exactly," Miller said. "Only we can't find it."

And then da Costa remembered. "He dropped to one knee and picked something up, just before he left."

Miller turned to Fitzgerald who looked chagrined. "Which wasn't in your report."

"My fault, Superintendent," da Costa said. "I didn't tell him. It slipped my mind."

"As I said, Father, there's always something." Miller took out a pipe and started to fill it from a worn leather pouch. "I know one thing. This man's no run-of-the-mill tear away. He's a professional right down to his fingertips, and that's good."

"I don't understand," Father da Costa said.

"Because there aren't many of that calibre about, Father. It's as simple as that. Let me explain. About six months ago somebody got away with nearly a quarter of a million from a local bank. Took all weekend to get into the vault. A beautiful job-too beautiful. You see we knew straight away that there were no more than five or six men in the country capable of that level of craftsmanship and three of them were in jail. The rest was purely a matter of mathematics."

"I see," da Costa said.

"Now take my unknown friend. I know a hell of a lot about him already. He's an exceptionally clever man because that priest's disguise was a touch of genius. Most people think in stereotypes. If I ask them if they saw anyone they'll say no. If I press them, they'll remember they saw a postman or - as in this case - a priest. If I ask them what he looked like, we're in trouble because all they can remember is that he looked like a priest - any priest."

"I saw his face," da Costa said. "Quite clearly."

"I only hope you'll be as certain if you see a photo of him dressed differently." Miller frowned. "Yes, he knew what he was doing all right. Galoshes to hide his normal footprints, probably a couple of sizes too large, and a crack shot. Most people couldn't hit a barn door with a handgun at twelve feet. He only needed one shot and that's going some, believe me."

"And considerable nerve," Father da Costa said. "He didn't forget to pick up that cartridge case, remember, in spite of the fact that I had appeared on the scene."

"We ought to have you in the Department, Father." Miller turned to Fitzgerald. "You carry on here. I'll take Father da Costa down town."

Da Costa glanced at his watch. It was twelve-fifteen and he said quickly, "I'm sorry, Superintendent, but that isn't possible. I hear confessions at one o'clock. And my niece was expecting me for lunch at twelve. She'll be worried."

Miller took it quite well. "I see. And when will you be free?"

"Officially at one-thirty. It depends, of course,"

"On the number of customers?"

"Exactly."

Miller nodded good-humouredly. "All right Father, I'll pick you up at two o'clock. Will that be all right?"

"I should imagine so," da Costa said.

Til walk you to you" car."

The rain had slackened just a little as they went along the path through the rhododendron bushes. Miller yawned several times and rubbed his eyes.