"Maclean, Alistair - 1970 - Caravan to Vaccares" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)

Madame Zigair nodded and fell silent. Suddenly the caravan door was thrown open and Tina was thrown bodily into the room to fall heavily and face downwards on the caravan floor. Lacabro and Czerda stood framed in the entrance, the former grinning, the latter savage with a barely controlled anger. Tina lay where she had fallen, very still, clearly unconscious. Her clothes had been ripped from her back which was blood-stained and almost entirely covered with a mass of wicked-looking red and purplish weals: she had been viciously, mercilessly whipped.
'Now,' Czerda said softly. 'Now will you all learn?'
The door closed. The three women stared in horror at the cruelly mutilated girl, then fell to their knees to help her.
Of':
CHAPTER FIVE
Bowman's call to England came through quickly and he returned to his hotel within fifteen minutes of having left it. The corridor leading to his bedroom was thickly carpeted and his footfalls soundless. He was reaching for the handle of the door when he heard voices coming from inside the room. Not voices, he realized, just one—Cecile's—and it came only intermittently: the tone of her voice was readily recognizable but the muffling effect of the intervening door was too great to allow him to distinguish the words. He was about to lean his ear against the woodwork when a chambermaid carrying an armful of sheets came round a corner of the corridor. Bowman walked unconcernedly on his way and a couple of minutes later walked as unconcernedly back. There was only silence in the room. He knocked and went inside.
Cecile was standing by the window and she turned and smiled at him as he closed the door. Her gleaming dark hair had been combed or brushed or whatever she'd done with it and she looked more fetching than ever.
'Ravishing,' he said. 'How did you manage without me? My word, if our children only look—'
'Another thing,' she interrupted. The smile, he now noticed, lacked warmth. 'This Mr Parker business when you registered. You did show your passport, didn't you—Mr Bowman?'
'A friend lent it to me.'
'Of course. What else? Is your friend very important?'
'How's that?'
'What is your job, Mr Bowman?'
T've told you—'
'Of course. I'd forgotten. A professional idler.' She sighed. 'And now—breakfast?'
'First, for me, a shave. It'll spoil my complexion but I can fix that. Then breakfast.'
He took the shaving kit from his case, went into the
bathroom, closed the door and set about shaving. He looked around him. She'd come in here, divested herself of all her cumbersome finery, had a very careful bath to ensure that she didn't touch the stain, dressed again, reapplied to the palms of her hands some of the stain he'd left her and all this inside fifteen minutes. Not to mention the hair brushing or combing or whatever. He didn't believe it, she had about her the fastidious look of a person who'd have used up most of that fifteen minutes just in brushing her teeth. He looked into the bath and it was indubitably still wet so she had at least turned on the tap. He picked up the crumpled bath-towel and it was as dry as the sands of the Sinai desert. She'd brushed her hair and that was all. Apart from making a phone call.
He shaved, re-applied some war-paint and took Cecile down to a table in a corner of the hotel's rather ornate and statuary-crowded patio. Despite the comparatively early hour it was already well patronized with late breakfasters and early coffee-takers. For the most part the patrons were clearly tourists, but there was a fair sprinkling of the more well-to-do Arlesiens among them, some dressed in the traditional fiesta costume of that part, some as gypsies.
As they took their seats their attention was caught and held by an enormous lime and dark green Rolls-Royce parked by the kerb: beside it stood the chauffeuse, her uniform matching the colours of the car. Cecile looked at the gleaming car in frank admiration.
'Gorgeous,' she said. 'Absolutely gorgeous.'
'Yes indeed,' Bowman agreed. 'You'd hardly think she could drive a great big car like that.' He ignored Cecile's old-fashioned look and leisurely surveyed the patio. 'Three guesses as to the underprivileged owner.'
Cecile followed his line of sight. The third table from where they sat was occupied by Le Grand Duc and Lila. A waiter appeared with a very heavy tray which he set before Le Grand Duc who picked up and drained a beaker of orange juice almost before the waiter had time to straighten what must have been his aching back.
'I thought that fellow would never come.' Le Grand Duc was loud and testy.
'Charles.' Lila shook her head. 'You've just had an enormous breakfast.'
'And now I'm having another one. Pass the rolls, ma cherie.'
'Good God!' At their table, Cecile laid a hand on Bowman's arm. 'The Duke—and Lila.'
'What's ail the surprise about?' Bowman watched Le Grand Duc industriously ladling marmalade from a large jar while Lila poured him coffee. 'Naturally he'd be here—where the gypsies are, there the famous gypsy folk-lorist will be. And, of course, in the best hotel. There's the beginning of a beautiful friendship across there. Can she cook?'
'Can she—funnily enough, she can. A very good one, too. Cordon Bleu.'
'Good Lord! He'll kidnap her.'
'But what is she still doing with him?'
'Easy. You told her about Saintes-Maries. She'll want to go there. And she hasn't a car, not since we borrowed it. He'll definitely want to be going there. And he has a car —a pound to a penny that's his Rolls. And they seem on pretty good terms, though heaven knows what she sees in our large friend. Look at his hands—they work like a conveyor belt. Heaven grant I'm never aboard a lifeboat with him when they're sharing out the last of the rations.'
'I think he's good-looking. In his own way.'
'So's an orang-utan.'
'You don't like him, do you?' She seemed amused. 'Just because he said you were—'
'I don't trust him. He's a phoney. I'll bet he's not a gypsy folklorist, has never written a thing about them and never will. If he's so famous and important a man why has neither of us ever heard of him? And why does he come to this part three years running to study their customs? Once would be enough for even a folklore ignoramus like me.'
'Maybe he likes gypsies.'
'Maybe. And maybe he likes them for all the wrong reasons.'
Cecile looked at him, paused and said in a lowered voice: 'You think he's this Gaiuse Strome?'
'I didn't say anything of the kind. And don't mention that name in here—you still want to live, don't you?'
'I don't see—'
'How do you know there's not a real gypsy among all the ones wearing fancy dress on this patio?'
'I'm sorry. That was silly of me.'
'Yes.' He was looking at Le Grand Duc's table. Lila had risen and was speaking. Le Grand Duc waved a lordly hand and she walked towards the hotel entrance. His face thoughtful, Bowman's gaze followed her as she crossed the patio, mounted the steps, crossed the foyer and disappeared.
'She Is beautiful, isn't she?' Cecile murmured.
'How's that?' Bowman looked at her. 'Yes, yes of course. Unfortunately I can't marry you both—there's a law against it.' Still thoughtful, he looked across at Le Grand Duc, then back at Cecile. 'Go talk to our well-built friend. Read his palm. Tell his fortune.'
'What?'
'The Duke there. Go—'
'I don't think that's funny.'
'Neither do I. Never occurred to me when your friend was there—she'd have recognized you. But the Duke won't —he hardly knows you. And certainly wouldn't in that disguise. Not that there's the slightest chance of him lifting his eyes from his plate anyway.'