"Maclean, Alistair - 1970 - Caravan to Vaccares" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maclean Alistair)
Cecile nodded to Lila. 'Can I talk to her?'
'Sure. Inside.'
'But if we're seen—'
'It won't matter. Going to tell her what a dreadful person I am?'
'No.' A shaky smile.
'Ah! Then you're going to announce our forthcoming nuptials.'
'Not that either.' Again the smile.
'You want to make your mind up.'
She put a hand on his arm. 'I think you might even be rather a kind person.'
'I doubt whether the lad in the Rh6ne would share your sentiments,' Bowman said drily.
The smile vanished. She got out, Bowman drove off, she watched him disappear with a small frown creasing her forehead, then went on to the patio. She looked at Lila, nodded towards the hotel foyer: they went in together, talking.
'You're sure?' Cecile asked. 'Charles recognizes Neil Bowman?'
Lila nodded.
'How? Why?'
'I don't know. He's very, very shrewd, you know.'
'Something more than a famous wine-grower or folk-lorist, you would say?'
'I would say.'
'And he doesn't trust Bowman?'
That puts it very mildly indeed.'
'Stalemate. You know what Bowman thinks of the Duke. I'm afraid my money's on my man, Lila. He disposed of another of the bad men today—'
'He did what?'
'Threw him into the Rhfine. I saw him do it. He says—'
'So that's why you looked like a ghost when I saw you just now.'
'I felt a bit like one, too. He says he's killed two others. I believe him. And I saw him lay out two more. Local colour is local colour but that would be ridiculous, you can't fake a dead man. He's on the side of the angels, Lila. Not, mind you, that I can see the angels liking it very much.'
'You're no more lost than I am. Do? Do what we were told to do, I suppose?'
'I suppose so.' Lila sighed and resumed her earlier woebegone expression. Cecile peered at her.
'Where is Charles?'
'He's gone.' Her gloom deepened. 'He's just gone off with that little chauffeuse—that's what he calls her—and . told me to wait here.'
'Lila!' Cecile stared at her friend. 'It's not possible—'
'Why? Why is it not? What's wrong with Charles?'
'Nothing, of course. Nothing at all.' Cecile rose. 'Two minutes for an appointment. Our Mr Bowman does not like to be kept waiting.'
'When I think of him with that little minx—'
'She looked a perfectly charming young girl to me.'
'That's what I thought, too,' Lila admitted. 'But that was an hour ago.'
Le Grand Duc was not, in fact, with the little minx, nor was he anywhere near her. In the square where the Rssmanian and Hungarian caravans were pulled up, there were no signs of either Carita or the huge green Rolls and neither could have been said to be normally inconspicuous. Le Grand Duc, on the contrary, was very much in evidence: not far from the green-and-white caravan and with note-
book in hand, he was talking with considerable animation to Simon Searl. Czerda, as befitted the leader of the gypsies and an already established acquaintance of Le Grand Duc, was close by but taking no part in the conversation: Searl, from what few signs of emotion that occasionally registered in his thin ascetic face, looked as if he wished he were taking no part in it either.
'Vastly obliged, Monsieur le Cure, vastly obliged.' Le Grand Duc was at his regally gracious best. 'I can't tell you how impressed I was by the service you held in the fields by the Abbey, this morning. Moving, most moving. By Jove, I'm adding to my store of knowledge every minute.' He peered more closely at Searl. 'Have you hurt your leg, my dear fellow?'
'A slight strain, no more.' The only obvious strain was in his face and voice.
'Ah, but you must look after those slight strains—can develop very serious complications, you know. Yes, indeed, very serious.' He removed his monocle, swinging it on the end of its thick black ribbon, the better to observe Searl. 'Haven't I seen you somewhere before—I don't mean at the Abbey. Yes, yes, of course—outside the hotel this morning. Odd, I don't recall you limping then. But then, I'm afraid my eyesight—' He replaced his monocle. 'My thanks again. And watch that strain. Do exercise the greatest care, Monsieur le Cure. For your own sake.'
Le Grand Duc tucked the notebook in an inner pocket and marched majestically away. Czerda looked at Searl, the unbandaged parts of his face registering no expression. Searl, for his part, licked dry lips, said nothing, turned and walked away.
To even a close observer who knew him, the man behind the wheel of the gleamingly blue Citroen parked in the alleyway behind the hotel must have been almost totally unrecognizable as Bowman. He was dressed in a white sombrero, dark glasses, an excruciating blue-and-white polka-dotted shirt, an unbuttoned, embroidered black waistcoat, a pair of moleskin trousers and high boots. The complexion was paler, the moustache larger. Beside him on the seat lay a small purse-stringed bag. The offside front door opened and Cecile peered in, blinking uncertainly.
'I don't bite,' Bowman said encouragingly.
'Good God!' She slid into her seat. 'What—what's this?'
'I'm a guardian, a cowboy in his Sunday best, one of many around. Told you I'd been shopping. Your turn, now.'
'What's in that bag?'
'My poncho, of course.'
She eyed him with the speculative look that had now become almost habitual with her as he drove her to the clothing emporium they'd visited earlier that morning. After a suitable lapse of time the same manageress fluttered around Cecile, making gushing, admiring remarks, talking with her arms as much as with her voice. Cecile was now attired in the fiesta costume of an Arlesienne, with a long sweeping darkly embroidered dress, a ruched lace white bodice and a wimpled hat of the same material. The hat was perched on a dark red wig.
'Madame looks—fantastic!' the manageress said ecstatically.
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