"George R. R. Martin - Fevre Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

CHAPTER ONE
St. Louis, April 1857.

ABNER Marsh rapped the head of his hickory walking stick smartly on the
hotel desk to get the clerk's attention. "I'm here to see a man named
York," he said. "Josh York, I believe he calls hisself You got such a man
here?"
The clerk was an elderly man with spectacles. He jumped at the sound of
the rap, then turned and spied Marsh and smiled. "Why, it's Cap'n Marsh,"
he said amiably. "Ain't seen you for half a year, Cap'n. Heard about your
misfortune, though. Terrible, just terrible. I been here since '36 and I never
seen no ice jam like that one."

"Never you mind about that," Abner Marsh said, annoyed. He had
anticipated such comments. The Planters' House was a popular hostelry
among steamboatmen. Marsh himself had dined there regularly before that
cruel winter. But since the ice jam he'd been staying away, and not only
because of the prices. Much as he liked Planters' House food, he was not
eager for its brand of company: pilots and captains and mates, rivermen all,
old friends and old rivals, and all of them knowing his misfortune. Abner
Marsh wanted no man's pity. "You just say where York's room is," he told
the clerk peremptorily.

The clerk bobbed his head nervously. "Mister York won't be in his room,
Cap'n. You'll find him in the dining room, taking his meal."

"Now? At this hour?" Marsh glanced at the ornate hotel clock, then loosed
the brass buttons of his coat and pulled out his own gold pocket watch.
"Ten past midnight," he said, incredulous. "You say he's eatin'?"

"Yes sir, that he is. He chooses his own times, Mister York, and he's not
the sort you say no to, Cap'n."
Abner Marsh made a rude noise deep in his throat, pocketed his watch, and
turned away without a word, setting off across the richly appointed lobby
with long, heavy strides. He was a big man, and not a patient one, and he
was not accustomed to business meetings at midnight. He carried his
walking stick with a flourish, as if he had never had a misfortune, and was
still the man he had been.
The dining room was almost as grand and lavish as the main saloon on a
big steamer, with cut-glass chandeliers and polished brass fixtures and
tables covered with fine white linen and the best china and crystal. During
normal hours, the tables would have been full of travelers and
steamboatmen, but now the room was empty, most of the lights
extinguished. Perhaps there was something to be said for midnight
meetings after all, Marsh reflected; at least he would have to suffer no
condolences. Near the kitchen door, two Negro waiters were talking softly.
Marsh ignored them and walked to the far side of the room, where a
well-dressed stranger was dining alone.

The man must have heard him approach, but he did not look up. He was