"Heirloom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

THE HEIRLOOM

by Graham Masterton

* Forebodings *

How he managed to drive up to my door in that huge black van without my seeing him I shall never know. But I came around the side of the house with my sweeping-brush to tidy up some of the fallen eucalyptus leaves, and there he wa.s, tall and silent, dressed in one of those long grey dusters that removal men and french polishers sometimes used to wear. His face was as long and pale as a calico kitbag, and his eyes were hidden behind the tiniest dark glasses I had ever seen. His hands were thrust into his pockets.
Behind him, neatly parked next to my Impala wagon, was the van. Old-fashioned, upright, and painted in a black so glossy that I could see a distorted reflection of the house and the eucalyptus trees in it.
'Mr Delatolla?' he asked, raising his cap.
'Who the hell are you?' I demanded. 'This is private property.'
'My name's Grant,' he said, mildly. 'I'm sorry to drop in on you without an appointment, but a friend of mine told me you might be interested in purchasing some unusual antiques.'
I glanced at the van. 'Oh, yes? Well, it depends how unusual they are. What have you got?'
He smiled a little. 'I'm not a time-waster, Mr Delatolla. I'm a house-clearer; and I can assure you that I only clear the best.'
'This is local stuff?.' I asked him.
He nodded. 'I came down from Santa Barbara especially to do it. You've heard of the Jessops, of course?'
'You mean the Jessops who sell jewellery in San Diego or the Jessops who build aeroplanes at Long Beach?'
'The aeroplane Jessops. They have a house at Escondido.'
'I've seen it,' I told him. 'My wife always calls it the worst and only example of North San Diego Baroque. But surely none of the Jessops have died?'

Grant pursed his lips. 'No, no. Nothing like that. They're simply... restyling. They wanted to dispose of some of the extraneous furniture.'
'How extraneous?' I wanted to know. 'I don't buy garbage.'
'I know your reputation,' said Grant. 'If I didn't think you'd be interested in what I've got here, I wouldn't even have come along. Do you want to take a look?'
'Couldn't you bring it around to my store tomorrow?' I asked him.
'I'm supposed to be taking my son to the wild-animal park in about ten minutes.'

Grant looked away, across the tree-lined drive. 'I regret I have to be back in Santa Barbara by tonight.'
He said it in a strange, wistful way; and his voice was like the Sunday-afternoon breeze which rustled the leaves in the nearby lemon grove. He said nothing more to persuade me to look at what he had brought in that travelling hearse of his. He left it entirely up to me. And that, as I learned later, was one of the devices with which such antiques must be sold.

I checked my watch. 'Okay,' I told him abruptly. 'You open up the van, and I'll go tell my wife we're going to be running a half-hour late. I suppose a half-hour is going to be long enough?'
He nodded. It's strange, thinking about him today, because I can never quite remember what he really looked like.
Sometimes I picture him like that French comedian Fernandel, only grimmer. Other times he appears in my memory as Jason Robards, or Richard Nixon. I watched him walk towards his van to open up the back doors, and it was like watching somebody walk through the shallow surf at the beach, an odd invading sort of walk.

I turned and went inside. Jonathan, my six-year-old son, was sitting on the Spanish-tiled floor in the hallway, studiously tying up his sneakers. Sara was in the kitchen, tidying up after preparing tonight's carnitas and tortillas. I came up behind her and kissed the side of her neck.
'Are you ready to go?' she asked me.
'Believe it or not, I have an antiques dealer outside,' I told her.

'Today? Sunday? Here?'
'He's from Santa Barbara. Apparently he has to go back tonight, otherwise I'd have had him call at the store in the morning.'
Sara wiped her hands on her flowery Danish apron, and then untied it. 'What's so important he has to come around on Sunday?'
'He cleared some furniture from the Jessop place at Escondido. Says they're redecorating or something like that, and they had one or two special pieces they wanted to get rid of.'
'They'd better be pretty special to interrupt your one day of rest,' warned Sara. She could be just as prickly as I was when she wanted to be. 'How long do you think you're going to be?'
'A half-hour. Not longer.'
Jonathan said, 'Are we going? I want to get in the car.'
'Not yet,' I told him, ruffling up his sun-blond hair. 'I just have to talk to that man outside for a couple of minutes. Then we'll go straight away. Faster than a speeding bullet.'
Jonathan squeaked the soles of his sneakers along the hallway in impatience. I warned, 'Jonathan,' and he looked up at me and gave me one of those sulky, silly, persuasive little smiles, just like Sara's.
'I'll tell you what you can do,' I told him. 'Go chain up Sheraton in his kennel, and make sure he's got a bowl, of water.'
"Kay,' said Jonathan, and skidded off.
Outside, on the asphalt driveway, the man called Grant had laid down a wide black velveteen rug, with black silk fringes.
On it, he had already set out four dining-room chairs, two torch, res, a circular Victorian bedside stand with a marble top, a pair of soapstone statues of fat naked ladies, and a lacquered Chinese-style Regency desk.
I walked around the furniture and statues and gave them a cursory once-over.