"Richard Matheson - Hell House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matheson Richard)

It had been raining hard since five o'clock that morning. Brontean weather, Dr. Barrett
thought. He repressed a smile. He felt rather like a character in some latter-day Gothic romance.
The driving rain, the cold, the two-hour ride from Manhattan in one of Deutsch's long black
leatherupholstered limousines. The interminable wait in this corridor while disconcerted-looking
men and women hurried in and out of Deutsch's bedroom, glancing at him occasionally.
He drew his watch from its vest pocket and raised the lid. He'd been here more than an
hour now. What did Deutsch want of him? Something to do with parapsychology, most likely. The old
man's chain of newspapers and magazines were forever printing articles on the subject. "Return
from the Grave"; "The Girl Who Wouldn't Die"--always sensational, rarely factual.


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Wincing at the effort, Dr. Barrett lifted his right leg over his left. He was a tall,
slightly overweight man in his middle fifties, his thinning blond hair unchanged in color, though
his trimmed beard showed traces of white. He sat erect on the straight-back chair, staring at the
door to Deutsch's bedroom. Edith must be getting restless downstairs. He was sorry she'd come.
Still, he'd had no way of knowing it would take this long.


The door to Deutsch's bedroom opened, and his male secretary, Hanley, came out. "Doctor,"
he said.
Barrett reached for his cane and, standing, limped across the hallway, stopping in front
of the shorter man. He waited while the secretary leaned in through the doorway and announced,
"Doctor Barrett, sir." Then he stepped past Hanley, entering the room. The secretary closed the
door behind him.
The darkly paneled bedroom was immense. Sanctum of the monarch, Barrett thought as he
moved across the rug. Stopping by the massive bed, he looked at the old man sitting in it. Rolf
Rudolph Deutsch was eighty-seven, bald, and skeletal, his dark eyes peering out from bony
cavities. Barrett smiled. "Good afternoon." Intriguing that this wasted creature ruled an empire,
he was thinking.
"You're crippled." Deutsch's voice was rasping. "No one told me that."
"I beg your pardon?" Barrett had stiffened.
"Never mind." Deutsch cut him off. "It's not that vital, I suppose. My people have
recommended you. They say you're one of the five best in your field." He drew in laboring breath.
"Your fee will be one hundred thousand dollars."
Barrett started.
"Your assignment is to establish the facts."
"Regarding what?" asked Barrett.
Deutsch seemed hesitant about replying, as though he felt it was beneath him. Finally he
said, "Survival."
"You want me--?"
"--to tell me if it's factual or not."
Barrett's heart sank. That amount of money would make all the difference in the world to
him. Still, how could he in conscience accept it on such grounds?
"It isn't lies I want," Deutsch told him. "I'll buy the answer, either way. So long as
it's definitive."
Barrett felt a roil of despair. "How can I convince you, either way?" He was compelled to
say it.