"Caribbean Crisis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

Sexton Blake allowed himself a brief smile at the reference to himself, but as he came to the end of the article his smile became a puzzled frown.
For a moment his fingers drummed thoughtfully on the top of his desk. Then he picked up the telephone.
The company's telephonist and receptionist, Marion Lang, came on the line.
"Yes, Mr. Blake?"
"Marion, get me splash Splash Kirby's office at the Post, will you?"
"Right away, Mr Blake!"
Blake replaced the receiver on its cradle and glanced up as his secretary came in.
Paula Dane was the epitome of everything the perfect secretary should be -- and more.
She was tall, sophisticated and extremely beautiful.
The blue, summer dress she was wearing had a wide skirt which swayed gently from the hips of her fine, well-moulded figure as she walked.
Her well-groomed, honey-blonde hair glowed softly in the morning sunlight, and the scent of fresh lavender came in with her as she entered the office.
Deep, the china-blue eyes studied Blake with an air of expectancy: "Ready to dictate?"
Before Blake could answer the telephone rang. He nodded to Paula to take the chair beside his desk, and scooped up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Kirby here," came the bright, breezy voice of the columnist. "What's the problem, sleuth?"
"Good morning, Splash," said Blake. "Listen, I've just been reading your item on Maliba--"
"Ah! The bathysphere mystery? I thought that would hook you? Have you solved it yet?"
"No, I haven't," Blake grinned. "I'd like some more information..."
"Shoot," Kirby invited.
"Why did you write it?" Blake asked.
There was a pause. "What's the matter? Don't you like it?"
"On the contrary," Blake smiled. "I'm fascinated by it. But by the same token, so will millions of other readers. I mean, why wasn't it handled by the news boys? This is front page material isn't it?"
Kirby paused again. "You've asked the million dollar question. You're right of cause, and we all agree -- but the problem is the story's reliability. Our man in Maliba is having his trouble getting his stuff through. The police hamper him at every stage. There's a lot of unofficial censorship going on and we haven't been able to get confirmation."
"Why the censorship?" Blake asked.
"I don't know," Kirby admitted. "It's hard to see how this can have a political angle -- but presumably it must have. As soon as we get confirmation we'll make a bigger story of it, but in the meantime the Editor's playing safe, and gave it to me to handle as a piece of harmless gossip."
"So you know nothing else about it?"
"Not a thing, old chap! I had to pad it out as it was. As soon as I have any more facts. I'll let you know. Okay?"
"Okay, Splash." Blake thanked him and hung up.
He turned to his secretary, glancing at the notebook, which she held poised above her knee.
"What's on the programme?" he asked.
"A letter to the solicitors and one to Acme Life and Property about last month's fake-suicide investigation."
"Can they wait until this afternoon?"
"I can handle them by myself if you're busy," Paula suggested. "But your next appointment isn't until eleven when Sir Gordon Sellingham's due to arrive."
"I know," Blake nodded. "I want to see the file on Maliba before he gets here."
"Maliba..." Paula rose and went get the file.
She was back a few moments later with a thin manilla folder which she laid on the desk.
"Why the sudden interest in Maliba, chief? Has Sir Gordon Sellingham got something to do with it?"
"He owns several sugar refineries there," Blake replied.
"Is that what he wants to see you about?"
"I don't know yet. But I imagine he must be worried about them. If he isn't he ought to be. Anyway, I'll go through these cuttings until he arrives. Show him in as soon as he gets here, will you?"
"All right," said Paula, "and I'll handle those letter myself." She whisked elegantly from the office.
Twenty minutes later there was a discreet tap on the door and Paula stepped in, followed by a tall man who stooped slightly and carried a briefcase.
He was unnaturally pink -- a striking feature, since he was far from being fat. His face was as pink and blank as one of his own famous cheques.
He wore pince-nez and was quite bald, with a pink, shiny scalp. The hands which held the briefcase and an expensive looking hat were also pink.
Blake half-expected the man's clothes to be pink, but they weren't. They were sombre, charcoal grey.
"Sir Gordon Sellingham, Mr. Blake," Paula Dane said formally.
Blake rose and shook hands over the desk. "Sit down, Sir Gordon."
Sir Gordon Sellingham dumped himself into one of Blake's comfortable chairs.
"Thank you," he said in a surprisingly deep and throaty voice.
Blake opened his monographed silver cigarette box and offered it to the millionaire.
"I've got a case for you, Mr. Blake," he announced as he leaned forward to take a light.