"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 144 - Strange Fish" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Golly, it's good to be home, Paris thought. It's good to be home and have a few million dollars and have
the cop at the corner of Fifty-seventh wave at you. It's good to be alive, and it's good to have plans, and
it's good to know you're in this good God-blessed wonderful United States.

Paris Stevens was a very beautiful girl. But this wasn't a complete description, because Paris was a
character. She was more interesting than her looks, if that was possible.

Paris was a career girl—after a fashion. She had a ranch in Oklahoma, and the ranch had more oil wells
on it than it had cattle, and she had a perfume business on Madison Avenue which would go back to
booming after the war.

Paris was domineering; she frequently said sharp, clever things before she thought, wouldn't take advice,
and she did not have a high opinion of men in general. She regarded the human male as a form of
bumbling oxen.

She occupied a fabulous Park Avenue duplex, at which the car now stopped.

Abner, the chauffeur, said, “The fat man followed us home.”

“What?”

“I will,” said Abner, “give him a kick in the pants, if you say.”

“You must be mistaken,” Paris said in a puzzled tone.

“No, I ain't,” Abner said. “Take a look. He hopped a cab. It's that yellow Sky-View.”

“I refuse,” said Paris, “to have this beautiful day marred by a fat man.”

She resolved that she would walk into the apartment house without looking back to see whether the fat
man was there in a cab, but her resolution slipped, and she took a peek. He was there. His round cheese
face and moist plum eyes were looking at her.

She couldn't have explained why she shivered.



PARIS slipped out of her mink and gave it to Callahan, her colored maid. She unwrapped the new hat
she'd bought and put the silly thing on her head. It was nice. Of course, Paris thought, the months I went
around wearing WAC headgear may have softened me up a little for a thing like this.

Now, suddenly, she was sure that tears were in her eyes. She leaned back, and let them come. It was so
good, so awfully damn good, to be away from the grim river of destruction and death, and dogged, awful
tiredness that was war. It was so good to feel like crying. She did.

She had been in the WAC about a year and a half, and despite her marked ability for organization and
telling people what to do in civilian life, she hadn't risen higher than sergeant. She had, however, gotten
across. She was one of the first WAC contingent to land in Africa, and later she was one of the few of
that group who got to England, then into Normandy shortly after the first big strike was made into the