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

Callahan blinked owlishly. “Why, Missy, isn't he your interior decorator?”

A few questions brought the rest of it out. The man had fooled Callahan. He had told Callahan that Paris
had engaged him to do over her apartment; he had said that Paris had ordered him not to worry her or
bother her with details. Paris was in the hospital at the time. It was a logical story. The man had acted like
an interior decorator. He brought materials, color charts, made sketches.

“How often,” Paris asked, “was he in my apartment?”

“Nearly every day.”

Paris called the police. Within thirty minutes, a police detective was there. Paris had described the fat
man over the telephone, and the detective brought some rogue's gallery pictures. None of the pictures
were of the fat man.

After the detective had gone, Paris fainted. She just lay back and passed out.

She wasn't out long. After she awakened, she lay still, weak and ill, and thought . . . She was just out of
the hospital. She was in no shape to cope with anything violent. She was too weak; she had no spirit for
it.

She thought of her ranch in Oklahoma.

She called Callahan.

“Get me a ticket to Tulsa, Oklahoma,” she directed Callahan.



Chapter II
THE morning sunlight was bright on Tulsa's Union Station, on the Philtower Building, and the other
buildings. Johnny Toms was at the steps when the pullman porter helped Paris off the train.

“How,” said Johnny Toms. His face was expressionless.

“How,” Paris said. Then she laughed. “Heap long time no see you, Chief.”

Johnny Toms grinned a little. But all he said was, “Sure thing.”

He wore moccasins, corduroy trousers, beaded belt, violent plaid shirt. His black hair was long, combed
to look as if there should have been a feather in it. He had a majestic hooked nose and snapping black
eyes.

Paris indicated her bags. “Heap baggage,” she said. “Think you can carry?”

“Ugh,” Johnny Toms said.

Paris wanted to laugh again. Johnny Toms was a fake. He was actually about one-tenth Osage Indian, if
that. But he liked to give the impression that he was a laconic redskin of the old school.