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

a horsehair quirt. He gave, seemingly, most of his attention to the quirt.

Paris left out nothing. She was, she realized, relieved to get the story told to someone she trusted. She
discovered it made her feel better to go into great detail, so she did.

After she finished, Johnny Toms was silent. He finished three or four plaits in his quirt.

“No idea who this fat boy is?” he asked.

“He told Callahan his name was Ben Watt.”

“That wouldn't mean it was.”

“Naturally.”

“Sounds mysterious.” Johnny Toms looked at her intently. “Women are liars by nature. Maybe you
forgot and left out some.”

Paris shook her head. “Some day, Johnny, you are going to get married, and your wife is going to beat
you to death. No, I didn't leave out anything.”

“You didn't get in anything in the war?”

Paris grimaced. “In the war, I did what my WAC duties called for. It was thrilling. There was nothing
mysterious. Nothing heroic happened to me. War is mostly waiting. The rest is work, awful unending
work and, sometimes, being afraid. No, Johnny, I didn't get involved in any Mata Hari work, and I
wasn't a spy, and I never saw that fat man before in my life. I'm just a WAC who was in the wrong place
and kept a date with a bomb.”

Johnny Toms eyed her narrowly. “Feel rocky, eh?”

“Oh, I'm not a helpless invalid, but I'll say that I've felt better in my time. Don't get ideas about my health.
My brain, at least, is as healthy as a dog.”

“Oklahoma,” said Johnny, “will be good for you. Oklahoma great place. Will kill or cure you.”

“Why do you think I came here?” Paris said gratefully. “I know I'll get to feeling better. Not that I feel
tough now. I don't. I feel fairly fine, only weak. But I'm scared.”

Johnny Toms made a tossing gesture. “Poof! Throw it away. Forget this fat cookie.”

“That's easier said than done.”

“Nothing to it. You try. Forget fat boy. You left him in New York.”

Johnny Toms went out flourishing the horsehair quirt he was making. Outdoors, he burst into a howling
cowboy song. The one about burying him not on the lone prairie. At the end of each verse, he howled
like a coyote, honked like a goose and imitated a whip-poor-will. The effect was cheering. Paris knew he
was doing it to raise her spirits. She was pleased.