"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 160 - Colors For Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

PRESENTLY the stewardess took the instrument from her hand, pulled the plug out of the little hole
where she had punched it, then stood looking down at her anxiously, finally to ask, “Are you ill? Would
you like something, Miss Nelson?”

She said, “What?” and then, “I'm all right,” but the words were made mostly with her lips.

The stewardess, concerned, lingered to say, “If you have a headache . . . some aspirin?”

She managed to say, “I'll feel better presently.”

The stewardess went away.

Grey suit. Red handkerchief. Did she remember. Oh God, she would never forget it! He had been a man
of rather medium build, a man of such ordinary shape that she could recall nothing about him except that
his suit had been grey, some kind of tweed with a subdued pattern, and the red bandana handkerchief
which he had worn for a mask. She remembered the mask of course, for it had covered all of his face up
to the eyes, and might as well have covered the eyes, too, because she couldn't remember their color or
recall having seen them at all. A terrible grey man with an awful red face and a gun. It was the first time
she had ever looked into the muzzle of a gun. She knew a little about guns. No one grew up on a farm in
Iowa, even the girls, without learning about guns, at least learning they were dangerous. This one had, she
believed, been .38-calibre. A revolver.

There had been one other man, a larger man, who hadn't been masked, but who had simply kept his left
arm crooked across his face. She remembered he'd had weather-beaten red ears. And a completely ugly
voice which had said, “You want your insides shot out?” to Walter, and, “Don't make any noise, dear!”
to her. Then this man had walked around behind her and used something, perhaps another gun, but she
hadn't seen one, to club her on the back of the head.

Afterward she had figured out that she had been unconscious somewhere between five and ten minutes,
and she still believed that was right, but she had quickly revised her idea that it was a simple mugging and
holdup. It wasn't that.

Walter and the two men were gone when she sat up. She found herself lying on a lawn behind a bush
where they had dragged her and left her. It was in a little park. One of Boston's small public parks. Ten
o'clock in the morning. Five after ten, to be exact, and thirteen minutes after ten when she revived.

“Miss Nelson.”

It was the stewardess again, the stewardess with a tray on which there was a glass of water and two
white pills.

“No, thank you,” she said to the stewardess.
“It's aspirin. If you have a headache . . .” The stewardess poised the tray invitingly.

“No, thank you.”

“If there is anything . . .”

“No, there isn't. I'll be all right. But thank you.”