"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 173 - Once Over Lightly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Monk said, “Doc, this is Miss—”

“Mote,” I supplied. “Mary Olga Trunnels, formally.”

“She hunts buffalo, but thinks I would do as a substitute,” Monk added. “Mote, this is Doc Savage.”

Doc Savage arose, gave me a surprisingly pleasant smile, and indicated a chair. But, probably lest I get
any idea the visit was to be on a social plane, he said, “Monk tells me you have a matter of a dead man
and a warclub.”

“That sounds a little like hello and goodbye,” I said. “Am I dismissed already?”

“Not at all. What gave you that idea?”

“I just got a long lecture on lady necktie snippers and wastebaskets from Mr. Mayfair. I gathered I was
only to be permitted a bow, and that just to humor me.”

Perhaps he thought that was entertaining. I couldn't tell. His bronze face was handsome, but already I
could see that it only showed the emotions he wanted it to show. So the fact that his smile flashed again
might mean nothing.

He said, “Mr. Mayfair is watchdog today. He prefers to watch pretty girls. I presume that was the gist of
his lecture.”

“That wasn't its gist,” I said. “But it might have been the hidden meaning.”

Monk Mayfair took a chair. He didn't seem disturbed.

Doc Savage said, “If you have the idea I don't care to listen to your troubles, perish the thought.” He
picked up the coffee percolator, asked me if I could use some, and I said I could.

“I'm Mary Olga Trunnels, and up until a few days ago I was employed by the Metro Detective Agency in
New York City. It's a private investigations firm, doing all sorts of jobs that detective agencies do, but
mostly insurance company work,” I said. “Have you got time to listen to me begin the story that far
back?”

“Start as far back as you wish,” he said.

So I began still earlier, in Kansas City when Glacia Loring and I were brats together, and gave him a
picture of the nonconforming background Glacia had. I carried the briefing down to a couple of years
ago, when I had last seen Glacia—she had quit a modeling job in New York to come to Hollywood and
be a movie star, without having achieved the latter, however—and skipped the intervening time. Then I
told him the events of the past few days, and they seemed rather flat, somehow, except for the death of
Waldo Loring.

“I think Glacia really hired me as a protector,” I said, “because I happened to be working for a detective
agency, and she felt that sort of job qualified me.”

“I gather Miss Loring hasn't flatly told you that?”