"Michael Scott Rohan - Chase the Morning" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rohan Michael Scott)

from gaudily-covered books to bunches of feathers, incense burners and what
looked like very good ethnic jewellery. What really caught my eye was a
painting a crazy piece of naive imagery, gaudy as a parrot and childlike in
its directness - but with anything but a childish effect. A black man in a
fantastic white military uniform complete with scarlet sash, gilt buttons and
plumed sun-helmet, sitting tall and proud in the saddle of a winged horse,
rampant against forked lightnings crossing in a stormy sky. In his hand
a curved sabre - and round his head a coruscating halo of gold leaf. A real
ikon, in fact - only the style looked African, Ethiopian maybe, because it was
obviously Christian. Or was it? Along the bottom I read, in neat copperplate
script, Saintjaques Majeur. But that look didn't square with any saint I'd
ever heard about - least of all the shower of scarlet droplets that flew from
the sabre's edge. I turned to ask Jyp, but he pushed impatiently past me. A
mellow bell bounced on its spring as he flung open the door.
Out of the door behind the counter, as if he had been pushed, popped a
black man, middle-aged or older, with elegant white mutton-chop whiskers. He
wore a neat green baize apron, like a butler cleaning the silver, over a brown
corduroy waistcoat. 'Frightfully sorry, gentlemen,' he began in resonant
tones, 'but we are closed for business today -' Then he saw Jyp, and beamed.
'But not to you, of course, captain! What can I -'
He was choked off as Jyp shot his long arms across the counter, caught
the waistcoat and drew the man over the counter with such inexorable strength
that his feet left the ground. Jyp glared at him narrow-eyed, almost nose to
nose. 'That shipment of root, Frederick! The one that's gathering dust down at
the warehouse right now? It's your order, isn't it, all of it? Then how come
you've not been down to pick it up, huh?'
The man's eyes widened and he flapped his hands and cawed in helpless
surprise. I felt suddenly ashamed, and caught Jyp's wrist; it felt like steel
cable. 'Let him down, Jyp! He can't answer you if he chokes!'
Jyp said nothing, but he released the man, who almost collapsed behind
the counter. 'But captain,' he wheezed, T haven't the slightest - I really do
not understand - if I have somehow given offence, I - I am really not as young
as I was, you understand, it is not as easy for me to arrange matters as - I
do not presume -' Even stammering, he remained beautifully spoken.
You couldn't get down there yourself, then?' I prompted him. He drew a
deep breath, and smoothed down his ruffled whiskers. 'No indeed, sir! For
smaller loads I can fit in my car, certainly - but the roots are a large
vanload, and I no longer maintain one.'
Jyp tapped the marble-topped counter thoughtfully, and looked around the
little shop. 'That so? Why'd you order so much, then? You mean to leave it
with us, and just pick it up piecemeal as you need it?'
Frederick permitted himself a pitying smirk. 'At such rates of tonnage
and floorage, sir? Hardly. No, I have a most obliging neighbour who maintains
a suitable van, and has promised to go down and collect the roots when next he
has a few hours free; but he has not managed it yet, and naturally in these
matters one does not wish to press
Jyp's lined face had gone very cold. 'Maybe it's about time one did.
C'mon, Fred, you're going to introduce us. This instant.'
'Whatever you wish, captain, whatever ...' babbled the old man as Jyp
drew him irresistibly out from behind the counter. 'But I assure you ... Mr