"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - In The Face of Death v0.9" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

approached the nearest of the desks, saying, "Pardon me, but will you be kind enough to direct me to the
senior orncer of the bank."
The man at the desk looked up sharply. "Have you an appointment, ma'am?" he asked, noticing her
French accent with faint disapproval, and showing a lack of interest that Made-laine disliked, though she
concealed it well enough. He was hardly more than twenty-two or -three and sported a dashing
mustache at variance with his sober garments.

"No, I am just arrived in San Francisco," she said, and opened her valise, taking out a sheaf of
documents, her manner determined; she did not want to deal with so officious an underling as this fellow.
"I am Madelaine de Montalia. As you can see from this—" she offered him one of the folded sheets of
paper "—I have a considerable sum on deposit with your Saint Louis bank and I require the attention of
your senior officer at his earliest convenience."

The secretary took the letter and read it, his manner turning from indulgent to impressed as he reviewed
the figures; he frowned as he read through them a second time, as if he was not convinced of what he
saw. Folding the letter with care, he rose and belatedly gave Madelaine a show of respect he had lacked
earlier. "Good gracious, Madame de Montalia. It is an unexpected pleasure to welcome you to Lucas
and Turner."

"Thank you," said Madelaine with a fine aristocratic nod she had perfected in her childhood. "Now, if you
will please show me to the senior officer? You may use those documents to introduce me, if that is
necessary."

"Of course, of course," he said, so mellifluously that Madelaine had an urge to box his ears for such
obsequiousness. He opened the little gate that separated the desks from the rest of the floor, and stood
aside for her as she went through, her head up, the deep-g-een taffeta of her morning dress rustling as
she moved. "If you will allow me to go ahead and…" He made a gesture indicating a smoothing of the
way.

She sighed. "Is that necessary?"

He made an apologetic grimace. "Well, you see, there are very few wealthy young women alone in San
Francisco. And you were not expected." Again he gestured to express his concern.

"No doubt," she said, and halted in front of a large door of polished oak. While the secretary rapped,
Madelaine examined her brooch watch, thinking she would be fortunate to be out of the bank much
before noon.

"Come in," came the crisp order from a sharp, husky voice.

The secretary made a slight bow to Madelaine, then stepped into the office, discreetly closing the door
behind him, only to emerge a few minutes later, all smiles and half bows, to open the door wide for her in
order to usher her into the oak-paneled office of the senior officer of the bank.

The man who rose behind the orderly desk surprised Madelaine a little; he was younger than she
expected—no more than his mid-thirties—sharp-featured, wiry and tall, with bright-red hair and
steel-colored eyes, and a pinched look about his mouth as if he were in constant discomfort. His dark
suit was neat as a uniform, and he greeted her with fastidious correctness. "William T. Sherman, senior
officer of Lucas and Taylor in San Francisco, at your service, Madame de Mon-talia."