"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Saint-Germain Story - A Question of Patronage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

Before John Henry could voice his objection, Ragoczy said
smoothly, "You would not be adverse to entrusting a key to me,

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The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea


would you? I have done business with this firm for longer than you
have been employed here. Surely that makes me trustworthy, Mr
Tubbs. I will return it tomorrow, if that is satisfactory to you?" He
said it politely enough, but it was apparent he would not be refused.
"I appreciate your concern and precaution, of course."
This was more opposition than Mr Tubbs was prepared to fight. He
ducked his head. "It would be most acceptable. I will provide you
with a key at once, Mr Ragoczy," he said, and moved away, casting
a single, angry look back towards John Henry and the black-cloaked
stranger.
John Henry paid no notice of his superior's disapproval; he
motioned to Ragoczy to come with him, and hastened back to his
desk, his face radiant with anticipation.


"I don't understand it," said John Henry, shaking his head at what he
read in the old ledger. "There should be another two hundred
pounds in this transfer. How can it have been overlooked? They
can't have made such an error in arithmetic, can they?" The office
was quite dark now, and the rumble in the streets had died to an
irregular echo of hooves and wheels; the oil lamp on John Henry's
desk and the lume of the dying fire in the hearth provided the only
light. It was no longer hot in the office, but it remained stuffy in
spite of the chill.
"They did not," said Ragoczy with a sigh of annoyance. He had
shed his cloak and was revealed in a black woollen jacket cut in the
latest French fashion. His shirt was silken broadcloth and
immaculately white. He wore his cravat in the Russian mode: it was

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The Vengeful Spirit of Lake Nepeakea


silk, patterned in red and black. His trousers were also of black
wool, expertly tailored so that the fullness never became baggy.
Indeed, the only note that John Henry could find in the foreigner's
ensemble to criticize was the thickness of the soles of Ragoczy's
neat black boots.
John Henry's eyes widened. "But, Count, that would mean… that
someone has… has…"
"Been stealing," Ragoczy supplied gently; he tapped the open ledger
with the end of his pencil. "Yes, it would seem so."
"But… why?"