"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. Roadside Picnic (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

other, went out, carefully locked the door, and called out to Guta.
"I'm leaving."
"When will you be back?" Guta came out of the kitchen. She had done her
hair and put on makeup. She was no longer wearing her robe, either, but a
house dress, his favorite one, bright blue and low-cut.
"I'll call," he said, looking at her. He walked over and kissed her
cleavage.
"You'd better go," Guta said softly.
"What about me? Kiss me?" Monkey whined, pushing between them.
He had to bend down even lower. Guta watched him steadily.
"Nonsense," he said. "Don't worry. I'll call."
On the landing below theirs, Redrick saw a fat man in striped pajamas
fussing with the lock to his door. A warm sour smell was coming from the
depths of his apartment. Redrick stopped.
"Good day."
The fat man looked at him cautiously over his fat shoulder and muttered
something.
"Your wife dropped by last night," Redrick said. "Something about us
sawing. It's some kind of misunderstanding."
"What do I care?" the man in the pajamas said.
"My wife was doing the laundry last night," Redrick continued.
"If we disturbed you, I apologize."
"I didn't say anything. Be my guest."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it."
Redrick went outside, dropped into the garage, put the basket with the
bag into the corner, covered it with an old seat, looked over his work, and
went out into the street.
It wasn't a long walk--two blocks to the square, then through the park
and one more block to Central Boulevard. In front of the Metropole, as
usual, there was a shiny array of cars gleaming chrome and lacquer. The
porters in raspberry red uniforms were lugging suitcases into the hotel, and
some foreign-looking people were standing around in groups of two and three,
smoking and talking on the marble steps. Redrick decided not to go in yet.
He made himself comfortable under the awning of a small cafe across the
street, ordered coffee, and lit up a cigarette. Not two feet from his table
were three undercover men from the international police force, silently and
quickly eating grilled hot dogs Harmont style and drinking beer from tall
glass steins. On the other side, some ten feet away, a sergeant was gloomily
devouring French fries, his fork in his fist. His blue helmet was set upside
down on the Boor by his chair and his shoulder holster draped on the chair
back. There were no other customers. The waitress, an elderly woman he
didn't know, stood behind the counter and yawned, genteelly covering her
painted mouth with her hand. It was twenty to nine.
Redrick saw Richard Noonan leave the hotel, chewing something, and
arranging his soft hat on his head. He boldly strode down the steps--short,
plump, and pink, still lucky, well-off, freshly washed, and confident that
the day would bring him no unpleasantness. He waved to someone, flung his
raincoat over his right shoulder, and walked over to his Peugeot. Dick's
Peugeot was also plump, short, freshly washed, and seemingly confident that
no unpleasantness threatened it.