Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (читать книги без TXT) 📗

Matt's eyes went to Carl Winters' bland handsome face. «Is that so?» he said noncommittally.

«There's a hitch, Loot,» Jonesy said. «According to the sales girl just about everyone and his brother has been through this shop since Sunday night. Mrs. Robert Arlen was here Christmas shopping yesterday, Claire Arlen stopped by on her way to lunch with her brother, Robert Arlen was here this morning to pick up a book. Sounds to me like anyone could have planted it-including your pal. He was here early Tuesday afternoon.»

«My pal?» Matt asked carefully.

«The reporter,» Jonesy said. «Nathan Doyle.»

Chapter Five

Pearl scrambled out of her cab before it stopped. She darted across the shining wet sidewalk, past the fish sculptured fountains, spumes of white shooting into the dusk, and disappeared through the side entrance of Union Station. Nathan swore, finally found a parking slot, and turned the engine off. He was out of the car, and loping across the wet and oily lot, following Pearl as he'd been following her since the moment she snuck out of Sid Szabo's apartment building and into a waiting taxi.

Inside Union Station was a madhouse. Porters hustled, families greeted and friends good-byed, the sheer volume of sound rising from the marble floors and Spanish tiles, soaring up and disappearing into the cathedral-high ceiling and the gigantic iron chandeliers. Nathan scanned the milling crowd for Pearl's hat-a silly little fur doughnut balancing on Pearl's silly little platinum head. But there was no sign of either the hat or Pearl as he avoided small children, animal carriers, and stacks of luggage, pushing his way through the mob of holiday travelers and GIs.

In answer to his urgent question, the gateman jerked his thumb towards the wide entrance leading to the tracks.

There was only one train at the platform, and it was starting to move.

Nathan ran, swinging himself up the steps as the train began to pick up speed. It took him a moment to catch his

breath. He mopped his face on his rain-damp coat, and then set out to find Pearl in the crowded coaches.

He strode through four coaches filled with merry travelers-but no Pearl. He pushed open the door to the dining car. That was packed too, and he almost missed her, wedged in between a steamy window and a fat lady in a bright blue coat. Pearl was mostly hidden behind an open menu, but he spied the fur doughnut dipping drunkenly over the menu.

A steward came forward and Nathan let himself be led to a table, politely insisting on one with a good view of his quarry.

If he'd suspected Pearl knew she was being followed, he was soon reassured. She scanned the menu leisurely, put it down and smiled discouragingly at the friendly overtures of the fat lady.

All at once Nathan was very tired. His side was hurting from his sprint to catch the train. He picked up a menu, glanced it over. He wasn't hungry; he was rarely hungry these days, but he had to keep his energy level up. He watched Pearl over the top of his menu.

She stared determinedly out the window at the sky turning indigo, and the fat lady eventually gave up and devoted her earnest attention to a fashion magazine no doubt full of clothes she would never be able to wear.

The steward came and Nathan ordered a sandwich and a glass of milk. He ate with half an eye on Pearl, and half an eye on the rest of the passengers. The sky changed from indigo to purple, Pearl finished her meal and squeezed-with

great difficulty-around the cooperative but ungainly lady in blue.

Doyle drained his milk glass, waited a few moments, and followed her out to the last car. It was a smoker car, about half-full with passengers. He took the seat across from her, lit up and stared out the window. In the reflection he watched Pearl take out a little jeweled cigarette case, select a cigarette, and tap it on the case. Her gaze fell on Doyle.

He glanced over as though only noticing her. «May I?» he said, pulling his lighter out.

She nodded, leaning towards him, watching him from beneath the foolish fur doughnut.

«Thanks.»

He nodded politely, snapped his lighter closed, and returned to watching her in the darkened window. She studied him appraisingly.

«Say,» she said. «Have we met?»

Doyle turned back to her. Cocked his head. «I'm not sure,» he said slowly, and he offered her his best smile. She smiled back. They always did. He looked unthreatening, like-he had been told by a slightly inebriated starlet-a gentleman.

He watched the conductor working his way slowly down the aisle, asking for tickets. A gabby old guy stopping to shoot the breeze with just about every passenger.

«I'm sure I've seen you around. You live in Los Angeles?» She pronounced it «Los Angle-less.»

«That's right.» He expelled a stream of smoke, watching her working it out.

«You ever come around to the Las Palmas club?»

He widened his eyes. «Hey,» he said. «You're her! The songbird.»

She laughed, delighted. Preened a little.

«Nice job you do on that 'I'm Getting Sentimental Over You' number.» Nathan told her, and listened to her warble on about the rest of her repertoire-and then who she was going to be auditioning for next summer. He let her run 'til she was out of steam, and then he said, «I was at the club on Saturday night. The night the Arlen kid was nabbed.»

Her smile slipped. She stared down at her cigarette. «Oh.»

«Shame about that.»

«Yes.»

«So where are you headed?»

She relaxed. «Little Fawn Lodge. Not far from Indian Falls.»

He had a vague idea Indian Falls was located somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. He mimed surprise, and it wasn't hard. «There's a coincidence. That's where I'm headed.»

«You're kidding!» There was something funny in her face. «But … the ski resorts are all pretty much closed since the war.»

«Well, you see,» Nathan confided, «I'm not a skier, I'm a writer.»

«A writer,» Pearl repeated slowly. She was watching him with narrow eyes. «What kind of writer?»

«Screenwriter. For the pictures.» He figured that would impress her, but she remained wary. He'd misstepped, miscalculated either her paranoia or his own recognizibilty.

«You're kidding.»

He shook his head. «I needed to get out of town. Needed some peace and quiet so I could work. Thought of the lodge.»

«You'll get plenty of that.» She gave him that same discouraging smile she'd given the fat lady. «Well, it's been swell shootin' the breeze.» She jabbed her cigarette out, nodded to Nathan, rose and started down the aisle.

«See you around,» Doyle said to her back. She didn't respond.

Damn.

«Tickets please,» said the conductor, reaching Nathan at last.

«I'll need to buy one from you,» Nathan said, pulling out his wallet. «I'm going to Little Fawn Lake.»

The conductor drew the ticket pad from his pocket. «Didn't think it was open. Most of the resorts are closed now. Hope you made reservations. It's not weather to be sleeping out in.» He disconnected a strip from the ticket pad, punched it, and handed it to Nathan. «Train stops at Indian Falls. You'll have to hire a car.»

«That's all right,» Nathan said, hoping it was. He didn't kid himself he was up to spending the night in freezing temperatures. He paid for the ticket, considering his finances. He hadn't started the day planning on a ski resort holiday.

The train continued on its way through the deepening darkness. He stared out the window. The black-plum sky had a luminous quality that made the trees and mountains stand out in stark relief.

The wheels of the train clackety-clacked along the rails in soothing monotony. Every so often the whistle blew sounding through the night, echoing through the pines and slopes.

Now what? He'd found Pearl Jarvis-and the fact that she was trying so hard to avoid being found surely meant she knew something worth knowing-something that might help his own position.