Девять рассказов
The Laughing Man
Dufargerespondedbypassingoutcold.Herfatherwasluckier.Bychance,hewashavingoneofhiscoughingspellsatthemomentandtherebymissedthelethalunveiling.Whenhiscoughingspellwasoverandhesawhisdaughterstretchedoutsupineonthemoonlitground,Dufargeputtwoandtwotogether.Shieldinghiseyeswithhishand,hefiredthefullclipinhisautomatictowardthesoundoftheLaughingMan’sheavy,sibilantbreathing.
Theinstallmentendedthere.
TheChieftookhisdollarIngersolloutofhiswatchpocket,lookedatit,thenswungaroundinhisseatandstartedupthemotor.Icheckedmyownwatch.Itwasalmostfour-thirty.Asthebusmovedforward,IaskedtheChiefifhewasn’tgoingtowaitforMaryHudson.Hedidn’tanswerme,andbeforeIcouldrepeatmyquestion,hetiltedbackhisheadandaddressedallofus:"Let’shavealittlequietinthisdamnbus."Whateverelseitmayhavebeen,theorderwasbasicallyunsensible.Thebushadbeen,andwas,veryquiet.AlmosteverybodywasthinkingaboutthespottheLaughingManhadbeenleftin.Wewerelongpastworryingabouthim—wehadtoomuchconfidenceinhimforthat—butwewereneverpastacceptinghismostperilousmomentsquietly.
Inthethirdorfourthinningofourballgamethatafternoon,IspottedMaryHudsonfromfirstbase.Shewassittingonabenchaboutahundredyardstomyleft,sandwichedbetweentwonursemaidswithbabycarriages.Shehadonherbeavercoat,shewassmokingacigarette,andsheseemedtobelookinginthedirectionofourgame.
