[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Semple mansion. He was driving a rented, dark-blue Matador, and he was dressed
in a black, polo-neck sweater, black corduroy pants, and a charcoal-gray cap
pulled down over his eyes. He carried a small canvas bag with Mace gas and
anti-dog sprays, a coil of rope around his shoulder, and a long-barreled .38
revolver tucked into his belt. He switched off the car's engine and sat there
for four or five minutes, listening to the soft rustle of the night.
This time, he had driven past the main gates and followed the road that led
around the high brick wall to a point that, he hoped, was nearer the house
itself, He had parked the car in the shadow of the overhanging trees on the
opposite side of the road, and he left the keys in the ignition in case he
needed to make a quick getaway.
It was a chilly night, and his .breath steamed as he climbed out of the car
and gently clicked the door shut behind him. Low clouds were still obscuring
the moon, and he had to blink a few times to accustom his eyes to the
darkness. He listened again, holding his breath, but the Semple estate was
silent.
Quickly, he padded across the narrow road, trod softly through the banked-up
leaves against the wall, and paused. Still no sound from the Semple place. He
unwound a knotted nylon rope from his waist, and stepped back so that he could
judge the height of the old, moss-crusted bricks. There was an aluminum rod
51
tied to the end of the rope, and he hoped to toss this over the wall and tug
it back until it was firmly wedged between the metal spikes.
It took four tries. The first time, he threw too short, and the next two shots
went over but the rod refused to catch. At last he had the rope firmly in
position, and he started to climb up it, gasping and sniffing and praying that
the old rusted spikes were strong enough to take his weight.
In three minutes he had scrambled up to the top. He sat astride the wall,
winding the rope and catching his breath. Through the trees he could see
twinkling lights from the Semple mansion, but there was no sound at all, and
no sign of the prowling guard dogs. A freight train hooted mournfully in the
distance and up above the clouds a jet scratched its way across the night sky.
When the rope was wound in, he positioned the aluminum rod on the other side
of the spikes, and let the rope down on the Semple side of the wall. Then he
gently slithered off the top, swinging down to the ground with his feet
scraping on the brick. Once he reached the bottom he paused again, his ears
pricked up, hiding as deeply as he could in the dart shadow of the wall and
the trees.
He checked his watch. It was a quarter after eleven. He straightened the
revolver in his belt, and began to stalk carefully through the long grass,
stopping every few moments to listen. He just hoped that if he needed to climb
back up his rope in a hurry, he could remember where it was.
It took him ten minutes to make his way through the scrubby copse that led
towards the house. There was still- no sign of the dogs, and he wondered if
they were asleep. Maybe if he was- quiet enough he wouldn't wake them. He
pushed his way through a tangled
52
screen of bushes, and found himself on the very edge of the copse, with a wide
stretch of lawn between him and the Semple mansion.
The house itself was much larger than he had anticipated. It was brooding and
morose, with ranks of chimneys and twisting rivers of leafless creeper down
Page 23
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
every wall. There was a verandah around the southwest corner, which was the
part of the house nearest to him, but all the windows around it seemed to be
empty and dark. Further back, on the south side, there was a stately columned
porch, but like everything else it was tangled with creeper and had a
desolate, decayed air about it. The only window that seemed to be lit was an
upstairs bay on the western side, and the drapes were drawn so tight that it
was impossible to see inside.
Gene skirted along the southern side of the house, almost as far as the gravel
drive that came from the main gateway. Every now and then he stopped to listen
for dogs, but the whole estate was buried deep in darkness and silence. At one
time, he thought he heard a faint crackling of leaves and twigs, but when he
paused to catch the sound more distinctly, he realized it was probably just a
bird in the upper branches of the oaks.
None of the windows on the south side were lit, so he went back to the edge of
the copse and surveyed the west side again. There was a strong creeper which
grew from the end of the verandah and twisted its way quite close to the
lighted window. Gene reckoned that if he climbed up there, he could probably
get his footing on the narrow gutter that extended tinder the window from the
verandah roof and get a glimpse through a small crack in the drapes. The
thought that he might see Lorie made his heart pound.
Ducking low, he ran across the open lawn untfl he 53
reached the verandah. He waited awhile and then went up the verandah's four
wooden steps, taking care not to tread on the empty frames of abandoned
deckchairs and the pieces of a garden swing. He walked softly along the whole
length of the verandah, concealed in shadow, until he reached the end of it,
where the trunk of the creeper grew.
Again, he listened. He thought he could hear faint voices and the sound of
music, but that was all. The low, gray clouds still blotted out the moon,
although a faint luminescence illuminated the lawns and distin-" guished the
copse as a dark sea that rustled and washed around it.
Gene perched himself up on the verandah railing, and reached around to test
the strength of the creeper. Years ago, someone had nailed it pretty firmly to
the wall, and he guessed it would probably take his weight He hung on to it
with one hand, and then swung himself around and held on to it with both.
There was a lurching noise as some of the dry branches gave way, but the main
branch seemed to hold.
Breathing with tense, suppressed gasps, he reached up for higher branches and
began to scale the creeper like a ladder. At a height of about ten or twelve
feet, almost level with the verandah roof, he paused once more and listened
for sound of the dogs. He heard a low, erratic, rumbling noise, but he guessed
it was a distant airplane turning toward Dulles.
At last he was able to reach out his left foot and cautiously test the
guttering. Further along it was rusted through, but from the verandah roof to
the bay window it looked as if it was reasonably intact. He pressed on it with
more weight, and then decided to try his luck and stand on it with both feet [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl fopke.keep.pl
Semple mansion. He was driving a rented, dark-blue Matador, and he was dressed
in a black, polo-neck sweater, black corduroy pants, and a charcoal-gray cap
pulled down over his eyes. He carried a small canvas bag with Mace gas and
anti-dog sprays, a coil of rope around his shoulder, and a long-barreled .38
revolver tucked into his belt. He switched off the car's engine and sat there
for four or five minutes, listening to the soft rustle of the night.
This time, he had driven past the main gates and followed the road that led
around the high brick wall to a point that, he hoped, was nearer the house
itself, He had parked the car in the shadow of the overhanging trees on the
opposite side of the road, and he left the keys in the ignition in case he
needed to make a quick getaway.
It was a chilly night, and his .breath steamed as he climbed out of the car
and gently clicked the door shut behind him. Low clouds were still obscuring
the moon, and he had to blink a few times to accustom his eyes to the
darkness. He listened again, holding his breath, but the Semple estate was
silent.
Quickly, he padded across the narrow road, trod softly through the banked-up
leaves against the wall, and paused. Still no sound from the Semple place. He
unwound a knotted nylon rope from his waist, and stepped back so that he could
judge the height of the old, moss-crusted bricks. There was an aluminum rod
51
tied to the end of the rope, and he hoped to toss this over the wall and tug
it back until it was firmly wedged between the metal spikes.
It took four tries. The first time, he threw too short, and the next two shots
went over but the rod refused to catch. At last he had the rope firmly in
position, and he started to climb up it, gasping and sniffing and praying that
the old rusted spikes were strong enough to take his weight.
In three minutes he had scrambled up to the top. He sat astride the wall,
winding the rope and catching his breath. Through the trees he could see
twinkling lights from the Semple mansion, but there was no sound at all, and
no sign of the prowling guard dogs. A freight train hooted mournfully in the
distance and up above the clouds a jet scratched its way across the night sky.
When the rope was wound in, he positioned the aluminum rod on the other side
of the spikes, and let the rope down on the Semple side of the wall. Then he
gently slithered off the top, swinging down to the ground with his feet
scraping on the brick. Once he reached the bottom he paused again, his ears
pricked up, hiding as deeply as he could in the dart shadow of the wall and
the trees.
He checked his watch. It was a quarter after eleven. He straightened the
revolver in his belt, and began to stalk carefully through the long grass,
stopping every few moments to listen. He just hoped that if he needed to climb
back up his rope in a hurry, he could remember where it was.
It took him ten minutes to make his way through the scrubby copse that led
towards the house. There was still- no sign of the dogs, and he wondered if
they were asleep. Maybe if he was- quiet enough he wouldn't wake them. He
pushed his way through a tangled
52
screen of bushes, and found himself on the very edge of the copse, with a wide
stretch of lawn between him and the Semple mansion.
The house itself was much larger than he had anticipated. It was brooding and
morose, with ranks of chimneys and twisting rivers of leafless creeper down
Page 23
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
every wall. There was a verandah around the southwest corner, which was the
part of the house nearest to him, but all the windows around it seemed to be
empty and dark. Further back, on the south side, there was a stately columned
porch, but like everything else it was tangled with creeper and had a
desolate, decayed air about it. The only window that seemed to be lit was an
upstairs bay on the western side, and the drapes were drawn so tight that it
was impossible to see inside.
Gene skirted along the southern side of the house, almost as far as the gravel
drive that came from the main gateway. Every now and then he stopped to listen
for dogs, but the whole estate was buried deep in darkness and silence. At one
time, he thought he heard a faint crackling of leaves and twigs, but when he
paused to catch the sound more distinctly, he realized it was probably just a
bird in the upper branches of the oaks.
None of the windows on the south side were lit, so he went back to the edge of
the copse and surveyed the west side again. There was a strong creeper which
grew from the end of the verandah and twisted its way quite close to the
lighted window. Gene reckoned that if he climbed up there, he could probably
get his footing on the narrow gutter that extended tinder the window from the
verandah roof and get a glimpse through a small crack in the drapes. The
thought that he might see Lorie made his heart pound.
Ducking low, he ran across the open lawn untfl he 53
reached the verandah. He waited awhile and then went up the verandah's four
wooden steps, taking care not to tread on the empty frames of abandoned
deckchairs and the pieces of a garden swing. He walked softly along the whole
length of the verandah, concealed in shadow, until he reached the end of it,
where the trunk of the creeper grew.
Again, he listened. He thought he could hear faint voices and the sound of
music, but that was all. The low, gray clouds still blotted out the moon,
although a faint luminescence illuminated the lawns and distin-" guished the
copse as a dark sea that rustled and washed around it.
Gene perched himself up on the verandah railing, and reached around to test
the strength of the creeper. Years ago, someone had nailed it pretty firmly to
the wall, and he guessed it would probably take his weight He hung on to it
with one hand, and then swung himself around and held on to it with both.
There was a lurching noise as some of the dry branches gave way, but the main
branch seemed to hold.
Breathing with tense, suppressed gasps, he reached up for higher branches and
began to scale the creeper like a ladder. At a height of about ten or twelve
feet, almost level with the verandah roof, he paused once more and listened
for sound of the dogs. He heard a low, erratic, rumbling noise, but he guessed
it was a distant airplane turning toward Dulles.
At last he was able to reach out his left foot and cautiously test the
guttering. Further along it was rusted through, but from the verandah roof to
the bay window it looked as if it was reasonably intact. He pressed on it with
more weight, and then decided to try his luck and stand on it with both feet [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]