Читаем Los Alamos полностью

“Under the bed,” she said, smiling. “Here, I’ll show you. You sit, and let me pack. A man can’t do it. Look at this.” She picked up the tie. “Clothes everywhere.”

In the bedroom, she scurried around, opening drawers, rolling socks, talking to herself as she worked, drawing the air into her circle of activity like a whirl of dust. She picked up the photograph by the bed and held it for a minute before she put it in the satchel.

“His wife?” Connolly said.

She nodded. “He never forgot her. All these years. Such a long time.” She shook her head and Connolly saw her at one of her parties, a frustrated matchmaker. Or had she been in love with him herself, checked by a memory? Nobody knew anything.

He retreated to the living room and ran his eye again along the shelves. You could tell a man by his books, but the language made these meaningless. There was no visible order. All Connolly could tell was that he’d never left Germany. He thought of Karl’s modest shelf, all new, the dictionary, the Westerns. But these had the depth of a culture remembered. He bent down, searching the lower shelf for a Bible. Heine. Das Leben von Beethoven. Principia Mathematica. Historic Santa Fe. His eye paused, intrigued by the English. He took out the book, with a glossy photograph of the cathedral on the cover, and flipped through the pages. One of the corners had been turned down and the book opened to it, a black-and-white picture of San Isidro. His heart stopped. No. The picture seemed to blur, as if Connolly had moved it out of focus, and when he stood up it swam back again. A paragraph of history, the reredos dates marked in boldface, the church with its belltower, the smooth adobe walls, the alley parking lot to the side. No. The corner turned down, bent. To remind him? No, he would never violate a book that way. Someone else had marked the page, a message. Why hadn’t he turned it back? But who would look?

Connolly stared at the book, his face growing warm. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to find. Just a Bible. Why hadn’t Eisler thrown it away? But he never threw books away. Look at the room. The parking lot was easy, no problem there, everything straight. Had he gone into the church at all? What had they said to each other? Connolly drew in a breath, still staring at the picture. He heard the voices in his head, crossword clues falling into place, until they came to a blue flash. An eye for an eye. But not for the gadget. Something else.

“Mr. Connolly?” He looked up. “Is something wrong? I’ve been calling you.”

“No, nothing.” He stood there, startled, holding the book in front of him.

“Are you sure? You look-”

“I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

She clicked her tongue. “Just like Hans. Once he puts his head in a book-”

She glanced toward it, and for a second Connolly wanted to snap it shut, before anyone else could know. He looked down. It was absurd. A tourist guide. There could be any number of explanations. But he knew there wouldn’t be. Eisler. But how? The head had been smashed in.

“You were reading?” Frau Weber said, drawing him back.

“No, just looking for something to take him. I’m afraid I don’t know German.”

She smiled. “I’ll find something for him. I know what he likes. Go to work now-I’ll take the valise. You’ve been very kind.”

“Isn’t it heavy?”

“This? A feather. Wet laundry is heavy. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

He started to turn away, the book still in his hand, and she looked at him strangely, as if he were stealing.

“I thought I might borrow this,” he said, closing it. “I don’t think Professor Eisler would mind. It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”

“Sightseeing?” Mills said when he saw the book in Connolly’s hand.

“You still have those bank files?”

“Boy, you never stop, do you? Who’s the suspect this time?”

“Let me see Eisler’s.”

“Now what? What are you going to do, cuff him in his bed?”

“Do you have the file?”

“No, but I can tell you. It’s all up here.” He placed a finger by his temple. “There’s nothing in it.”

“But he opened one?”

Mills nodded, now curious. “When he got here. One deposit, the first month. Nothing after that. Guess he kept it himself.”

Karl had recognized Emma right away. “You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Let me see it anyway.”

“What’s all this about, Mike?” Mills said, but Connolly just looked at him until he backed away from the desk, holding up his hand. “Okay, okay. I’ll get it.” He went over to rifle through the stack on his desk.

Connolly sat looking at the book. Adobe Press, something local; copyrighted before the war. Glossy paper, but thin, photographs darker than they should be. He took out the Santa Fe directory and when he couldn’t find a listing called Holliday instead.

“Ever hear of something called the Adobe Press?”

“Sure. Now what made you think of that?”

“Where are they?”