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The Doomsday Conspiracy :: Sheldon Sidney
Страница: 28 из 213Welche Richtung ist das Haus von Herr Beckerman?”
“Ja.” She pointed down the road. “An der Kirche rechts.”
“Danke.”
Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-storey stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.
A heavyset woman with a faint moustache answered the door. “Ja?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Is Mr Beckerman in?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want with him?”
Robert gave her a winning smile. “You must be Mrs Beckerman.” He pulled out his reporter’s identification card. “I’m doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country.”
She brightened and said proudly, “My Hans is an excellent driver.”
“That’s what everyone tells me, Mrs Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him.”
“An interview with my Hans for a magazine?” She was flustered. “That is very exciting. Come in, please.”
She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room. “Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans.”
The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows.
Robert stood there, thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead. People come in off the street, buy their ticket and take the tour. We don’t ask for identification … There’s no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn’t work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at 1200 tomorrow morning? Breakfast will be served.
A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black moustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance. “Good afternoon, Herr …?”
“Smith. Good afternoon.” Robert’s voice was hearty. “I’ve certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Beckerman.”
“My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers.” He spoke with a heavy German accent.
Robert smiled ingratiatingly. “That’s right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and …”
“Scheissdreck!” Beckerman said rudely. “You are interested in the thing that crashed Sunday afternoon, no?”
Robert managed to look abashed.
“Ja.” She pointed down the road. “An der Kirche rechts.”
“Danke.”
Robert turned right at the church and drove up to a modest two-storey stone house with a ceramic tiled roof. He got out of the car and walked up to the door. He could see no bell, and knocked.
A heavyset woman with a faint moustache answered the door. “Ja?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. Is Mr Beckerman in?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want with him?”
Robert gave her a winning smile. “You must be Mrs Beckerman.” He pulled out his reporter’s identification card. “I’m doing a magazine article on Swiss bus drivers, and your husband was recommended to my magazine as having one of the finest safety records in the country.”
She brightened and said proudly, “My Hans is an excellent driver.”
“That’s what everyone tells me, Mrs Beckerman. I would like to do an interview with him.”
“An interview with my Hans for a magazine?” She was flustered. “That is very exciting. Come in, please.”
She led Robert into a small, meticulously neat living room. “Wait here, bitte. I will get Hans.”
The house had a low, beamed ceiling, dark wooden floors and plain wooden furniture. There was a small stone fireplace and lace curtains at the windows.
Robert stood there, thinking. This was not only his best lead, it was his only lead. People come in off the street, buy their ticket and take the tour. We don’t ask for identification … There’s no place to go from here, Robert thought grimly. If this doesn’t work out, I can always place an ad: Will the seven bus passengers who saw a weather balloon crash Sunday please assemble in my hotel room at 1200 tomorrow morning? Breakfast will be served.
A thin, bald man appeared. His complexion was pale, and he wore a thick, black moustache that was startlingly out of keeping with the rest of his appearance. “Good afternoon, Herr …?”
“Smith. Good afternoon.” Robert’s voice was hearty. “I’ve certainly been looking forward to meeting you, Mr Beckerman.”
“My wife tells me you are writing a story about bus drivers.” He spoke with a heavy German accent.
Robert smiled ingratiatingly. “That’s right. My magazine is interested in your wonderful safety record and …”
“Scheissdreck!” Beckerman said rudely. “You are interested in the thing that crashed Sunday afternoon, no?”
Robert managed to look abashed.