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Sayers, Dorothy L. (ed) - The Best Crime Stories Ever Told / Сэйерс, Дороти Л. (ред) - Лучшие детективы [2012, EPUB, ENG]

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Dorothy L. Sayers (ed) - The Best Crime Stories Ever Told

Название: The Best Crime Stories Ever Told / Лучшие детективы
Год выпуска: 2012
Под редакцией: Sayers, Dorothy L. / Сэйерс, Дороти Л.
Издательство: Skyhorse Publishing
eISBN: 78-1-62087-546-9
Формат: EPUB
Качество: eBook
Язык: английский

Описание:
Антология детективов, составленная Дороти Л. Сэйерс и опубликованная Отто Пенцлером
Lord Chizelrigg's Missing Fortune by Robert Barr
The Ordinary Hair-Pins / Обыкновенные шпильки by E. C. Bentley
The Biter Bit / Попался! by William Wilkie Collins
The Mystery of the Sleeping-Car Express by Freeman Wills Crofts
Blind Gap Moor by J. S. Fletcher
The Regent's Park Murder by Baroness Orczy
Miss Bracegirdle Does Her Duty / Мисс Брейсгдейл исполняет свой долг by Stacy Aumonier
Cut-Throat Farm by J. D. Beresford
The Damned Thing / Проклятая тварь by Ambrose Bierce
Secret Worship / Тайное поклонение by Algernon Blackwood
No. 17 by Mrs. E. Bland
The Open Boat / Шлюпка в открытом море by Stephen Crane
Riesenberg by Ford Madox Ford
The Prayer by Violet Hunt
The Well by W. W. Jacobs
Mr. Justice Harbottle / Судья Харботтл by J. S. Le Fanu
The Haunted and The Haunters / Лицом к лицу с призраками by Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Lord Lytton
The Great Return / Великое возвращение by Arthur Machen
The Story of the Greek Slave by Frederick Marryat
Anty Bligh by John Masefield
The Bell-Tower / Башня с колоколом by Herman Melville
Rose Rose / Роза Роза by Barry Pain
Berenice / Береника by Edgar Allan Poe
Sredni Vashtar / Средни Ваштар by ”Saki” (H. H. Munro)
Called to the Rescue by Henry Spicer
The Inexperienced Ghost / Неопытное привидение by H. G. Wells
THE DAMNED THING
AMBROSE BIERCE


1: One Does Not Always Eat What is on the Table


By the light of a tallow candle which had been placed on one end of a rough table a man was reading something written in a book. It was an old account-book, greatly worn; and the writing was not, apparently, very legible, for the man sometimes held the page close to the flame of the candle to get a stronger light on it. The shadow of the book would then throw into obscurity a half of the room, darkening a number of faces and figures; for besides the reader, eight other men were present. Seven of them sat against the rough log walls, silent, motionless, and the room being small, not very far from the table. By extending an arm anyone of them could have touched the eighth man, who lay on the table, face upward, partly covered by a sheet, his arms at his sides. He was dead.
The man with the book was not reading aloud, and no one spoke; all seemed to be waiting for something to occur; the dead man only was without expectation. From the blank darkness outside came in, through the aperture that served for a window, all the ever unfamiliar noises of night in the wilderness—the long nameless note of a distant coyote; the stilly pulsing thrill of tireless insects in trees; strange cries of night birds, so different from those of the birds of day; the drone of great blundering beetles, and all that mysterious chorus of small sounds that seem always to have been but half heard when they have suddenly ceased, as if conscious of an indiscretion. But nothing of all this was noted in that company; its members were not overmuch addicted to idle interest in matters of no practical importance; that was obvious in every line of their rugged faces—obvious even in the dim light of the single candle. They were evidently men of the vicinity—farmers and woodsmen.
The person reading was a trifle different; one would have said of him that he was of the world, worldly, albeit there was that in his attire which attested a certain fellowship with the organisms of his environment. His coat would hardly have passed muster in San Francisco; his foot-gear was not of urban origin, and the hat that lay by him on the floor (he was the only one uncovered) was such that if one had considered it as an article of mere personal adornment he would have missed its meaning. In countenance the man was rather prepossessing, with just a hint of sternness; though that he may have assumed or cultivated, as appropriate to one in authority. For he was a coroner. It was by virtue of his office that he had possession of the book in which he was reading; it had been found among the dead man’s effects—in his cabin, where the inquest was now taking place.
When the coroner had finished reading he put the book into his breast-pocket. At that moment the door was pushed open and a young man entered. He, clearly, was not of mountain birth and breeding: he was clad as those who dwell in cities. His clothing was dusty, however, as from travel. He had, in fact, been riding hard to attend the inquest.
The coroner nodded; no one else greeted him.
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