The Carnelian Cube

Начало книги

"Tiridat!" barked Arthur Cleveland Finch. "Don't stand there like the family banshee, letting the bugs in. If you want to see me, come along!"

It was the evening of July 8, 1939, and the old brown bills of Cappadocia were turning grape-purple under a descending sun. Finch sat at a folding table on which were spread out the day's finds: a few undistinguished bits of glass and porcelain, a coin, and a couple of bronze objects that were more oxide than metal. Beyond, Lloyd Owens was bent silently over another collection of ancient artifacts: the parts of a portable radio set that at some time in past history had been in working order.

Tiridat Ariminian let the curtain of mosquito-netting fall into place behind him, and came shuffling forward, his wrinkles deepening as he arranged them in what was apparently intended to be a placatory smile. Finch's heart sank as he contemplated this inevitable prelude to something that would either be trouble or money and probably both. One could count on Tiridat. The long nose under the sheepskin kalpak reminded Finch of a fox's muzzle. Yes, it was a fox's sharp, clever face that peered out from the disguise of sheepskin above and straggly billy-goat whiskers below.

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