Mortal Mischief

Начало книги

It was the day of the great storm. I remember it well because my father – Mendel Liebermann – had suggested that we meet for coffee at The Imperial. I had a strong suspicion that something was on his mind . . .

A ROILING MASS OF BLACK

cloud had risen from behind the Opera House like a volcanic eruption of sulphurous smoke and ash. Its dimensions suggested impending doom – an epic catastrophe on the scale of Pompeii. In the strange amber light, the surrounding buildings had become jaundiced. Perched on the rooftops, the decorative statuary – classical figures and triumphal eagles – seemed to have been carved from brimstone. A fork of lightning flowed down the mountain of cloud like a river of molten iron. The earth trembled and the air stirred, yet still there was no rain. The coming storm seemed to be saving itself – building its reserves of power in preparation for an apocalyptic deluge.

The tram bell sounded, rousing Liebermann from his reverie and dispersing a group of horse-drawn carriages on the lines.

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