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- Фрэнсис Скотт Фицджеральд
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A
little
before
four
she
was
awakened
by
a
brusque
knocking
.
"
Yes
—
what
is
it
?
"
"
It
’
s
the
concierge
,
Madame
.
"
She
pulled
on
her
kimono
and
faced
him
sleepily
.
"
Your
friend
name
Deever
he
’
s
in
trouble
.
He
had
trouble
with
the
police
,
and
they
have
him
in
the
jail
.
He
sent
a
taxi
up
to
tell
,
the
driver
says
that
he
promised
him
two
hundred
lire
.
"
He
paused
cautiously
for
this
to
be
approved
.
"
The
driver
says
Mr
.
Deever
in
the
bad
trouble
.
He
had
a
fight
with
the
police
and
is
terribly
bad
hurt
.
"
"
I
’
ll
be
right
down
.
"
She
dressed
to
an
accompaniment
of
anxious
heartbeats
and
ten
minutes
later
stepped
out
of
the
elevator
into
the
dark
lobby
.
The
chauffeur
who
brought
the
message
was
gone
;
the
concierge
hailed
another
one
and
told
him
the
location
of
the
jail
.
As
they
rode
,
the
darkness
lifted
and
thinned
outside
and
Baby
’
s
nerves
,
scarcely
awake
,
cringed
faintly
at
the
unstable
balance
between
night
and
day
.
She
began
to
race
against
the
day
;
sometimes
on
the
broad
avenues
she
gained
but
whenever
the
thing
that
was
pushing
up
paused
for
a
moment
,
gusts
of
wind
blew
here
and
there
impatiently
and
the
slow
creep
of
light
began
once
more
.
The
cab
went
past
a
loud
fountain
splashing
in
a
voluminous
shadow
,
turned
into
an
alley
so
curved
that
the
buildings
were
warped
and
strained
following
it
,
bumped
and
rattled
over
cobblestones
,
and
stopped
with
a
jerk
where
two
sentry
boxes
were
bright
against
a
wall
of
green
damp
.
Suddenly
from
the
violet
darkness
of
an
archway
came
Dick
’
s
voice
,
shouting
and
screaming
.
"
Are
there
any
English
?
Are
there
any
Americans
?
Are
there
any
English
?
Are
there
any
—
oh
,
my
God
!
You
dirty
Wops
!
"
His
voice
died
away
and
she
heard
a
dull
sound
of
beating
on
the
door
.
Then
the
voice
began
again
.
