D A Novel (George Right) - By George Right Page 0,49
swindler who had managed to deceive the whole world. Certainly, he was not a usual scam artist. He obviously had mastered fantastic technologies unavailable to anyone else. Perhaps, he was an evil genius, as in comic books–though generally Greg was very irritated that in comics so often clever people are villains and, moreover, act like idiots, allowing stupid heroes to defeat them. And, considering that Santa had existed on the Earth for a very long time already (actually, Greg couldn't get a precise answer from anybody, how long exactly), he could be a medieval alchemist who had found a philosophers' stone and achieved immortality. Alchemy, of course, was a pseudo science, but nevertheless it was closer to science than to magic; mum said that all modern chemistry grew from it. This hypothesis, however, didn't explain one thing–the purpose of the swindle. On the contrary, the bestowing of gifts seemed to be an absolutely lossmaking business. But if this guy doesn't want anything bad, why does he lie, pretending to be a magic being? And why doesn't he share his discovery with the world? Greg heard many times that there's no such thing as a free lunch; it was simply surprising that adults who repeated it to him in a mentor tone didn't even think to apply this thesis to Santa Claus. And what if one day he submits a bill to the whole world, with all the interest that had accumulated over centuries? In that case, mankind will be in big trouble. And the one who stops the mendacious old bastard in advance will save the world.
The second hypothesis, however awful it was, coincided with the classical explanation. That is, Santa Claus really was a supernatural being. Maybe the one thing in the universe which was breaking the well-knit and logical materialistic harmony... Greg couldn't, didn't want to acknowledge it. But nevertheless he knew that a real scientist should test a theory with an experiment.
During pre-Christmas days on TV and in printed media there were stories about boys and girls who didn't believe in Santa Claus. And then, having stated their doubts, were convinced of the existence of Santa–either by a very serious and authoritative adult, like the editor of "New York Times," or by Santa himself. And though the reliability of these stories, especially of the second type, was doubtful by itself...
"Santa Claus, I, Gregory George Prime from Malcolmtown, Maine, USA, don't believe in you," Greg loudly proclaimed to the darkness of the big room where the Christmas tree stood. For some reason he was sure that it was necessary to address Santa at night. As, obviously, one would speak to vampires, werewolves, and other undead creatures–if they really existed... "But if you exist–come and talk to me. Don't sneak into the house late at night when I'm asleep. Come yourself, don't send any assistants. I'll meet you in the town park."
For the plan that Greg has conceived, his home was not appropriate in any way.
"What an unpleasant thing is waiting," John Rockston sighed, sitting down on the edge of a table and looking at the snow flying outside the window. "Especially if you know that, maybe, this very minute the bastard is already leading the next child into the woods."
"We can't do anything more now," responded Douglas. "The crime lab didn't dig out anything new; we can only hope to catch him with our nets."
"Almost twenty four hours passed since we set them. If he hasn't passed by any watching eyes during this time..."
"Than he, probably, has had time to settle down in some town already," finished Douglas. "I know. And then, if he isn't recognized in the streets–and photos are available only to policemen who are not too numerous in small towns–then we, most probably, will catch him only after one more murder. This is life, John. This is our job. Only in movies does the cavalry always manage to appear at the last moment... Well, time to make the next call to Wash."
But, before Douglas had time to pick up the receiver, the phone rang.
"Douglas here. When? And he...? How long ago? Yes! Yes, of course, we'll come personally!"
He hanged up and joyfully turned to the trainee.
"Sullivan is staying at a Portsmouth motel. Under a false name, by the way."
"Arrested?"
"Not yet. He arrived as early as yesterday evening, but the manager got around to checking the license plates only now. He isn't currently in the motel–obviously, somewhere in the city. The police have already begun to