What does it mean to look away? Eye contact: how to learn to look people in the eyes. If a person looks at the upper right corner

How to move a thunderstorm away from your home It can be scary in your homes and gardens during a severe thunderstorm. To prevent lightning from striking your home, throw a piece of black bread out the window and say: Holy, Holy, Holy, pour springs on the face of the earth. The living Lord, the eternal God, execute the devil, not us. Always

Luckily, Amber got my hopes up and tried the pills. Five minutes later I realized that she was indeed very drunk - because under the influence of the drugs her gaze cleared, and her gestures acquired completeness and precision.

I walked her to the car and then went to August. The boss was unhappy, and even his usual equanimity disappeared somewhere.

Della, it's rude to get so drunk at this time of day.

As it turns out, you’ve known Max for God knows how many years?

August hesitated - he did not expect the turn of the topic.

Didn't they tell you?..

The main thing is that you imagine what he is. So, do you still have doubts about my manners?

Max is very well brought up.

He is. And when he wants, he can show off his high-society gestures. The trouble is that he likes bad girls who will climb trees and play war games with him. Therefore, he did not educate me, but on the contrary, he strongly approved of the boy’s antics. And he especially liked it when I violated decency.

All men like such girls. Or almost everyone.

That's why you're looking for tender young ladies, touch them and they'll wither!

And our mothers, who themselves were once bad girls, like them. Therefore, if it is more important for a man to please his mother than himself, he pretends that he likes gentle young ladies.

Why did you fight with Max?

Della, in my circle men don't fight. They meet for a duel strictly limited by the rules.

Fine. Why did you and Max have a fight?

August thought:

I do not remember. He called, so I could ignore what was the reason. What's the difference, really. The challenge has been thrown - we must accept it. Max is a very strong opponent, technical and fast. It was an interesting fight.

I guess you won.

Yes, the seconds thought it was me. Max insisted on revenge. Here I refused. It's like I have nothing better to do! And so my grandfather got into trouble for breaking his award sword.

Oh, you also use swords. So romantic.

I prefer gentleman's boxing, but there were doubts that Max could do it. I asked what he thought about swords. He agreed. He had his own, and I secretly took it from my great-uncle. We were both wearing small chest armor, covering only the heart, liver and stomach. Max left a scar on my left arm, and I hit him under his right collarbone, literally half an inch above the edge of the armor, in the shoulder strap. The blade pierced the belt, passed between the ribs, rested on the shoulder blade and broke. I didn’t expect it, the sword looked just like a real one.

Wonderful. August, you truly are a genius. You have to be able to pull off a man ten years older than you, who was also almost born with a sword!

He shrugged:

Della, I also grew up in a family where boys from childhood are taught all sorts of unnecessary things that only clutter the brain. I rarely use these skills because I don't see any practical use in them. But I know and remember all this. Now go to sleep, you're drunk.

I'll be fine in half an hour. I have some ideas.

“Go to sleep,” he repeated and left the office.

I sighed heavily. And I went to bed, but what should I do?

* * *

As subsequent events showed, sleep was by no means a stupid idea. Although I cannot exclude that Augustus calculated the situation with his brilliant brains and chose the optimal sequence of our actions.

Because in the evening Maximillian van den Bergh came to us in person, and in a capacity in which I could not even imagine him: as a client. So my day off is over.

“I want you to investigate the murder of Mr. John Smith, the elf,” he said, sitting imposingly in the client’s chair, crossing his legs and clasping his knee with his fingers interlocked.

As far as I remember, Prince, John Smith was not your servant or the child of your servants. You had never even heard of him before his death.

When communicating with clients, August always said “you,” even if he knew them damn well. He would also address his own mother as “you” if she were in this office on business.

“I’ll explain,” Max agreed. - My distant relative is a high rank in the transport ministry. He was extremely disturbed by this murder because John Smith was a federal employee. My relative fears that this murder was not without reason. He wants to know exactly why he was killed. Is it because the elf found himself in a position that was prestigious in the eyes of some people, or because he participated in some kind of fraud, or because he was killed because he tried to prevent such a fraud. This is not the first murder of a federal employee by the same gang, or by the same maniac. Since another victim was related to transportation, different... thoughts arise. My relative believes that the police will take the easy way out just to close the issue. Anything could be behind these murders, from the theft of budget funds to an attempted coup. Just don’t argue, such cases are known when a seemingly nonsense incident...

Yes, a robbery in Vanilla,” August agreed. - Although a coup d'etat in relation to that case is still too strong a word. Regardless of the ambitions of the gang leader, the limit of its capabilities is to terrorize a small town. And not for long.

“But it doesn’t matter to me at all,” Max retorted. - As you yourself understand, my relative could not contact you personally - due to his official position and the obligations associated with it. So he asked me for a favor.

I hope you are aware that I am obliged to show the contract with your signature to the police?

It’s okay,” Max waved it off, “I’m not negotiating with you about buying a batch of slaves.” Like every citizen, I have a legal right to worry when a crime is committed.

Of course,” confirmed Augustus.

For the next fifteen minutes they heatedly discussed the details of the agreement. Fifteen minutes later they shook hands. I took out the agreement forms, filled them out and submitted them for signature - first to August, then to Max. Max stared at the documents with bulging eyes:

Are you using paper?!

Don't worry, August replied, it's not cellulose paper. Plastic. But very well made. I treat environmental requirements with reverence.

Max simply blinked:

I am not talking about that.

Oh, sorry. - August didn’t even bat an eye. - I have a full federal license. You are required to sign a number of documents on paper.

“I thought now only deeds of land and wills are written on paper,” Max chuckled and reached for the stylus.

Yeah, I understand him. I myself was shocked when I agreed to become not only an operative, but also August’s secretary, and he listed new responsibilities for me. How is it possible that documentation is also on paper?! It's a matter of license. Augustus had the right to conduct investigations throughout the entire territory of the State of Earth. The territories are divided into states, and in each state the federal legal “skeleton” acquires its own “meat”. On Earth itself and in most states of the first and second radii, a digital signature is equal to a handwritten one. The rest require a handwritten signature. Moreover, in some places it is used to certify literally all documents, in others only notary and bank documents. In the tenth state, even though it is in the first radius, six years ago they banned digital signatures on property documents. There was an unpleasant incident: the patriarch, who had fallen into childhood, bequeathed all his property to the nurse, died a few days later, the nurse overnight became a rich lady, and the old man’s family ended up on the street. This is because you can put a digital signature even if you are incapacitated: it does not require coordinated motor skills or at least relative clarity of mind. Fortunately for the affected family, fraud was proven and justice prevailed. But in order to prevent such misunderstandings, a handwritten signature was now required on wills, deeds of gift and deeds of sale.

By the way, on Earth, many notaries and attorneys also began to hedge their bets by duplicating important documents “on paper.” God saves man, who save himself. And all holders of full federal licenses - including August - were literally required to keep paper records. Not entirely, of course, - only contracts and client orders. And thanks for that; If we were forced to keep a log of events on paper, I would probably rebel.

Della,” August called, “you will go to Kruger.” Now. Figure out how to lure him out of the house yourself.

Yes, boss. - I got up to go to my room.

Great. - Max leaned back in his chair. - In the meantime, we’ll take a walk in the garden.

I suspected a trick. But I was on duty and had no right to question August or bother Max. So I went to get dressed.

The meeting was planned, although it was on a day off, but it was official and difficult. First, Kruger will swear and clutch his head, then whine about how tired he is of McKinby and me, then bargain over every little thing. Without thinking twice, I put on my favorite two-piece pants. So that Kruger doesn't imagine that I've come to my senses, become a good girl, or, worse, trying to impress him.

Half an hour later I returned to the office. Max was just about to leave.

Both were a little... disheveled. Max's face was also petrified with rage. I didn’t even have time to open my mouth when August politely opened the door for the guest:

All the best, Prince.

“Yeah,” Max said and left so decisively, as if he was going to enter the parking lot through the wall.

I followed him with my gaze, waited until it became quiet, and looked questioningly at August. Augustus was combing his hair into a sleek helmet. I said nothing. If a person likes to disfigure himself, let him.

Life turned out in such a way that August and I actually had two acquaintances. We first met while studying at neighboring universities. I caught the same period when August wore jeans, had a tangled mane and was called Sandy. Then one bastard tried to poison him, Sandy thundered into intensive care. After spending several days unconscious, he woke up and found that his hair had been matted into felt. I asked the nurse to shave them. After the treatment, he changed a lot, he didn’t see me point-blank, and I didn’t even try to get into his eyes. I just heard that he didn’t let his hair go anymore, he liked to sparkle his bare skull. At Great York, I saw an absolutely, universally indifferent man without age, with thin straight hair, and a color unfavorable for such a structure - wheat. Either paint them black or cut them in some other way, it’s not a sin to shave them off completely. And he combed them back smoothly, so that they fit tightly around his head. When leaving, August turned his back, and I was convinced that his hair only seemed thin - the ponytail in which he put it back was thick.

And then they tried to drown us both in the sewers on Lucton. Yes, yes, that same swimming in the sewer. Bathing with cuffed hands and with a rail on your feet. The scoundrels did not take into account that I was a career intelligence officer, albeit in the past - but in the recent past - and August... Well, to be honest, he surprised me then too. Very much. Of course, I understood that he had good breathing - with such a chest and excellent health, it would be strange to have bad lungs - but not a Jedi's!

After that forced swim in icy sewage water, we warmed up and washed ourselves at the local police station. There was no hair gel in the police department, so I had the pleasure of seeing my boss as he is, as they say. I openly admired the rich, curly mane, which shimmered with all the shades of a ripe grain field. It was even better than Sandy's.

What a pity that August turned out to be more stubborn than any other sheep and turned a deaf ear to all persuasion to change his hairstyle...

What is it this time?

August raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Max asked if I really said that you look better without a dress than in it. I answered - yes, something similar happened, but what, he considers this statement false? He suggested that I had little basis for such conclusions, I objected that it was just him - he sees you in a dress for the first time in your life, he has nothing to compare with. After which we found out which of us has the right to make such conclusions, and he went home. I hope he understands everything and will no longer insist on revenge.

And what this time?..

Boxing. Only hands, only to the body.

I shook my head. Boys.

Keep in mind: he has no relatives in the transportation department.

Thank you. I know. He needed an excuse to meet you often, so he came up with one.

Why did you agree, since you understood?

First of all, I need an excuse to do this thing. And secondly, I did not find a single reasoned reason for refusal.

So what do you think about this?

I hate it when they try to make a romantic adventure out of work. By the way, Della: I do not limit your personal life, but be kind enough to spend the night at home.

I blinked in amazement.

Are you jealous or what?

No,” said Augustus sharply. - I don’t like that you walk until the morning, and then drink in the morning.

“You’re jealous,” I said affirmatively. - You're afraid that your favorite red car will be stolen. It was Brenda Taggie who told me a new joke - about the fact that you perceive me as a particularly rare copy of a red car. And you will lay down your bones, but you will not allow me to pass into the hands of another “collector.”

“Don’t be stupid,” was all Augustus muttered. But by the way he looked away, I realized that I had hit the mark.

Then give instructions.

I have never received such instructions before.

Can you? - August noticed that he stunned me.

Boss, I'm a scout, everything will be... okay. But perhaps I chose the wrong outfit.

Yes, we need to be stricter,” August nodded. - More impressive. You look too frivolous in trousers.

I wanted to hit him.

You don't understand women's clothing!

“I understand Kruger,” he said.

Business suit with a skirt?..

No. A skirt is standard office wear. No one notices a woman in a skirt and jacket. How does no one think about what is hidden under the clothes of a woman in a police uniform?

Well, now, I thought. Are you going to tell this to me, a retired cop?

Ideally, said August, Kruger should have a slight culture shock when you appear.

“What happiness,” I said. “So you won’t ask me to come to him drunk, naked and with a bloody kitchen knife in my hand.”

August became thoughtful, and I hurried away.

* * *

I didn't have to persuade Kruger to meet at the cafe. He was called to work. On the way to the office, I looked at the news. Sixth corpse. Orc, nineteen years old, which corresponds to about thirty years for a human. No details. Okay, now we’ll find out on the spot.

In front of the entrance, reporters were already hanging out, looking rather pitiful - amateurs, small fry. Using a few simple techniques to avert my eyes, I slipped unnoticed almost to the door. However, at the last moment I relaxed, attracted attention, they recognized me and called out:

Ms van den Berg, has your boss already joined the investigation?

I turned around and looked at the reporter with an icy gaze:

I'm bringing cheesecakes for senior expert Kruger.

It is very easy to confuse an amateur journalist: more than anything else, he is afraid of seeming funny, of getting into a stupid position, of being stupid. A professional will not be distracted by wondering how exactly I am trying to fool him and make him look like an idiot. He will ask himself the main question: why am I doing this? And he’s certainly not afraid to get into a puddle. Any professional whose job is to obtain information and analyze it regularly ends up in a puddle. Take Kruger, for example. Or me. This is not who we are, this is a property of information. There is always too little of it.

For an experienced journalist, cheesecakes and a machine gun are all equally uninteresting; his object is me. I didn’t have a machine gun, but on the crook of my elbow I carefully carried a package with the logo of an expensive bakery. The reporters, as if on cue, stared at him. Half a second of confusion allowed me to duck through the glass swirl of doors and emerge in the hall. The duty officer bared his teeth.

“It’s a good joke,” he nodded, “we should take it into service.”

The joke is a lie, but there is a hint in it. I really need Kruger. I remembered something important from the previous corpse. I discovered this poor elf.

Maybe Johansson is for you? He's running the business. And Kruger is busy right now.

Johansson? - I was surprised. - He was promoted, or what?

Yes, yesterday. - The duty officer was distracted by the external camera. - Excuse me, one minute...

Of course, I said.

And she calmly headed towards the elevators. The duty officer only sighed sadly behind me, but did not run after me. He also understood that I was asking questions for the sake of formality - more precisely, to find out whether Kruger was in the department, otherwise he had suddenly gone to the morgue or somewhere else.

Kruger was indeed busy. And he’s busy in the company of that same Ian Johansson. Therefore, I looked through the glass that separated the senior expert’s office from the common room and entered without knocking.

I said - on Monday! - Kruger barked.

He looked bad. Of course. I silently walked to the table, sat down on the first chair that turned up and crossed my legs.

Kruger looked at me sideways and winced. I was wearing a strict black dress, and over it a jacket with elbow-length sleeves. The hair is styled not in a work style, but as if for a social occasion. Maybe I didn’t experience a culture shock, but there was some movement in the head of the senior expert. At the very least, he decided that I had come to torment him, and not to beg. And now he hoped to at least postpone the torment until tomorrow.

That's it, Della... - he began threateningly.

“I’ll wait until you calm down and remember that there’s a lady here,” I answered arrogantly.

I'll remember, yeah. I can still remember something...

That's great. Those details of my official biography that you are hinting at will come in handy now - there will be fewer unnecessary questions.

Listen, Della, I'm busy. - Kruger was not going to give up so quickly.

Do you want me to wait outside for you? In a crowd of strange guys who are confident that they know how to make news?

Kruger groaned:

Okay, lay out what you need. Ian, later. She won’t lag behind anyway, it’s easier to figure it out right away... Tell Cossa there, let him bring coffee. Two.

Ian walked away, allowing himself one polite smile addressed to me.

And who is he now? - I asked when the door closed behind Ian.

Who should have been from the very beginning. Investigator.

Oh how. Why did you work as a junior criminologist?

Kruger gritted his teeth:

Della, why did you come?!

I placed copies of the investigation agreement and August's license on Kruger's desk.

This was the only thing Kruger needed for complete happiness - for a first-class inquisitor to get involved in a case that was already making his hair stand on end.

Kruger,” I leaned forward, “let’s avoid this pathos, huh?” No time. You won't solve this case without us.

What the hell is this... joy?!

So much so that the average person cannot afford an elf servant.

Just a working version!

Listen, that's enough. There was an elf there. Keeping an elf in the house, let me say nothing, raising him is a privilege of the nobility. This means you will have to deal with the family aristocracy. And you yourself know that the last baron, the droopy one, is a very uncomfortable person when you need to talk to him. In the best case scenario, his lawyer will contact you. Yes, you must be told everything that can shed light on the crime. But how can you prove that you are bothering this or that sovereign lord for a legitimate and significant reason? Real aristocrats are busy gentlemen, their mouths are full of troubles, and labor legislation does not protect them from overwork. They rule the planets. They just missed you!