The Devil—With Wings Read Online Free Page B

them, knew that her eyes were also blue and dark and growing stormy.
    Her voice was vibrant with swiftly rising indignation.
    â€œWho are you? What are you doing here?”
    Forsythe took another step toward the edge of the bed. “If I were a fortuneteller, Miss Weston, I would say that you were going on a long, long journey.”
    She recognized his voice with a start which sent cold shivers racing over her. She tried to slide sideways toward the door. She tried to cry out for help.
    â€œDo not shout,” said Forsythe. “You are too kindhearted to want to see your room-boy die as he comes through the door.”
    â€œThey call you…”
    Somehow Forsythe hated to hear her say it.
    She clutched at her creamy throat, terror freezing her. “The Devil—With Wings. I…I believe it.”
    â€œDon’t upset yourself,” said Forsythe, trying to be gallant. “I could not call and leave my card, you know. Fifty thousand would be a fortune to a hotel manager—especially when all he had to do was phone Captain Shinohari. Come. We are wasting precious time. Dawn is not three hours away.”
    â€œBut…but I killed you! At that distance I could not miss!”
    â€œYou didn’t,” Forsythe assured her. “Come now, be a good lass and climb into some clothes. You will have a long journey—”
    â€œIf you think I’m going anywhere with you, you’re crazy!”
    Forsythe shrugged. “You’re crazy to stay here. No money, you owe the hotel, you haven’t eaten.… Oh, no, you haven’t. I’ve been hungry too often myself not to recognize the sign of it. Tonight you were hysterical. Only hunger and grief could drive a woman to those lengths. Or perhaps love. Quickly now. You can’t take very much. You’ll overload the ship as it is.”
    She did not move, but crouched at the head of the bed watching him move easily toward her bureau and lean against it to light a cigarette.
    When the match flared she saw that the “eyes” were huge goggles, and when she saw him blowing out smoke in a very human way, she suddenly relaxed. She had felt so bad about killing him that now she was glad to behold him still alive.
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” said Forsythe, “hurry it up a little. It will be light soon enough and I have no liking for antiaircraft fire—especially with you in the plane.”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere—and besides, how can I get dressed with you standing there?”
    Forsythe smiled and paced back to the window. As he sat down on the sill and looked out across the rooftops, she saw moonlight strike three metal bulbs which dangled from his wide black belt. They shone brightly as they swung and she knew they were hand grenades. She noted the low-slung holster and saw the protruding dark rectangle of the .45 butt, to which a black lanyard had been hung.
    She examined his back curiously, standing slowly up and staring, her small face intent, her head cocked a little on one side.
    â€œChing has food,” remarked Forsythe without turning. “Hot coffee and hot ham sandwiches. It will be cold if you don’t hurry.”
    In spite of herself she licked her lips hungrily. She wondered if she could trust him to stay turned away, and then, seeing the way his shoulders were hunched forward and sensing more than seeing the ripple of animal strength under the black jacket, she snatched up a tweed Shetland wool suit and kicked her shoes ahead of her into the closet.
    She left the door open an inch so that she could watch him. He did not turn. He seemed very calm.
    Abruptly she was annoyed with him. He had no feelings whatever. Why…why, not even a bullet could dent him!
    She stepped back into the room and shrugged into her marten coat. She stepped to the mirror and powdered her nose by moonlight. It had not occurred to her to throw the electric switch.
    â€œRemember,” said