The Devil—With Wings Read Online Free

the door opened again, Forsythe was seated at the small table, his face little more than a white blur by the light which seeped in from the main room.
    Silhouetted against the lamp and smoke and shrill music stood Patricia Weston. Not even the bulk of her marten coat could hide the tension of her shapely body.
    She seemed to be making a decision and then, with determination, she stepped forward, holding a leather purse in both hands.
    Ching followed her and closed the door. He drew out a chair at the main table and seated her in such a way that the light was in her face—making it necessary for her to stare through it to see Forsythe in the darkness beyond.
    A chair had scraped and she knew the man had risen. Leather creaked and she saw the silver of his buckle. He was seated again.
    Forsythe looked steadily at her, saying nothing. At first he thought he was trying to read the thoughts which might lie behind her eyes, but suddenly he gave up that pretense.
    She was beautiful!
    He had never before seen eyes like that. They were vivid and deep, the eyes of a woman capable of great love and fury. Looking at her, he realized with a shock that she was not very big. He had thought otherwise. She certainly made the most of her five feet three. Dark strands of her brown hair curled out from under her flippant hat to lie smokily against the paleness of her brow.
    He could feel the intensity of her. She was like a swift storm or a blazing sunrise. Her mouth was full and sweet—and impetuous.
    With a shock Forsythe realized that his hands were trembling unaccountably.
    â€œYou came to see me,” said Forsythe with disbelief. “Why?”
    â€œI came to see a man and I find myself staring into darkness.”
    Her voice was barely controlled and in it there was an undercurrent of anger and decision.
    â€œOf course,” said Forsythe. “That’s for precaution, you know.”
    He leaned forward and slid one of the posters under the light. She glanced at it.
    â€œFifty thousand dollars,” she said bitterly. “Why do they add to your ego?”
    â€œYou are upset about something,” said Forsythe. “Perhaps something I have done?”
    She was under a terrific strain as she looked up from the poster.
    â€œâ€˜The murder of Robert Weston in Mongolia.’”
    â€œOh, now, see here,” protested Forsythe. “You can’t go around believing every impossible rumor you hear. When that happened I was—”
    â€œNo! You can’t tell me where you were because you were there. You murderer! He was worth a thousand of you! Because you could not otherwise obtain the Confucius—”
    â€œI keep hearing this thing about Confucius. What is it?”
    â€œA smooth liar, too? In keeping with your horrible reputation.” Her hands still clutched the bag in her lap.
    Ching came around the table to stand beside Forsythe. He was nervous. He had not suspected the vitality of this woman and he was overawed by the way she dared speak to a man who had become legend.
    â€œYou are upset,” said Forsythe. “I give you my word I had nothing to do with the killing of Weston. Is he your brother?”
    â€œSo you even know that!”
    â€œI make it my business to know things. For instance, it would not be wise to take that .25 automatic out of your purse.”
    Forsythe underestimated her. He had thought to frighten her into forsaking the mission which was now altogether too clear.
    She suddenly brought the bag into view, her right hand deep within it.
    In a low, throbbing voice, she said, “Don’t move.”
    Ching stiffened. His hand started toward his holster but Forsythe stopped the motion.
    Patricia Weston gradually pulled the purse away from in front of the wicked little automatic.
    â€œRobert was all I had,” she said. “It was to pay our way out of this country. And then you killed him and left him to the wild dogs. You left me stranded