The Devil—With Wings Read Online Free Page A

here without money or friends because your rapacious greed—”
    â€œWait,” said Forsythe. “You don’t understand.…”
    â€œOh, I understand well enough,” she said, getting up slowly, centering the .25 until Forsythe could look straight down the muzzle of it. “But I’ve gotten past caring what happens to me .”
    â€œMiss Weston,” began Forsythe. “If you thought the blood money—”
    â€œBlood money! I care nothing about that. I would not dirty my purse with it!”
    He saw she was going to fire, but he was more amazed at her courage and passion than he was afraid of the bullet.
    Her face was a drawn mask.
    Ching shouted, “Look out!”
    Red sparks ribboned past the lamp. The explosion made the flame leap convulsively and the thunder of the small weapon in those close confines hurt the head.
    Three times ragged flame thundered from the small gun and then, as though suddenly realizing the thing she had done, she dropped the .25 and whirled, almost falling to the door.
    Light showed in the opening for an instant and vanished. The small patter of her footsteps melted into the far-off shrilling of the singers and the clink of glasses in the café.
    Ching, coming out of his daze, rushed angrily toward the door to follow. He tripped over Forsythe’s boots and went sprawling across the pool of light on the floor. He lay there, swearing weakly in a mixture of English and Chinese.

CHAPTER THREE
    The Strange Visitor
    P ATRICIA W ESTON lay upon her bed in the Imperial Hotel, her face buried in the graceful curve of her white arm, her dark brown hair shimmering dully in the moonlight which streamed in through the window.
    Her shoulders shook from time to time as she fought to regain control of her nerves. She had felt very sick for an hour and then, gradually, her young strength had fought off the weakness.
    She had killed a man.
    She had not even seen his face, but she had heard his voice. And if her rage and her desire for vengeance had not been so great she might have stopped herself in time.
    Now she was worse off than before. Her bill was unpaid and the manager was becoming distantly polite. She had not eaten since the day before yesterday. Maybe the dizzy faintness of hunger had driven her to do the thing she had brooded upon for so long.
    She was deeply ashamed of her temper, amazed at the depths she had suddenly found in herself, still unwilling to believe that she had done what she had done.
    Yesterday she had started to pawn the pistol. If she only had! But she had been afraid of the police and she had wanted…
    She pushed her face deeper into the bed, shaken again by the retrospect of the searing fire she had loosed into a human being.
    The moonlight fell in a trapezoid upon the thick rug, broken only by the corner of the bed it touched. And then the moonlight was barred by a blurred shadow which swung slowly over the sill.
    Patricia lifted her head, still striving to throw off the memory which shook her. She braced her chin on her hand, staring at the rug, brown hair framing her face.
    Abruptly she realized that something lay there which did not belong. Her gaze widened. She was staring at a shadow which lay upside down. The shadow of a round-headed thing which stood upright beside the window.
    She threw herself hastily back with a small squeal of terror and stared upward at the man who stood there.
    He looked like a demon out of another dimension. All black from boots to cap. Two enormous eyes fully three inches across. Great shining eyes, staring steadily at her.
    She scrambled back further.
    Forsythe did not move. His gauntleted hands were knuckled to his hips. A strange smile was on his mouth.
    She was as far away from him as she could get. Their stares locked. Only the moonlight, reflected up from the floor, showed her to him.
    She was dressed in bright blue pajamas, collar and belt in silver, and Forsythe, though he could not see