The Merchant of Secrets Read Online Free Page B

decided to go ahead with ordering our food.  In the
cozy dining room with mahogany walls and crimson colored carpeting, white linen
tablecloths were illuminated by tiny table lamps. The upholstered chairs were
substantial enough to seat anyone comfortably.
     
    We  were about to place our orders when the front
door swung open and a man hurriedly stepped inside to get out of the cold. He
was six feet tall, in his early forties, about 180 pounds ,with short
hair,  grey flannel overcoat, silk scarf wrapped around his neck in a deep
red color, and  wore black tasseled loafers indicating that he either
didn’t know about the weather forecast, or had changed plans after leaving the
house and didn’t  return to change into boots. He spoke slowly and
confidently in mild southeast Asian accent with deep
vowels and overly-accurate enunciation, indicating that he had been taught
English as a second language. His appearance in a very expensive suit, poorly
fitted on his frame inspired the undesired effect of drawing attention to
himself as someone who tried to look successful but somehow missed the mark.
  After brushing off the white snowflakes from his overcoat with strokes
of his right hand, he  removed it handed it to the Maitre’D ,
then rotated his head to the right and  rested his gaze on Sara and me.
     
     He confidently strode across to floor in the
direction of our table. Leaning forward with a bright smile he said “Good evening
ladies, I’m looking for Sara MacDonald,” alternating glances between the two of
us hoping that he had picked the right table. Sara quickly beamed “yes, I am
Sara” before I could ask this man who he was. The uninvited guest told us that
he was from Spain, and gave a vague account of being a friend of Sara’s friend,
but Sara couldn’t quite pin down the connection.  Nothing mattered to her;
she found him attractive and invited him to sit down gesturing toward one of
the two empty seats at our table. He parked himself in a seat between Sara and
me, unfolded the white linen napkin in his carefully manicured fingers and laid
it on his lap.
     
    “I heard that we were all gathering for dinner tonight
here at eight” the intruder said. “I see the others were scared off by the snow
storm. All the better for me, I get two beautiful women to myself, ”  he gushed, in exaggerated flirtation while sending a
weird glance in my direction.
     
    My name is Roger,” he said, “and I’m from Madrid.” His
grooming habits, didn’t indicate someone from Madrid.
 He ordered a porterhouse steak with mashed potatoes and a bottle of red
wine. Sara and I ordered almond encrusted Tilapia with green beans and white
wine.
     
    I began the conversation with a question gently put, but
which Sara found impolite and rude.  “How did you happen to know where to
find Sara this evening?” I asked.
     
    “Well you know,” he replied, looking downward to avoid
eye contact and fidgeting with the silverware, “ I have a friend named Justin who is also Sara’s friend, and he invited me to join
you  here tonight.” He raised his head and saw me looking dead-straight at
him.  Unnerved, he diverted his eyes to the window to regain
 his composure, then he turned his eyes back into the room and
fixed his gaze on Sara. Then he launched into a discussion of politics, joking
about the weak field of candidates coming from the Republican party but not saying anything that indicated that he had
knowledge beyond what had been printed recently in the press or discussed on
political talk shows. Sara and I both recognized that he wasn’t particularly
capable of holding a conversation on politics, so Sara tried to steer the
conversation to alternate subjects such as Spanish art; El Greco in particular,
and to vacation areas in Spain to make it easy for him. To her credit as a
hostess, it worked and he talked freely and comfortably.
     
    But within a few minutes, the man calling himself “Roger”
had