Dead or Alive by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page A

and second fingers of her left hand. The very pointed nails matched the lipstick to a hair. She was looking at Meg, her lips wide in a smile, and all at once Bill knew what her lipstick reminded him of. He knew that, and he knew something else. The two things collided violently in his mind. The lipstick was exactly the colour of a pink zinnia, of all flowers and of all colours the most artificial, and it was those zinnia-coloured lips which he had seen in a taxi beyond Robin O’Hara on that October midnight more than a year ago.

V
    Bill did not speak until they were clear of the dining-room. The voices, the laughter, the music seemed suddenly to have become unnaturally loud. The whole big echoing room throbbed and vibrated with sound. He and Meg walked through it silently. They came to an archway lined with mirrors, and as he drew abreast of her, each threw a quick involuntary glance at the other. Their eyes met. Bill’s sense of shock was intensified. They came out into the wide corridor, and he said quickly,
    â€œDo you know who she is?”
    Meg drew a little away from his. Her eyebrows made a faint, fine arch over the deep blue of her eyes. She said in a small, cool voice,
    â€œWho?”
    What was the sense of pretending like that? Whether she liked it or not, he was bound to get at what she knew. And she did know something. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt about that.
    â€œMeg, I’m sorry, but it’s important. That woman at the table behind ours—I’ve seen her before, and so have you. Tell me who she is.”
    â€œI don’t know her.”
    â€œDo you know who she is?”
    â€œIt’s quite obvious, I should think.”
    â€œMeg!” Bill could have shaken her. “I’m asking if you know her name.”
    â€œI believe she calls herself Della Delorne.”
    There was a most curious sense of strain between them—anger, resentment, pride. Meg’s voice was low and hard. Her hour’s respite was over. Couldn’t Bill let her have just this one evening, that he must question her about Della Delorne? Did he admire her so much that he had to know her name—now, all in a hurry, in the middle of this one hour?
    Bill, on his part, was astonished and a little angry. She was the beloved woman, but Lord—the fundamental unreasonableness of women! She had known him for ten years, and she could use that tone to him! It was as if she accused him. His anger rose. Meg of all women in the world to think that he would be caught at a glance by a simpering platinum blonde with a gold-digging eye! He said stiffly,
    â€œDo you happen to know where she lives?”
    Meg said “Yes,” in a stiffer tone than his own. Her colour had ebbed right away, leaving the clear, faint artificial tint in pathetic relief. She turned from him and moved quickly in the direction of the cloak-room. The evening was spoiled, but they would have to see it through. She must get her coat, and then she and Bill would sit side by side for a couple of hours hating one another and thinking about Della Delorne.
    When they were in the taxi, Bill put his hand on hers.
    â€œMeg—don’t be angry.”
    Meg looked away from him at a whirling sky-sign all scarlet and blue.
    â€œI’m not in the least angry.”
    Bill’s hand pressed hers. He said,
    â€œLiar!” And then, “Why does Della Delorne make you angry?”
    â€œI’m not angry—I told you I wasn’t.”
    Bill pulled her round to face him.
    â€œLook here, Meg, come off it! I want the woman’s name and address for Garratt, not for myself. You’re behaving as if I’d insulted you. If you hadn’t known who she was, I should have had to find out some other way.”
    â€œLet me go!” said Meg. And then all of a sudden she melted. “Bill, you don’t know—”
    â€œNo, but you can tell me, my dear.”
    It was she who was holding him now, one