Murder for the Bride by John D. MacDonald Read Free Book Online Page B

us. Somebody shushed us. She moved her chair around until her bare shoulder brushed my sleeve. Her scent was jasmine and it was heavy. There was a big purse in her lap.
    She laughed softly up at me, her breath warm against my face. “Oh, no! I buy my own drinks. It is just awkward to come here alone to hear the music. Men misunderstand. I just hoped you would not mind.” She whispered so softly that no one around us was annoyed.
    “I don’t mind. Stick around,” I said. I leaned my head back against the wall and shut my eyes. I wanted to shut her out of my mind, but I could not. She was so close I could feel the warmth of her body, and the jasmine scent surrounded us.
    Papa finished a number. “He is so good,” she said softly.
    “The best,” I said.
    Papa started a noisy one. “Glendale Glide.” I looked down into my new friend’s face. I took a healthy pull at my drink. She rubbed her cheek against my sleeve.
    “You think I am crazy,” she said softly. “This is such a crazy thing to ask. But I have listened to this musicwith someone I love who is now no longer here. If you would put your arm around me, I could pretend so much easier. It is dark here. No one will mind. And that is all I want. Just your arm.”
    “Just my arm,” I said. I put my arm around her. She made a motion a kitten will make, snuggling against me. Her dark blonde hair tickled my cheek. She reached an arm across me. She was on my right. She reached an arm over to my left side and I started with the sudden pain as the sharp point dug into my flesh.
    “Do not move. Do not cry out,” she said huskily. “I don’t want to kill you.”
    “What goes on?”
    “Don’t move, Mr. Bryant. Enjoy the music. Relax and enjoy the music. Pretend we are lovers.”
    I started to tense to thrust her away and the point dug deeper. “No,” she said softly, “I can feel your muscles tighten. Make them loose again. Ah, better, Mr. Bryant.”
    As she held the knife in her right hand, out of sight under the edge of the table, her left hand began to creep into my pockets. I looked cautiously over at the nearest table. The two couples there were absorbed in the music. No help there. I felt ridiculously helpless. Her left hand touched my right hip pocket.
    “Now move forward just a little bit, Mr. Bryant.”
    I did so. It took enough pressure off the pocket so that I felt her slip my wallet out. Anybody looking toward us would have seen only a man with his arm around a lush and obviously friendly girl.
    I slowly pulled my feet back to get them under me. “Put your feet out where they were,” she ordered. “I am not playing a game, Mr. Bryant. This is a long knife. The point is just below your ribs, slanting upward. If I thrust, it will reach your heart.”
    “Who taught you this?”
    “Be still, please. Now reach very slowly into your left trouser pocket and take everything out and place it on the edge of the table.”
    One thing I was absolutely certain of. She wasn’t joking. She knew my name. She was as serious as deathitself. And I had no way of defending myself. Any attempt to use my right arm, and she would feel the preliminary tensing of the muscles. I was filled with a helpless anger.
    I had my hand in my left pocket when the man came out of the darkness and reached for her. I heard her gasp as he reached and beyond him somebody stood up and swung at the ceiling spot. It popped loudly and Papa’s piano faltered into silence. The girl twisted away, out of my arm. I grabbed for her, caught fabric, and felt it tear away. A chair fell over. A woman screamed twice and the room was full of panic. Everybody decided at the same moment to get out of there. I came around the table and somebody grabbed my wrists, strongly. I twisted away and struck at a figure silhouetted vaguely against the lights of the street. It was a good and satisfying blow, and it made that splatting sound that comes only when you strike flesh. Somebody grabbed me from behind. I