Read Online The Assassin by Evelyn Anthony - Free Book Online

following. She saw her reflection in the mirror as she passed; she looked dishevelled, her hair hanging down over her shoulders. She tried to push it back, feeling for the combs that held it up on her head.
    â€˜Leave it alone,’ she heard him say. ‘It looks pretty like that.’
    â€˜What are you doing to do?’ She should have gone to her room as he said and locked the door. She should have pretended, lied, acted as if she were injured by what had happened between them. But Elizabeth couldn’t. She was too honest with herself to try to fool him. She had ended up willing; if he had come back and taken her in his arms at that moment she would have welcomed it.
    â€˜I’m going to get something to eat,’ Keller said ‘You don’t have to bother about me.’
    â€˜I’ll make us both something,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to stay here, you might as well be comfortable. And I might as well make you welcome. Whatever this whole business is, we’re mixed up in it whether we like it or not. I’ll get some eggs and some coffee.’
    He didn’t answer her. He went into the room they had left and started taking his shaving kit and pyjamas out of the bag. With any luck he wouldn’t need them. With any real luck somebody would call and he’d be out of that apartment and away from the girl that same day. He didn’t like what he had done to her; it was a bad sign, a sign that he wasn’t in command of himself. He didn’t like the look on her face, or his own irritation when she tried to put her yellow hair up. The whole thing was a crazy ball-up, and he threw his clothes out of the case and swore. He wouldn’t go near her again. That was the first thing. He’d keep well away, away from the scent and the accidental contact in case it ignited that sexual spark again. And anyway he didn’t want to mess around with her. He had a woman, a woman who loved him and was waiting in Beirut. To earn his fifty thousand dollars he needed to keep clear of all involvements.
    In the kitchen Elizabeth closed the door and leaned against it. Her arms were throbbing; there were marks on the skin which would turn into bruises. He had a body like a tank; crushing, unassailable. She thought suddenly of Peter Mathews and the memory was blurred and sloppy, like the man himself, with his pettish ephemeral desire. He had lied her into bed, and lied himself out of it when he had got his own way. She had never understood why her friends wanted the casual affair, or plunged in and out of marriage like divers at a swimming gala. Once was enough for her. She had only to think of it to feel the disillusionment and the hurt all over again. Keller had promised not to touch her again and she believed that he would keep his promise.
    She began to make eggs and boil coffee; her hands were steadier now. She brushed the hair back as it fell against her cheek. Later, after they had eaten, she would pin it up again.
    King made his rendezvous in Paris. He felt he had earned a few days’ rest before he went on to do his legitimate business in Germany. He booked in at the Ritz Hotel in Paris, and enjoyed an excellent dinner and early night. He believed in the refreshing powers of sleep; when he was tired or travelling he napped whenever an opportunity came along. Next day he amused himself going round the antique shops in the Quartier Lebrun, bought a handsome eighteenth-century boulle bureau plat and spent the morning arranging for its shipment to his Frankfurt office. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, a fine example of French craftsmanship which he had decided to possess on impulse. For this reason he was sending it to Germany instead of to his New York apartment. It would be easy to move it from Frankfurt. In the evening he took a taxi to an address in the street one block down from the Rue St Honoré. He got out at a splendid nineteenth-century house with an imposing