Agyar Read Online Free PDF Page A

I have anything to write down.
    I went back to visit Jill earlier tonight, this time at her house. It would have been harder to find if she hadn’t mentioned the blue light in the attic, but there it was, and there I was. The place had just been painted, sometime within the last couple of months; the smell had survived the weather and it overpowered any other smells. I’ve never been fond of paint smell, but there are worse. I heard sounds of a stereo faintly through the door and recognized 3 Mustaphas 3; it’s always interesting when you discover someone who knows the same obscure music you know. There’s very little contemporary music of any kind that I listen to, and when I discover a musician I like it is usually by accident. In this case, I dated a woman in New York who worked for a record company, and several times found myself waiting for her in her offices, and they were played there. I know the songs they play, and they have more respect for the music than most.
    I shouldn’t let myself get started on this, should I?
    But I did, in fact, like the music, and I wondered if I’d misjudged Jill. Probably not. I stood on a very wide, very long unenclosed porch, with a few pieces of cheap furniture. The door was thick and wooden, with no screen. I looked for a buzzer and didn’t find one. Knock knock went the nice man at the door.
    The music dropped in volume to the point where I could hear the slap of bare feet against a wood floor. The
door opened with a melodramatic creak, and two very wide blue eyes appeared vertically in the partially opened doorway. No, it wasn’t Jill. I couldn’t see the smile below the eyes, but the lines around the cheekbones indicated it was there.
    “Yes?” she said. “And who might you be?”
    I bowed, because it seemed the appropriate response. “I might be Jill’s friend,” I said. “Or I might be an Israeli terrorist looking for PLO supporters. Or possibly a burglar trying to steal your jewels to support my laudanum habit. Or even a neighbor complaining about the volume. That is “Heart of Uncle,” isn’t it? It really ought to be louder.”
    She considered this, worked her lips like Nero Wolfe, then threw the door open all the way, placed her hand against the doorjamb while leaning against the casing trim. She had one leg bent, her foot resting against the doorway, and her arms were folded in front of her as she blocked the doorway and considered me. She was as tall as I and thinner; most of her height in her legs. She wore a navy blue skirt, buttoned on the side, and a white tank top. She was small-breasted, with a graceful neck and a delightfully animated face, full of blue eyes and theatrical expressions. Her hair was dark blond, straight, and reached only to the top of her neck, with a navy blue band keeping it back out of her face. Her lips were full and had just a hint of a cupid’s bow. Her nose was small, and she probably wrinkled it fairly often, for effect. I decided she couldn’t possibly be a drama student because stereotypes are never that perfect.
    “I like your coat,” she announced, as if her approval of my dress were the supreme prize in a good-taste contest.
    “Does that mean I get to see Jill?”
    She considered this. “Perhaps it does,” she said.
“Just what are your intentions concerning my roommate?”
    “I’m going to kidnap her and hold her for ransom.”
    “Really?” she said, appearing delighted. “How splendid.”
    “Or else I’ll put her in a cage and show her for money, but I think you’d be more suitable for that role.”
    She nodded. “Yes. The kidnapping is a much better idea.” She stood straight and walked with exaggerated grace into the living room. There was a very nice wooden stairway, curving back on itself with a stained-glass window at the landing. She called, “Jill! Your kidnapper is here,” and gave me a big smile.
    “Aren’t you going to come in?” she said.
    “Only if you want me to. We kidnappers are