Masquerade Read Online Free PDF Page A

always possible, mam'selle, that you haven't been trained for anything."
    "Except to be beautiful and decorative, you mean."
    "You say that with a touch of disdain."
    "I suppose I do." But she wasn't interested in her reaction to that. "This feeling I have that I'm supposed to be somewhere—if it's true, then why hasn't my absence been noticed? Why hasn't someone missed me?"
    "Perhaps when we find out who you are, we will learn those answers as well."
    "But when will that be?" she demanded, all her frustration and anxiety surfacing as she turned from him and paced to the window, her arms folded tightly in front of her, her fingers curling into the blanket. "How long will I have to wait?"
    After a short silence, the inspector spoke. "I have arranged for a photographer to come and take your picture today. The newspaper has agreed to print it in tomorrow's edition. Perhaps someone will recognize your photo and come forward."
    "Perhaps."
    When he took his leave of her, she responded automatically but didn't turn from the window, her attention riveted on the brilliant blue sky outside. Like the endless swirl of questions in her mind, it seemed to go on forever.
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    5
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    â€œWe've located her," the man said into the telephone, studying the grainy newspaper photograph before him, transposed onto thin facsimile paper. It showed a young woman, bandages circling the top of her head and a bruise standing out sharply against the paleness of her skin. There was no hint of desperation in the eyes that stared back at him. Instead, they looked insistent, determined, demanding.
    "Where?" came the sharp, quick response from the man on the other end of the line. "At a hospital in Nice."  
    "A hospital?"
    "Yes. I've just received a copy of an article that's appearing in the morning edition of their paper, accompanied by a photo of her." Once more he scanned the article in the French-language newspaper. Mostly it was a collection of pertinent facts, and little else, listing her height at five feet four and a half inches, her weight at one hundred and thirteen pounds, her hair dark blond, her eyes hazel, and her age estimated to be in the mid-to-late-twenties range. All of these details he already knew about her—with one enlightening addition. "My French is a little rusty, but it appears she has amnesia."
    "Amnesia. My God, does that mean she can't remember anything?"
    "Apparently." He couldn't keep the note of satisfaction out of his voice. "The article refers to her as the 'Demoiselle de Mystère.'"
    "This is great news."
    "I know."
    "You've got to get to her—quickly."  
    "My thought exactly."
    "I mean it. We can't afford for her to remember and start talking. I'm counting on you to keep her quiet. And if you can't, I will. I'm in way too deep to let her destroy me. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
    "Don't worry." There was a sharp click, and the line went dead.
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    She looked at the grainy black-and-white photograph, finding it strange that she felt so detached. On second thought, she decided that it wasn't so strange, considering she didn't recognize that woman at all.
    Too bad the photographer hadn't waited another twelve hours to take her picture. Dr. St. Clair had removed the turban of gauze from around her head early this morning, leaving only a small, square bandage to protect the deep cut, and her shoulder-length hair covered even that.
    And the doctor had also hinted that she would soon be well enough to be released. Which raised a whole new set of problems. Where would she go? How would she live when she had no clothes, no money, and no name—other than the melodramatic one the newspaper had given her, "Demoiselle de Mystère." She suspected it could have been worse. They could just as easily have dubbed her "Mademoiselle X" or something equally trite.
    Checking a sigh, she folded the newspaper shut and laid it back down on the table in the small waiting room. As she