Satin Doll Read Online Free PDF Page B

high neckline that might have been expensive. But there was a run in one of her stockings and the toes of her black kid pumps were worn and scuffed. The blood from her wrist was running down Sam’s palm and into the sleeve of her jacket. The wraithlike girl moaned again. The red stains from her dress had made smudges across the sofa’s damask upholstery.  
    “What happened?” Sam whispered. “Did she cut herself?”  
    “Cut her hand on a pin in a dress.” The man in jeans straightened up. “And suffers from malnutrition. And hysteria. And a half a dozen other things.”  
    She looked up at him, a big, macho hunk—with black curly hair and wearing tight, faded jeans and work boots—who looked more Italian or Greek than English. He spoke with what sounded like a terrible Cockney accent. “Sophie,” he bellowed. He swiveled his head. “Where the hell’s the bloody mannequin?” The redheaded girl was now sitting on the floor with her back propped against the sofa, sobbing quietly. “Get your brainless ass over to the ducchessa,” he ordered, indicating the howling old woman, “and see if you can shut her up. And whatever the hell Nannette’s doing—” His eyes found the Frenchwoman across the room and shouted something again, this time in French.  
    The redhead obediently crawled to her feet and started for the wandering old woman in black. The girl in the bloody nightgown, Sam realized suddenly, was probably the house model. The back of the sofa was draped in a length of white chiffon that looked like a robe, and a peignoir and a large pasteboard card with a number on it lay on the floor. Had she been showing the satin nightgown when the girl and the old woman had come in? she wondered. Or had they been brought in from the street by the workman? And the man in the jogging suit and the blonde—had they just wandered in, too? She stared down at her own bloody fingers. Had somebody thought to call the doctor? Or, even better, an ambulance?  
    The big, muscular workman stroked his free hand against the girl’s forehead, soothing her in a curiously low, gentle voice. The frail girl was looking up at him with absolute trust in her velvety eyes.  
    Sam had had a sleepless night, having come several thousand miles on her first transatlantic jet flight, and her nerves were frayed. “Look,” she said. The first thing was to get them all out of there. “Has somebody called an ambulance?”  
    The model was circling the bedraggled old crone, speaking in a limp, wheedling voice intended to calm and reassure her. The seamstress and the girl in the apron were clustered around the elegant blonde and the man in the jogging suit. The blonde was now sitting up in the chair with her eyes open, staring at them uncomprehendingly.  
    The moment the words were out of Sam’s mouth they all seemed to freeze. Then their faces turned to her with various expressions of surprise and disbelief.  
    The old woman in black stopped dead in her tracks, her walking stick raised shoulder height. The elegant blonde woman closed her eyes and slumped again in her chair. Even the frail girl on the sofa suddenly came to life and gave a weak, anguished cry.  
    “ No ambulancia! ” the old witch trumpeted. She raised the ebony cane over her head, the other gnarled fist clutching at the shawl around her face. “ No ambulancia! ” She staggered a few steps dramatically. “ Dio mio—no dottore! No ambulancia! ”  
    Emotion overcame the old crone completely. While Sam watched open-mouthed, the figure collapsed on the floor and lay stretched out full length, black silk rags flattened against the green carpet, old-fashioned high-buttoned shoes with their toes pointed ceiling-ward. The girl on the couch screamed and tried to sit up.  
    The workman grabbed for the girl and pushed her down again. Then he looked at Sam. “Jesus, the old girl’s had a bloody fit. Go help Sophie, will you?” When Sam could only stare at him, he jerked