The Devil at Archangel Read Online Free PDF

Victor Hugo lured her into parting
    with yet more of her direly depleted stock of money, and she could
    not resist buying a tiny doll in the traditional foulard costume of
    Martinique.
    There seemed to be flowers everywhere. Bougainvillea and hibiscus
    spilled from balconies in a riot of colour, and street sellers pressed
    bunches of wild orchids and other exotic blooms on her as she walked
    along. But she refused them smilingly, using her schoolgirl French. It
    would be a shame to leave them behind to wither and die in the hotel,
    she thought, and she could not imagine that Mrs Brandon would
    happily accept the spectacle of her companion boarding the morning
    boat, weighed down by flowers.
    She was beginning to feel hungry and would have liked to sample the
    reality behind some of the delectable odours that drifted from the
    restaurants she passed, but Mrs Brandon had made it clear that they
    would be dining at the hotel in their suite, so she regretfully turned
    her steps in the direction of the hotel. Or thought she did.
    Somewhere along the line, the advice in her little guide book had
    been misleading, she thought vexedly. Or, more likely, she herself
    had simply taken a wrong turning. Certainly she had never seen this
    particular street before, and ske^should have found herself in the
    square in the front of the hotel.
    Biting her lip, she swung round, staring back the way she had come.
    Don't be a fool, she adjured herself briskly, fighting a feeling of slight
    panic. You're not lost. You just think you are. One of the main streets
    will be just around the corner, and you'll soon get your bearings
    again.

    But the corner merely led to another street, narrower even and
    shabbier than the one she had just left. The shadows were lengthening
    now, and the tall houses with their crumbling stucco seemed to crowd
    in on her disconcertingly. A dog lying on its side in the shade lifted its
    head and snarled at her, and she crossed the street, her heart beating a
    little faster, to avoid it.
    This is what happens, she scolded herself, trying to regain her
    confidence, when you overestimate your capabilities as' a tourist. The
    fairy-tale had suddenly degenerated into a nightmare in this grimy
    and unprepossessing place, and like a child, she found herself
    wishing desperately for the fairy-tale again—for the silken thread that
    would lead her out of the labyrinth and to safety, back to the bright
    streets and the scent shops and the flowers.
    Her footsteps slowed as she gazed uncertainly around her.
    Somewhere in one of the high shuttered liouses, a child was crying, a
    long monotonous drift of sound that played uncomfortably on her
    tautened nerves. There were other footsteps now coming steadily and
    purposefully along the street behind her, and she gave a short relieved
    sigh. At last there was someone she could ask, and surely, even with
    her limited French, she could make herself understood and obtain
    directions back to the hotel.
    But even as she turned, the halting words died on her lips. There were
    three of them, youths of her own age or even slightly younger. When
    she stopped, they did the same. They stood a few feet away from her,
    their hands resting lightly on their hips, silent, even smiling a little,
    and Christina knew she had never felt so frightened Oisso helpless in
    her life. For the first time since she had left the hotel, she was acutely
    conscious of the length of leg revealed by her skirt, and the expanse
    of bare flesh between her shirt and the waistband of the skirt.
    It was a war of nerves that was being waged, she thought
    despairingly, as they stood facing each other, but she didn't know

    what else to do. Something told her that to make a run for it would be
    fatal. Besides, where could she run to? They were cutting off one of
    her lines of retreat, and who knew what might lie at the end of the
    other.
    She tried to drag the rags of her courage around her, lift her chin, bluff
    them into thinking