Where Is Bianca? Read Online Free PDF Page B

saying, “but I assure you it’s unavoidable.”
    Corrigan’s ears and eye went to work immediately.
    The object of Vincent Lessard’s adultery was a tall, bonethin, model-like woman wearing an unbecoming brown shift dress. She had dirty-looking blonde hair that hung straight to her square shoulders. Her face was dominated by prominent cheekbones and a pointed chin. It was a prowling, watchful sort of face, with a too-wide mouth and eyes of pale blue that were set too far apart.
    But as she strode over to a chair and sat down and crossed her legs—she had very good legs, Corrigan observed—and began to swing one long, narrow, sandaled foot, she drew every male eye in the office. She was one of those rare women, he decided, who managed to make the least of herself and yet conveyed sex in every part and movement. He was willing to bet that she had a habit of licking her lips. Yes, there it was—a flick of a pointed tongue, sheer lechery.
    The man with her was a gross hulk with restless little eyes and a pendulous mouth whose corners were bitterly quirked.
    Corrigan gave his name to the secretary. He could feel Frances Weatherly’s stare burning into his back—the interloper who had forced the postponement of her appointment.
    â€œCaptain Corrigan?” said the girl behind the small desk as he entered the inner office. He carefully shut the door behind him.
    â€œHow do you do,” Corrigan said. She indicated a chair. As he went to it he looked her over.
    Neither she nor her office was quite what he had expected. He had anticipated a Hollywood set, a sort of Joan Crawford or Rosalind Russell kind of businesswoman’s background, with dramatic drapes, the last word in Scandinavian-modern furniture, and two-inch-thick carpeting. Instead, it was an almost plain office, its furniture showed signs of wear and tear from a long life and hard use, and there were threadbare patches on the rug. Whatever else the Fielding enterprises went in for, it was certainly not swank.
    The girl was young, much younger than he had anticipated. She was lovely in a pixie way, with a mouth ready for humor and a perky little nose. Her eyes were hazel under long, smoky lashes. Her hairdo was unaffected. She wore an oxford gray, two-piece knit outfit.
    She was as surprised by him as he was by her. She had apparently expected a clumsy-footed cop with a 44-inch waistline and a big fanny. He was amused that she tried not to let her pleasant disappointment show. When she spoke again it was in her most businesslike tone.
    â€œYou mentioned Bianca Lessard on the phone, Captain.” If his eye-patch startled her, she concealed it effortlessly. That’s one for you, Corrigan thought.
    â€œWe need some information about her.”
    â€œOf course I’ll help in any way I can.”
    â€œHave you known her long?”
    â€œOnly since she came back from Europe almost a year ago,” Jean said. “Her family had been killed in a private plane crash. Her father was piloting—”
    â€œI know all about that, Miss Ainsley. I understand she got through the funeral all right, then had a breakdown.”
    â€œIt depends on what you mean by breakdown,” Jean said. “She didn’t go off her rocker, or anything like that. She simply folded, and went away for a rest.”
    â€œHow long had you been with the firm at that time?”
    â€œAbout four years,” Jean said, frowning at him. “I came from California. Making this connection was very fortunate for me. Although it’s true I’ve known nothing but theaters and theatrical people all my life.”
    Corrigan said, “Ainsley. Are you related to Carlton Ainssley?”
    â€œHe’s my father.”
    â€œI remember his pictures well. He was always the suave Continental, or the rich man who never got the girl.”
    A faint irritation came into her voice. “Dad was a better actor than the cut-and-dried,