Wildfire at Midnight Read Online Free PDF Page A

Grant, and Murdo, and now Marcia Maling . . . or was I being over-imaginative? I stared out at the gathering dusk, where the latecomer was just covering the last twenty yards to the hotel door.
    Then my look narrowed on him. I stiffened, and looked again. . . .
    "Oh my God," I said sharply, and went back into the room like a pea from a catapult.
    I stopped on the hearthrug, just in front of a goggle-eyed Marcia Maling, and drew a long, long breath. "Oh my dear God," I said again. "What's up? Is it because I—?"
    "It's not you at all," I said wearily. "It's the man who's just arriving at the front door of this hotel." "Man?"
    She was bewildered.
    "Yes. I presume he is your nameless, dark, damn-your-eyes writer . . . except that he doesn't happen to be nameless to me. His name is Nicholas Drury."

    Her mouth opened. ''No! you mean—?" I nodded. "Just that. My husband." "The—the stinker?"
    I smiled mirthlessly. "Quite sc. As you say. This holiday," 1 added without any conviction whatsoever, "is going to be fun."

Chapter 3
    YES, THERE IT WAS, as large as life, the arrogant black signature in the visitors' book: Nicholas Drury, London. May 29th, 1953. I looked down at it for a moment, biting my lip, then my eye was caught by another entry in the same hand, high up on the preceding page: Nicholas Drury, London. April 28th, 1953.
    He had been here already this summer, then. I frowned down at the book, wondering what on earth he could be doing in Skye. He must, of course, be collecting material for some book; he would hardly have chosen a place like this for a holiday. This Highland fastness, all trout and misty heather and men in shabby tweeds, accorded ill with what I remembered of Nicholas. I picked up the pen, conscious that my hands were not quite steady. All the carefully acquired poise in the world was not going to make it any more possible for me to meet Nicholas Drury again with the casual camaraderie which was, no doubt, fashionable among the divorces of his London circle.
    I dipped the pen in the inkstand, hesitated, and finally wrote: Gianetta Brooke, Tench Abbas Rectory, Warwickshire. Then I tugged my wedding ring rather painfully off my finger and dropped it into my bag. I would have to tell Major Persimmon, the hotel proprietor, why Mrs. Drury had suddenly become Miss Brooke: there were, it seemed to me, altogether too many embarrassments contingent on there being a Mr.
    and Mrs. Drury in the same hotel. Marcia Maling had already promised to say nothing. And Nicholas was not to know that I had not become Miss Brooke again four years ago. He would probably be as annoyed and uncomfortable as I, when we met, and would surely try to pass off the awkward encounter as easily as possible. So, at any rate, I assured myself, as I blotted and shut the book, though, remembering my handsome and incalculable husband as I did, I felt that there was very little dependence to be placed on the good behavior of Nicholas Drury.
    Then I jumped like a nervous cat as a man's voice said behind me: "Janet Drury, as I live!"
    I turned quickly, to see a man coming down the stairs towards me.
    "Alastair! How nice to see you again! Where've you been all these years?"
    Alastair Braine took both my hands and beamed down at me. He was a big, rugged-looking man, with powerful shoulders, perpetually untidy brown hair, and a disarming grin that hid an exceptionally shrewd mind. He looked anything but what he was—one of the coming men in the ruthless world of advertising.
    "America mostly, with a dash of Brazil and Pakistan. You knew I was working for the Pergamon people?"
    "Yes, I remember. Have you been back long?"
    "About six weeks. They gave me a couple of months' leave, so I've come up here with some friends for a spot of fishing."
    "It's lovely seeing you again," I said, "and I must say your tan does you credit, Alastair!"
    He grinned down at me. "It's a pity I can't return the compliment, Janet, my pet. Not"—he caught himself up