Free Stiletto by Harold Robbins Page B

pots, forms a shroudlike mist that clings to the roadway like a down quilt on a feather bed.
    The powerful engine in the Ghia convertible throbbed as Barbara reached over and turned on the radio. The music filled the car and she peered over the wheel, the powerful headlights biting through the first mist. “The fog’s coming in,” she said.
    Cesare nodded. “Want me to put the top up?” he asked.
    “Let it go for a while,” she answered. “I’m comfortable.”
    They drove along in silence for a few minutes then the announcer’s voice broke into the music. “And now, the eleven o’clock news from Miami.”
    Cesare looked at her. She was driving with a fierce concentration on the road before her. The newscaster came on.
    “With the murder of Sam Vanicola in the swimming pool of the St. Tropez Hotel here in Miami Beach this afternoon, the government announced tonight in New York the complete collapse of its case against the four alleged leaders of the Syndicate. It was disclosed also that the murder weapon used in each case was a stiletto. The stiletto is a weapon of vengeance that originated in Italy about the time of the Borgias. It was a great favorite of assassins of that period due to the fact that its peculiar shape caused internal hemorrhaging while the surface wound itself closed after the weapon was withdrawn from the victim. The police and the F.B.I. attach a great deal of significance to this fact and are pressing every means at their disposal to discover clues that would lead them to the identity of the killer or killers. Meanwhile in Washington—”
    Cesare reached over and turned off the radio. “News is so dull these days,” he said with a short laugh. “Murder and crime all the time. Can’t they find anything else to talk about?”
    Barbara didn’t answer. Her eyes seemed fastened to the road.
    He laughed again. “Wake up, sleepy one. You’re driving.”
    “I’m awake,” she said.
    “That’s good to know.” He smiled. “I feel better.”
    Her voice was thoughtful. “I was just thinking.”
    “About what?” he asked.
    “About the man that died in the pool. I wonder which one he was. If I saw him or he saw me.”
    “That’s a strange thought,” he said. “Why do you think it?”
    Her eyes still were on the road. “Maybe if we had spoken to each other I might have warned him. I don’t know.”
    He laughed shortly. “What would you have warned him about? You did not know what was to happen.”
    She glanced at him. Her eyes were deep and troubled. “I could have told him about the Angel of Death. And how it followed us from New York to Las Vegas and then to Miami.” She shivered slightly. “Do you think he is still following us, Cesare?”
    “Now you are being silly,” he said. “You better pull over here and let me drive. You’re letting all this nonsense upset you.”
    Silently she put on the right turn indicator and began to slow up. She pulled the car off on a shoulder of the road and came to a stop. She turned to look at him.
    “It is just as well,” he said. “I know the road up ahead. There is a very narrow bridge and the fog is beginning to thicken.”
    “I’m not arguing,” she said. “You drive. But be careful.”
    “I’ll be careful.” He laughed and pulled her to him. He kissed her.
    Her lips were cold and they clung to his mouth. “I don’t care if you are the Angel of Death,” she whispered. “Being with you has made me happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life.”
    He couldn’t suppress the question that rose to his lips. “What would you do if I were?”
    She looked up at him questioningly. “Now
you’re
being silly,” she said.
    Something inside was driving him on. Maybe if she knew, if she could understand, it wouldn’t all seem so empty. Why did he have to be the only one that felt as he did? “I could have been the killer,” he said slowly. “After all we were each place where a murder happened.”
    She stared up at him, then