City of Wind (City of Mystery Book 6) by Kim Wright

Author:Kim Wright [Wright, Kim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-02-27T06:00:00+00:00

He hadn't been entirely sure he would be allowed inside. There had been a guard at the door, even though it was barely afternoon and the streets outside the theater were empty. Nonetheless the man, who stood as broad as a barn and was apparently about as intelligent, had not been pleased at the notion of Rayley being granted an audience with Miss Allen, who he evidently saw as some sort of artiste.

Unlike Miss Allen's maid, who had studied Rayley's most prized position and changed her attitude with gratifying speed, the fellow had glanced at the Scotland Yard insignia and merely grunted. He clearly had no idea what any of it meant, and Rayley had been forced to stand on the sidewalk arguing with the brute until another person, whose function was never entirely clear, finally noticed and came out to intervene. This man said briskly, "We always cooperate with the police," spoiling Rayley's satisfaction only by muttering "even the furren police," as he ushered him through the door. The two had walked through the theater's garish lobby, with its walls painted in a distasteful striped pattern of purple, red, and black and its neon lights blazing even in at this hour of the day. Then the man simply pointed toward a curtain and left Rayley to his own devises.

"Find yourself a seat," he said, "until her next break."

So Rayley had parted the velvet curtains and stepped into utter darkness. It had taken his eyes a moment to adjust and for him to be able to see clearly enough to take in the dimensions of the theater. It was larger than one would have guessed from the street front and the aisle sloped dramatically downhill, pitching Rayley further forward with each step as he made his cautious way down the tattered carpet toward the stage.

A single figure stood on it. A woman, not a girl. Rayley took note of this at once. That the word which sprung to his mind was "woman," based more on Maud Allen's sense of dignity than her age. She was not entirely naked. She had a gossamer skirt tied around her waist and a small lacy vest, cut in an Arabic manner, her nipples evident through the open weave of the cloth. Her feet were bare and her hair fell loose and as Rayley fumbled through the darkness, the woman bent forward, stretching herself in a manner that seemed inhuman. She undulated across the stage until not just her hands but her entire forearms were flat against the boards. Once situated, she seemed to establish her balance at once and kicked her legs in the air with a sharp definitive gesture, rolling over and over and over yet again, offering occasional glimpses of her holiest of holies. That singular part of the female anatomy which continues, despite everything, to beget new life.

Rayley barely felt himself sinking into one of the seats. What she was doing was a kind of dance, he realized, although it took him a minute to ascertain the source of the music.

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