The Assassin by Evelyn Anthony Page A

had taken him driving one evening, and as they crawled through the long traffic jams, Keller was reminded of a firework display, a city of Golden Rain, where the lights were squandered on the night, dispensed like a sackful of jewels over the heads of the moving crowds.
    â€˜It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth said. ‘Not like Europe, but it’s not meant to be. It’s so essentially American. I love it!’
    â€˜You have a lot of enthusiasms,’ Keller said. ‘It must be good to feel like that about a place.’
    â€˜You’ve never cared about your country?’
    â€˜I have no country,’ he said. ‘I was born in France, but that means nothing. I could have grown up anywhere; one orphanage is the same as another.’
    They had stopped at a traffic intersection. When the lights changed they moved on; he noticed that she drove very well. She had told the truth when she said she was efficient and resourceful, but what had surprised him was the erratic feminine streak, the sudden hesitancy that made him grab her arm to cross the street. He had never felt protective about a woman before; his attitude to Souha was almost paternal, as if he were dealing with a child whom the world had already knocked to the ground too often and he were angrily determined to prevent more bruising. But there was nothing of that in his feeling for Elizabeth Cameron. She was a mixture that confused him, constantly arousing new impulses which he had not experienced before. She didn’t need protecting, not like the. Arab girl who had been born on the defensive. She was rich and self-assured, she could do most things as well as most men, but whenever he was near her he wanted to take her arm, or carry her parcel, or just stop the car and turn her to him. He watched her as they drove. She was unselfconscious about her beauty, as if she didn’t realise how he was affected by her. But when they came close or touched by accident, there was a pleading in her eyes that begged him to be gentle, not to take advantage of her. He understood desire; he knew what it could do to a man’s nerves and how it could distort his judgement, albeit temporarily. He knew because that was what he felt for her; but resisting the temptation to just walk into her room at night and take her in his arms was only possible because of other, unfamiliar feelings which he refused to name, even to himself. Love was not a word he would admit. When she went out he prowled round the apartment, bored and irritable, waiting for the sound of the elevator and the click of her key in the lock.
    When she was with him he forgot why he had come to New York, he forgot to listen for the telephone call which still hadn’t come; he forgot about Souha and the Lebanon as if his past were a dream, and the days spent with Elizabeth were the only reality.
    They were back at her apartment; they got out of the car and the doorman climbed in to drive away. Keller was accepted; he even rated the head doorman’s salute. Elizabeth turned to him in the hallway and smiled.
    â€˜Would you like a drink?’
    â€˜No.’ Keller took her coat as she slipped out of it and for a moment his hands closed over her shoulders. It was a mistake to touch her, a dangerous indulgence in something he had promised both of them would never recur. He felt her stiffen and immediately he stepped back.
    â€˜You don’t have to be afraid of me,’ he said. ‘I told you that.’
    â€˜I’m not afraid of you,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Only myself.’
    â€˜I can’t go on staying here,’ Keller said suddenly. ‘It won’t work. It could be a long time before anyone contacts me. And I can’t answer for myself much longer. I’ve got enough money, I can go to a hotel. You can take a message for me. It would be better that way. Better for you.’
    â€˜Please don’t go.’ She came close to him; he