The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Author: Stieg Larsson
- Genre: International Mystery & Crime, Crime Fiction
- Language: English
- Formats: PDF / EPUB
- Status: Available For Free Download
- Series: None
- Price: Free
- File Size: 2 MB
Thursday, December 16–Friday, December 17
Lisbeth Salander pulled her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose and
squinted from beneath the brim of her sun hat. She saw the woman from
room 32 come out of the hotel side entrance and walk to one of the greenand-white-striped chaises longues beside the pool. Her gaze was fixed on the
ground and her progress seemed unsteady.
Salander had seen her only at a distance. She reckoned the woman was
around thirty-five, but she looked as though she could be anything from
twenty-five to fifty. She had shoulder-length brown hair, an oval face, and a
body that was straight out of a mail-order catalogue for lingerie. She had a
black bikini, sandals, and purple-tinted sunglasses. She was American and
spoke with a southern accent. She dropped a yellow sun hat next to the chaise
longue and signalled to the bartender at Ella Carmichael’s bar.
Salander put her book down on her lap and sipped her iced coffee before
reaching for a pack of cigarettes. Without turning her head she shifted her
gaze to the horizon. She could just see the Caribbean through a group of palm
trees and the rhododendrons in front of the hotel. A yacht was on its way
north towards St. Lucia or Dominica. Further out, she could see the outline of
a grey freighter heading south in the direction of Guyana. A breeze made the
morning heat bearable, but she felt a drop of sweat trickling into her eyebrow.
Salander did not care for sunbathing.
She had spent her days as far as
possible in shade, and even now was under the awning on the terrace. And
yet she was as brown as a nut. She had on khaki shorts and a black top.
She listened to the strange music from steel drums flowing out of the
speakers at the bar. She could not tell the difference between Sven-Ingvars
and Nick Cave, but steel drums fascinated her. It seemed hardly feasible that
anyone could tune an oil barrel, and even less credible that the barrel could
make music like nothing else in the world. She thought those sounds were
like magic.
She suddenly felt irritated and looked again at the woman, who had just
been handed a glass of some orange-coloured drink.
It was not Lisbeth Salander’s problem, but she could not comprehend why
the woman stayed. For four nights, ever since the couple had arrived,
Salander had listened to the muted terror being played out in the room next
door to hers. She had heard crying and low, excitable voices, and sometimes
the unmistakable sound of slaps.
The man responsible for the blows—
Salander assumed he was the woman’s husband—had straight dark hair
parted down the middle in an old-fashioned style, and he seemed to be in
Grenada on business. What kind of business, Salander had no idea, but every
morning the man appeared with his briefcase, in a jacket and tie, and had
coffee in the hotel bar before he went outside to look for a taxi.
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