Death of a Pusher

Chapter 9

She studied the document carefully, at first with resentment, then gradually a wicked grin formed on her face.

“It says the premises and persons of Norman and Beverly Arden. Are you going to search my person?”

“Women have to be searched by matrons,” I said. “That was put in so your brother could be searched before he left for the hospital this morning. Just in case he tried to carry out a gun. I can see you haven’t any guns concealed on your person.”

“How do you know? I might have a very small one tucked under the belt to my pajama bottoms.”

“I’ll settle for a search of the apartment,” I told her, rising to my feet. “You can come along to make sure I don’t lift any family heirlooms.”

I started with her bedroom, which was about as feminine as a room can be. Pink and white, it was full of lacy frills, and oversized stuffed animals stared at you from every corner.

Beverly stood in the doorway watching as I rapidly went through the dresser and closet without disturbing a thing. Her eyes widened when I stripped the bed and flipped over the mattress to check the springs, and she looked bemused when I quickly and efficiently remade the bed exactly as it had been.

“You’d make some nice lazy girl a fine husband,” she said. “You could do all the housework. Or are you already married?”

“No,” I said shortly.

I took her brother’s room next, and it was equally free of guns. The bathroom took only about three minutes. I went through a linen closet, glanced into the medicine cabinet, and probed through a clothes hamper. She looked bemused again when I lifted the lid of the water tank.

“You don’t miss a thing, do you, Matt? I never would have thought of that.”

“You’re unusual, then,” I said. “That’s one of the common places amateurs think it’s cute to hide things.”

Within twenty minutes I had completed the search of the whole apartment. After years of experience, I don’t miss a possible hiding place. There was no gun there.

“I guess that’s that,” I said finally.

We had ended in the front room. I went over to pick up my hat.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” she asked.

I gave her an inquiring look.

“You still haven’t searched my person.”

“It’s a pleasant thought,” I said dryly. “But they board cops who put their hands on female witnesses.”

“I know my constitutional rights,” she said. “That warrant says the premises and persons of Norman and Beverly Arden. Norman had his person searched. I demand the same right.”

I scowled at her. “Are you trying to get me in trouble?”

“I’m trying to keep myself out of it. I know how you policemen operate. If you can’t find the real killer, eventually you’ll arrest me just to silence the clamor of the press. At the trial some smart prosecutor will ask if you searched for a gun. ‘Sure,’ you’ll say. ‘The whole apartment.’ Then he’ll ask, ‘Was the person of the accused searched?’ When you say, ‘No,’ the jury will think, ‘Aha! That’s where she hid it.’ I want complete clearance.”

Except for the wicked glint in her eye, she acted so serious that I couldn’t help grinning.

“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll phone for a policewoman.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said crossly. “Your dumb old rule must mean you can’t search a woman forcibly. When they demand it as a constitutional right, it must be permissible.”

I thought this over, and it seemed to make sense. There was nothing to that effect in the rule book, but I don’t suppose it ever occurred to the rule-makers that the matter might come up. What the hell, I thought. If she did report me, it might be interesting to see what a tizzy the board was thrown into when I presented my defense.

Tossing my hat back on the sofa, I walked over to her and said, “Put your arms straight out from your sides.”

Obediently they shot straight out.

Starting at her wrists, I gently patted her arms clear to the shoulders. Then I ran my hands along her sides from beneath her armpits to her waist. I didn’t find any shoulder or belt holsters, but I found some nice soft curves.

She must have stepped out of the shower just before I arrived, because I could smell the clean scent of perfumed soap on her. I had to resist the impulse to gather her into my arms.

Stooping, I put one palm on the inside of one thigh, the other on the outside, and ran my hands clear to her ankle. Then I checked the other leg. They felt firm and shapely under my hands. She wasn’t wearing any leg holsters, either.

I was perspiring slightly when I rose again. She continued to stand with arms outthrust and her back stiff, staring at me without expression.

“I guess you’re clean,” I said huskily.

“You didn’t do nearly as thorough a job as you did on the apartment.”

A man can take only so much urging, and when it comes to a woman as beautiful as Beverly, I have a low boiling point.

“All right,” I said, and reached out and loosened the top button of her black pajama top.

When she remained rigidly unmoving, I loosened the rest of the buttons and the top fell open. Her face assumed a slightly strained expression, but she still kept the same rigid stance, her arms ridiculously outthrust from her sides. It struck me that we were behaving as a pair of very young children experimenting with sex for the first time, the boy tentatively exploring while the girl stood perfectly still, pretending she didn’t know what was going on.

I attempted to remove the jacket, but with her arms held out that way, it was impossible. As she seemed determined to continue playing statue until I was through searching, I gave up.

Loosening the belt of her gold pajama bottoms, I undid a couple of side buttons. The garment slithered down her legs to bunch around her ankles. Kneeling, I lifted one unresisting foot, then the other, and tossed the bottoms aside. When I stood up again, she still held her statue-like pose, gazing at me with the strained expression on her face.

This was getting silly, I thought. I hadn’t as yet even kissed the girl.

I remedied that by pulling her into my arms. Instantly her rigidity collapsed. Her arms went about my neck, and her mouth was wide open when it reached mine.

After a time I came up for air and tried tugging the pajama top down over her shoulders. She violently shook her head.

“It won’t be in the way,” she said in a strangled voice. “Don’t waste time.” So I didn’t waste time.

It must have been twenty minutes later when I picked up my hat for the second time. Following me over to the door, she cupped my face in both hands and reached up on tiptoe to kiss the end of my nose.

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever see you again, will I?” she asked matter-of-factly.

“Sure,” I said. “You’re a material witness. I’ll probably have to be seeing you often.”

“Umm,” she said. “I hope it takes years to solve the case.”

The cop outside in the hall gave me an inquiring look.

“You can pull the stakeout,” I said. “Tell the guy out back, too. And phone the hospital to tell the man on Doc Arden he can knock it off.”

“O.K., Sarge,” he said in a grateful voice. “This is about as dull a detail as you can catch.”