Murder and the Wanton Bride

8

Belle Carson was a lot of woman. Long-legged, full-breasted, slim-waisted, she was a symphony in green and black as she stood facing Shayne in the hallway, sultry lips parted and sharp upper teeth showing, and there was the clean, acrid smell of gin in the air between them.

She wore a black silk jacket with gold buttons in front that were strained to confine the lushness of her bosom, and a green skirt swirled down over full hips to a point just below her knees. She had smooth black hair drawn back tightly from a high forehead, caught with a green ribbon in a ponytail at the back, and long black lashes lifted slowly from greenish eyes as she lifted her gaze to travel up the length of him and stop as their eyes interlocked.

She said, “Well?” in the same throaty voice he had heard before, but now he realized the huskiness was at least partially due to the gin she had drunk.

He said, “I wanted to see Mr. Carson.”

She asked, “What for?” and there was a hint of scorn in her voice.

Shayne said, “Business. I just drove in from Miami. I understood he was driving back this morning.”

She said, “Did you?” and a hot glow lurked in the greenish depths of her eyes. She lowered her black lashes over them and drew in a deep breath. “What sort of business?”

Shayne said, “It’s sort of private. Is he here?”

She said, “No, but don’t let that stop you.” She turned away from him down the wide hallway and her hips swayed with practiced ease.

Shayne followed her without further invitation, realizing she must be nearer forty than the thirty she first looked, a woman of lithe and well-preserved maturity.

Halfway down the long hall a magnificent staircase curved up to the second floor, and Belle Carson hesitated beside it for a moment until Shayne came abreast of her, then abruptly put her hand on his arm and led him into a long room on the left off the hallway, bright with early afternoon sun streaming through French doors.

There was a long sofa in front of the sunlit doors, and a low glass coffee table in front of it. A martini pitcher beaded with frost stood on the table, and beside it was a single, long-stemmed cocktail glass. She moved away from him toward the table with indolent, feline grace, stooped over to pour liquid from the pitcher into the glass. Straightening, she turned and looked mockingly at him over the rim of the glass. “Will you join me in a sip of lunch?”

Shayne said, “Thanks. I ate mine at your local hotel.”

She sipped from the glass and kept her long lashes low over her eyes and said dispassionately, “I despise men who refuse a drink just because it’s some certain time of day.” She took a deep swallow and set the glass down, then carefully rounded the end of the table to sink onto the sofa. “What sort of private business you got with Walter?”

“Didn’t he tell you why he was going to Miami?”

“To see you, huh?” She emptied her glass and patted the sofa beside her. “Whyn’t you sit down? I don’t even know your name?”

“Don’t you?”

Shayne moved around to sit beside her. Her shoulder and her thigh touched his and she turned her head to study him obliquely. “I don’t, do I?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne said honestly. “Depends on how much your husband tells you about his affairs.”

“Walter?” Her voice was a throaty gurgle. “Pour me another shot and we’ll drink to dear Walter.”

Shayne reached out and poured liquid from the pitcher into the glass. His fingers curled around the stem of the glass and he lifted it to his lips first, murmuring sardonically, “To dear Walter.” From the taste, he judged the contents of the pitcher was straight gin diluted slightly with melted ice cubes.

She took the glass avidly from his hand and drank from it. Shayne said, “When do you expect him home?”

“Who?”

He said patiently, “Walter.”

“Does it matter?” she asked indifferently, emptying the glass again and looking straight ahead.

Shayne increased the pressure of his shoulder and thigh against hers. “Hell, yes, it matters,” he said aggressively. “Certain things I don’t like to have interrupted by jealous husbands.”

Her breathing quickened, but she did not look at him.

“Such as what, Red?”

He said roughly, “I like to know what the rules are when I play games.”

In a feverishly thick voice, though still looking straight ahead, she asked, “Why don’t you kiss me, Red? You want to, don’t you? Isn’t that what you’ve wanted ever since I came to the door and you looked at me?” A shudder rippled up and down the length of her body that was now openly pressing against him.

He said, “Sure I’d like to kiss you. Any man would. But I like to know what the price may be.”

She moved her head so it pressed down on his shoulder and said sleepily, “Nuts.”

He put his left arm loosely about her shoulders. “Before we get in too deep, I want to know how much Walter told you about his business in Miami last night.”

“What’s it matter?”

“It might matter a hell of a lot... in the way I play this with you.”

“Why?” she demanded urgently. She twisted on the sofa and her breasts throbbed against him and her open mouth was close to his. He closed his eyes before putting his mouth over hers. Her lips worked against his in a hard, spasmodic response. The sun from the windows behind them was very hot on his shoulders, and the silence inside the big mansion on the knoll was something you felt and could almost hear.

He pulled away from her and got up abruptly. Belle Carson let her black head loll back against the cushion behind her and she widened her greenish eyes at him. “I bet you’re beginning to wonder about me, Red. Aren’t you?”

He said bleakly, “You’re not hard to figure out.”

“Is that so?” Her voice became sharp and anger blazed in her eyes. “Tell me then.”

“I’ll tell you.” He stood on widespread flat feet a little way in front of her and folded his arms. “You sit around this big house day after day drinking gin and bored to hell-and-gone cooped up here in Denham married to a small-town banker.”

“There are plenty of other men,” she railed at him.

He grinned derisively. “Sure. I saw some of them around town this noon. The old hotel-keeper and that fat-faced boy in the bank. No wonder you go all sloppy inside when a real man shows up in town for a change.”

“Meaning you, Red?”

“Meaning me.”

She leaned forward and very carefully poured herself another drink. She looked over the glass at him with eyes that didn’t quite focus. “Why do you think I stay here if I’m that bored?”

“You’re stuck with it,” he said contemptuously. “It’s what you thought you wanted when you settled down with Carson. Now you know it isn’t, but you don’t know want to do.”

Her eyes were aflame, but with what emotion he could not be sure. It might have been fear, or anger, or sexual passion. She said, in the most casually conversational tone she had used since meeting him at the door, “You sound as though you know a lot about me.”

He didn’t reply. He got out a cigarette and lit it, turning slowly to stroll toward the end of the pleasantly-appointed room. There was a fieldstone fireplace at the far end that looked as though there had never been a fire laid in it. On the mantel was a framed picture of the woman who sat on the sofa behind him. It had evidently been taken some years earlier, but was a very good likeness. Shayne thrust his hands deep in his pockets and sucked on his cigarette while studying the photograph. In the lower left corner was a signature, evidently of the photographer, and the printed words, “Atlanta, Ga.”

There was the muted sound of a doorbell from some place else in the silent house as he stood there.

He turned slowly and saw Belle arising from the sofa, her face rigid with fright. He went to her quickly while both could hear the shuffling footsteps of the Negro servant going to the door.

She moved around from behind the coffee table, putting out both hands to seize his and hold them tightly. “Don’t worry about anything. You stay here, Red. I’ll fix it.”

She let go of his hands and went swiftly toward the door into the hall. She disappeared through it, and Shayne heard her voice saying coolly, “I’m not in to anyone, Abe.”

And then the Negro’s voice, low-pitched and worried, “It am a genmun what says he am the law, Miz Carson. From Miami Beach, an’ he say he gotta see you.”