Kiss and Kill. Richard Deming

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СКАЧАТЬ suit. Apparently she had followed me from the bar into the lobby and had seen me head for the pool. She was persistent when she wanted to meet a man, I thought sourly.

      She carried a towel and a bathing cap in one hand, a package of cigarettes in the other. “Could I trouble you for another light?” she asked. “I forgot my lighter again.”

      This time I wasn’t amused, because I had wanted to be alone. Sitting up, I asked dryly, “The gold one?”

      “Why, yes,” she said. “I only have one.”

      I flicked my lighter and she stooped to get the flame. Then she dropped to the edge of the pool about two feet away from me and dangled her feet in the water.

      “Thank you,” she said.

      “Sure,” I told her a little shortly. I fished a cigarette from my pack and lighted one of my own.

      “I was watching you dive,” she said. “You’re quite expert, aren’t you?”

      “Run-of-the-mill. I was a summer lifeguard as a kid.”

      “Oh?” she said in an interested tone. “That accounts for all those muscles. I’ve heard swimming is the best all-around exercise there is.”

      She was beginning to amuse me again. The asking-for-a-light technique was about the corniest approach in the book. Now she was going into the my-what-a-big-strong-man-you-are act.

      “You have nice muscles yourself,” I said.

      She gave me a quick glance, blushed when she saw I was pointedly staring at her full bosom. For a flustered moment she didn’t know what to say. I didn’t help her any. I was interested to see how she handled wolf wisecracks.

      She simply ignored the remark. She asked, “Do you stay here?”

      “Uh-huh,” I said.

      “So do I. I just checked in. I’m Mavis Train.” She looked at me expectantly.

      “Sam Carter,” I said. “What’s your room number?”

      She looked a little startled. “What? Why, 713. Why?”

      “I collect them,” I said.

      “Collect what?”

      “Pretty girl’s room numbers. Then when I get drunk and feel lecherous in the middle of the night, I go pound on their doors.”

      She stared at me, not sure whether I was making a joke or was really a screwball.

      I said, “I’m just warning you. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s dangerous to speak to strange men?”

      She decided I was teasing her. “I’m not that young,” she told me. “I’m twenty-five.”

      “From where?” I asked.

      “What? Oh, you mean my home. Long Island.”

      I nodded. “Your father has a big estate there?”

      “Why, yes. How did you know?”

      “Just a guess. What are you doing so far from home?”

      She hesitated, then said with rehearsed reluctance, “I ran away from a wedding.”

      “Oh? Whose?”

      “My own, silly. My father wanted me to marry this old man. Well, not old exactly. He’s about forty-five. He’s a business associate of daddy’s.”

      The words had a familiar ring. They were the prelude to one of the oldest female bunco games there is. Old, but pretty effective when a real artist pulls it. But Mavis was no artist. Her idea of how heiresses acted was derived from seeing movies. Up to now I had assumed she was merely play-acting for the thrill of it. Now I realized with a shock that she was trying to work a bunco game and had picked me as her mark.

      For a few moments I was too flabbergasted to speak, A little offended too. I regarded myself as an accomplished pro, and it wasn’t very flattering to be taken for a sucker. Then the humor of the situation struck me.

      “Daddy insists on the marriage, huh?” I said with a wide grin. “If you go home and behave, all will be forgiven. If you don’t, he’ll cut you off without a cent. Already you’re running low on cash, and are becoming a little desperate. You’ve about decided to give in.”

      She examined me doubtfully. I was going too fast. That part of the story wasn’t supposed to come out for several days yet, when I had become fond enough of her to object to her throwing her life away on a man twenty years older than she was.

      “Don’t go back home and marry him,” I advised. “Something will come up. Maybe some kind man will stake you until you can get a job and make it on your own.”

      She frowned and looked a little confused.

      “How much do you need?” I asked.

      She stared at me for a long time. Then she said accusingly, “You’re making fun of me.”

      “Me?” I said. “Make fun of a damsel in distress? You wound me. Your story tugs at my heart. I’d open my purse wide, except for one thing.”

      She ground out her cigarette on the concrete and tossed it aside. Rising, she looked down at me disdainfully. “I don’t think I like you, Mr. Carter.”

      “Don’t you want to know what the one thing is?” I asked.

      “No.” Turning her back, she started to walk away.

      “It’s that there’s very little in my purse,” I said softly. “I’m in the bunco racket too.”

      She stopped and slowly turned around. Her eyes were wide as they stared down at me.

      “Sit down again,” I invited. “I’ve been looking for a girl like you. Maybe we can get together in a different way than you intended.”

      CHAPTER II

      AFTER SILENTLY eyeing me for some time, she returned and gracefully sank to a position facing me. She looked wary.

      “This your first attempt to score?” I asked.

      After thinking this over, she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “Then it’s your first attempt,” I told her. “What gave you the idea of pulling the runaway heiress gag?”

      She continued to study me. Finally she asked, “Are you really a confidence man?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “A good one?”

      “Among the best,” I said modestly. “You made a fine choice for your first mark. I spotted you for a phony the minute you walked in the bar.”

      She frowned. “How?”

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