The Sunburned Corpse, page 22
“Where did you get your information?” Lila asked impishly.
“It’s my business to get information. You’ve dated every man in the Advertising Department. Especially Greg Wilkinson.”
“Really? And where did you get that morsel of research?”
“A little bird,” I said. “A little bird named Vivian Debevoise.”
“That old bag. You believe her?”
“She made sense.”
“Utter nonsense,” laughed Lila, “would be more like it. Vivian’s been eating her heart out ever since I came into the department. She was Greg’s steady girl before I got there.”
“She was his secretary,” I said. “And she still is. If she doesn’t rate in the store setup, Greg Wilkinson wouldn’t keep her on his staff, would he?”
“She’s a pleasant enough biddy, Mister Detective. And she does her work well.” Lila couldn’t wipe away the inner amusement that Vivian Debevoise inspired in her. Vivian was a big and blowzy blonde, enough competition to make any normal girl quaver. But Lila knew the power of her own charms. “Greg will fire her one of these days, however, because of her adolescent jealousy. She seems to imagine she has a claim on the great Gregory. That’s where she makes a big mistake.”
“Greg’s finished with her?”
“Why not ask Vivian?
“I don’t think she’d admit it.”
“Clever boy. You’ve appraised Vivian correctly, of course. She’s been over the hill for a few years now. Vivian’s past thirty, you know.”
“The riper the fruit,” I suggested, “the sweeter the juice.”
“You’ve squeezed the fruit?”
“Vivian’s not that easy. She strikes me as being the one-man type of damsel.”
“One man at a time?”
“She hasn’t given up on Greg Wilkinson yet, has she?”
“She’s whistling in the dark. Greg has no use for her. None at all.” Lila threw back her head and laughed heartily. “But a woman like Vivian never dies of unrequited love. She’ll find another sucker soon.”
The pot, my mind told me, was calling the kettle blonde. Vivian Debevoise had telegraphed a simmering hate for Greg Wilkinson the last time I spoke to her. I had arranged a casual meeting with the blonde in the Cumber lunchroom. And Vivian had shown me her disgust with her former fat lover boy in words of two syllables. She was hell-bent for making a career out of her hatred for him. Her attitude and her almost strained projection of malice convinced me that this flaxen-haired siren wasn’t really selling Greg off yet. Her disgust with him was only a thing of the season. She loathed him because a competitor had grabbed him from right under her nose. But deep under her shining protestations of hate, a strong and permanent affection still burned with a steady glow. I had seen these blustery types before. One word from Greg and she’d be rolling over and playing things his way.
“Greg played with her for over a year,” I said. “You can’t drop a gal like Vivian after that kind of warm-up.”
“She’s dropped, all right.”
“You’re pretty sure of yourself, Lila.”
“Why not? She’s out of my league.”
“You have a broad and elastic league.”
“What do those fancy words mean, lover?” She draped herself over me on the couch. She fingered my chin. The touch of her hands was better than a warm bath. “Speak simple for Lila.”
“I was thinking of all the boys in your squad.”
“My boys?”
“Horace Kutner, for instance.”
“What about Kutner?” Her mobile face clouded with sudden annoyance. “And who told you?”
“I have scouts,” I said. “They report you had occasional outings with the king of Cumber’s.”
“Outings?”
“And innings, too.”
“Nasty minds,” she said savagely, digging her nails into my arms. “Kutner is an old and seamy wolf. He took me to the opera, sure. I had a few other dates with him, too. Naturally, I couldn’t turn him down. A girl in business has to make sacrifices for her career.”
“A girl in what business?”
“Now you’re being nasty again.” She lay up against me on the couch. She let her head fall gently on my shoulder. “But I like you that way, Stevie. I like you when you’re mad at me.”
She was punching it home for me. What a figure she had! Her pose was an inspiration for a sultan’s cave, a sultan with fussy tastes. Her blouse was suddenly unzipped, in just the right places. Her arms found my neck and I felt the sting of her nails as she dug in. She laughed and pulled me down to kiss her. It would be tough to resist her lips. From somewhere in her bedroom a clock chimed twice.
“Two o’clock,” I said.
“It’s getting awfully late, lover.”
“It’s never too late, is it?”
“You forget that I’m a working gal.”
She was whispering her dialogue close to my ear. Now she sat up and stretched lazily, telling me with her lithe body that she was getting a bit bored with the niceties of our little game. She stood and took my hand and the touch of her fingers sent the high voltage through me. I tried to be objective about her. I added her up in the sensible niches of my mind. No matter how I sliced her, she was an investment of $119.25. She had told me a few things about her casual relationship with Chuck Rosen. She might tell me more as time wore on.
Her ripe mouth smiled at me.
“A penny for your thoughts, Stevie.”
I didn’t collect the penny. My thoughts at the moment were mixed up in a broth of indecision about her. But she tugged at me again, with a subtle strength that brought me to my feet to join her in a slow march to her bedroom door.
$119.25!
Buy Kiss and Kill Now!
About the Author
Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight, and Marston la France.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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Copyright © 1952, 1980 by Lawrence Lariar
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5751-6
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Lawrence Lariar, The Sunburned Corpse
