Sinful Woman
- Автор: Кейн Джеймс Маллахэн
- Год: 1947
- Язык: английский
- Год: Avon
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «Sinful Woman». Краткое содержание книги:
The flood of vigorous emotions, of love so deadly that it slays, packs “Sinful Woman” from start to smashing finish. You can’t lay it down once the striking Sylvia Shoreham, vivid movie star, hits the Reno gambling halls for a show-down with Baron Adlerkkreutz, her hot-blooded, woman-killer husband. You’ll be gripped by Sheriff Lucas as his mad desire for Sylvia runs head-on into his oath to uphold law and order; you’ll be caught by the Hollywood conniving of Dimmy Spiro, Sylvia’s producer, and by the colorful impact of Cain’s with other boldly drawn characters. And throughout the whole book you’ll be held at fever pitch by the deadly puzzle of Sylvia’s sister Hazel, whose knockout beauty underlines every scene with the tension of a fast-ticking bomb.
“I never saw the court scene.”
“You — what?”
“Except for the shots I was in, the whole courtroom sequence was done in retakes and I never saw them.”
“The court didn’t believe her, but shot her just the same to bust up her organization. She didn’t know it, but the man she was trying to save, the one that was more important than she was, was already dead. So the court shot her, knowing she hadn’t done what they were trying her for. The chief judge of the court hated it, and that was the most awful scene I ever saw in a movie, where you and him were facing each other there. He looked like he loved you as much as I do. It’s funny you don’t remember that.”
“It begins to come back to me.”
“I thought it would.”
He considered, said: “I’m taking you back to your hotel, and for the time being I’m not putting you under arrest, and I’m not putting you under guard. I could, but I’m holding everything in this case till I talk to your sister.”
“Now, I’ll tell you something. I love you, and I think you’re the only man I’ve ever loved. Don’t forget that, judge.”
“I won’t. I’ll take you back to town.”
They rode with him in Mr. Britten’s car. At the hotel, Mr. Britten suggested they enter through the kitchen and go up in the service elevator, as such a crowd of reporters, photographers, fans, and cops were visible inside, evidently waiting for her, that they might have trouble getting through. But when the Sheriff went up with her to her suite they found it empty. Sylvia, leaving him in the sitting room, went to her bedroom to phone the desk, and when she came back she looked frightened. “She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“She didn’t come back here.”
“Did you send her back to California?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Then don’t worry, we’ll find her.”
He went down in the service elevator again, climbed into the car. But when Mr. Britten learned of the dragnet that must now be put out to find the missing girl, he gave an exclamation. “I knew there was something funny about this. And that girl, I heard about her when I began talking to the gamblers, but they didn’t have a word to say about her.”
“She’s daft.”
“She’s— What?”
“Not all there in the head. I doubt if they even saw her. From what Shoreham said to me, she just follows along, and waits in the car, and does what she’s told, and nobody pays any attention to her. Just the same, she’s driving around somewhere. I want her brought in, and Shoreham does.”
“Did it strike you they were covering up?”
“In what way?”
“It all checks up, I guess, or will when we get our lab reports in. And it was just about the kind of cock-eyed thing that does happen. But, I had the feeling that every time I turned my back they were looking at each other.”
“Did you figure on suicide?”
“Yes, I did. There were powder burns, and that put it within the ten-inch rule. And, I always said, if cops have made it a rule they won’t consider suicide from firearms unless there are powder burns, they ought always to consider suicide as a possibility when there are powder burns. And she got that divorce, and she’s a good-looking girl, and maybe he was stuck on her, and maybe he was tired of living. But why would they go to all that trouble to cover up?”
“Account of her, maybe.”
“They’re taking one awful chance.”
“She’s worth big dough to them. And maybe she’s a little daft too. Maybe she’s the kind that would go and join the Lithuanian Red Cross or something, so he didn’t die in vain.”
“You breaking it open?”
“I don’t know. We got to find that girl.”
Chapter Seven
Mr. George M. Layton, of the Southwest General Insurance Corporation of North America, sat in his mid-town office planning his afternoon, his manner suggesting the jut-jawed determination that a field marshal might show, counting his reserve of tanks. He proposed to call on six newly-arrived divorce seekers, named in the newspaper clippings that lay on his desk, and sell them, or try to sell them, Southwest General policies. This was something he did every day, but it wasn’t something to be approached perfunctorily, as just one more job of salesmanship. It involved, as he often told the luncheon club, of which he was a member, the most careful sort of planning, the most rigid attention to the probable peculiarities of the prospect, and even due regard for special conditions, such as weather. So he sat at his desk, a compact, red-haired, freckle-faced bundle of aggressiveness, dictating memoranda to Miss Jennifer, his secretary: the notes that would not only assist him in his sales talk, but form the basis of the “presentation” that Miss Jennifer would prepare, bind in imitation leather, and stamp with the prospect’s name, as the give-away for the second visit. He frowned slightly when the phone rang, but suspended dictation as she stepped into her anteroom to answer. “Home office calling, Mr. Layton.”
“Home office?”
“Well it’s Los Angeles. It must be—”
“Put them on.”
When the call went through he barked: “Contact! Southwest General of N. A.! Layton talking!” — this being his idea of a telephone gambit, as indicating on-the-job-ness, make-it-short-ism, and close-the-deal-ation. The voice at the other end, taking cue at once, barked back: “Contact! Greetings George M. Layton! R. P. Gans talking!”
“Who did you say?”
“Gans! Vice President for Claims!”
“Oh, yes of course, Mr. Gans.”
Mr. Layton’s voice, which had been so dark, firm, and confident a moment before, quavered a bit at such overwhelming eminence. Mr. Gans went on: “You got that Shoreham flash?”
“You mean about the divorce?”
“I mean about the murder!”
“The — what?”
“Baron Victor Adlerkreutz, that lug she’s been married to, has just been killed in what is described as a shooting accident in the Galloping Domino, a gambling resort about two miles from you, and you’re to get on that case at once. It so happens that we’re on that risk to the tune of one hundred thousand bucks, every cent of it payable to Sylvia Shoreham, and every cent of it due on a verdict of accident. Layton, when a man gets killed less than one year after taking out a thirty-thousand-dollar straight life policy, less than nine months after taking out a twenty-thousand-dollar endowment policy, and less than six months after taking out a fifty-thousand-dollar accident-and-health policy, it can’t be on the up-and-up! Layton, I don’t make any charges against the wife, but I say the beneficiary under these policies is automatically under suspicion! I don’t say she killed this man! I don’t say anything. But I’m telling you it’s worth one hundred thousand dollars to Southwest General that she doesn’t get away with any false claims! You’re to see that every bit of evidence we’re entitled to is put in the record, that the District Attorney is advised of the existence of these policies, that we get a special autopsy, and above all else that she be held and that the body be held until I arrive there. Have you got that?”
“I have, sir.”
“This means one hundred thousand dollars!”
“I understand, sir.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I get plane space.”
“I’ll be expecting you, sir.”
He hung up looking a little less aggressive than he had looked when he first shouted “Contact!” Miss Jennifer, who had kept her key up during the first part of the conversation, had scooted down to the street, and now came back with a newspaper. It had the accident all over its front page, with Sylvia’s picture prominently displayed, Vicki’s a little smaller, and Dmitri’s a tiny thing, but recognizable. Mr. Layton read, and Miss Jennifer read over his shoulder, making quick little inquiries to which he made rather uncomfortable replies. Soon she burst out: “Well of all the nerve!”