Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933
- Автор: Day Stanley, Dunn J. Allan
- Год: 1933
- Язык: английский
- Год: Red Star News Company
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 75, No. 4, April 15, 1933». Краткое содержание книги:
A fifty dollar bill was slipped into my palm, and I met a cool smile. “Will you play it?” the Orchid asked. “I think you are lucky tonight.”
We won together.
Since it wasn’t my money I didn’t get the cold chills as I pushed my luck. I played the Blaine oil wells in public that night, and had the customers hanging on the edge of the table and standing three deep behind us. No, I didn’t break the bank. They tell me no one ever does that at Corey’s. But I put on a good show, won six thousand when the plays were evened up, and broke the ice with the Orchid.
I stuffed the winnings in my pocket and grinned at the Orchid. “I always quit while I’m cool, ma’am. Would a little drive along the ocean front cap your luck?”
“It might,” the Orchid agreed as she folded her cut. “Shall we try it?”
The motor of that big Rolls purred, and so did the Orchid. Her technique would have made Delilah quit. “You were so calm over those big stakes,” she sighed.
“Shucks, ma’am, back in Texas, our stud games would make that piker play tonight.”
“You’re from Texas?”
“West Texas,” I gave her breezily. “Out in the oil country.”
“How fascinating! Have you an oil well?”
“A dozen,” I grinned. “An’ two more spudding-in this week on proved ground. I always told Susan that when I passed my first million I was coming to Palm Beach. And here I am. But I never thought I’d be riding around with a beautiful woman like you.”
“You flatter me,” said the Orchid absently. “Your wife — does she like it? I’ve noticed her. She’s a beautiful little thing.”
“Susan’s pretty enough,” I agreed without enthusiasm. “But she says she’d rather be back home where she can be a big frog in a little puddle instead of a little frog in a big puddle like she is here.”
The Orchid laughed softly.
“Perhaps she is right at that. A woman has to be used to this life before she can get the most out of it. I owe you more thanks than I can repay for making it possible for me to stay here a little longer.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, and waited for her line.
“The money you won for me,” she explained. “That was almost my last fifty dollars I gave you.”
“I thought you were—”
“—rich?” She laughed shortly. What an actress! “One thinks that about everyone here. A little insurance money can create quite an effect. But when it’s gone—” She broke off on a quaver.
I put a hand over hers. “I understand.”
“I thought you would,” the Orchid murmured. “Now forget about me and tell me about Texas.”
So I spun her a few yarns about how I started as a poor kid in the oil fields and finally got in the money. When I spoke about oil field life she looked out the window, and when I mentioned big money she was all ears again.
“I want you to meet Susan,” I said finally.
“No, I don’t think I’d better,” the Orchid said sadly. “Wives don’t seem to like me. They get jealous. We’ll keep this to ourselves.”
“Perhaps we’d better,” I agreed — and wondered what her game was.
Trixie saw the powder on my coat lapel when I came in the sitting room, and said acidly, “Necking?”
“With the Orchid. I wanted her to meet my dear little wife, Susan, but she begged off. Wives don’t usually like her.”
“Susan?” Trixie had fire in her eye. “I could skin you for that, Mike Harris! Why not Abigail to that hussy?”
“Why not? Susan Abigail it is.”
I got the door locked just in time.
Thompson long distanced from Washington in the morning.
“She’s putting the screws on Maxwell,” he crabbed over the wire. “Wants her dough quick, or else. The old man’s frantic. He thought he’d have a couple of weeks yet anyway. Haven’t you done anything?”
“It looks like I’ve done too much,” I decided. “She wants Maxwell cleaned up before she cleans me.”
“Well, get some action!” Thompson yelled. “If this thing goes sour on you, you’re washed up with the Blaine Agency. It’s that important.”
“Button your lip,” I advised. “They can hear you across the hall here. Tell Maxwell to put another padlock oh his checkbook. No dame’s going to toss a quarter of a million away by getting rash. He’s safe enough as long as he stalls.”
Thompson’s groan traveled clear down from Washington. “I hope for your sake that’s right,” he warned.
And so did I. The Blaine Agency had a little trick of loading all the responsibility on the ones who drew a case, and then if they didn’t come through, heads began to fall. It worked nine times out of ten. But Waldo Maxwell’s quarter of a million and the Orchid were a big bite.
She was a wise one, dangerous as dynamite.
Trixie heard me out.
“You can’t stall any longer, loud mouth,” she decided. “Necking parties may be your forte, but you’ll have to cut them short. I’ve been watching that hussy. She never speaks to anyone who might be in the racket with her. And a dime to a promise that those letters are not in her hotel room here. She wouldn’t dare keep them so close.”
“She has a maid.”
“I’ve seen the maid!” Trixie snapped.
And so had I. A beauty, and a crook, if I knew my way around. “We’ve got to pull a fast one,” I decided.
“He thinks,” Trixie marveled. “Well, produce before we both get fired.”
“I’m going swimming,” I told her.
I met the Orchid on the beach, where she had said the night before she’d be. She wore black beach pajamas trimmed with white, and against her creamy skin they were enough to stop the breath and scuttle good resolutions. She gave me a smile to go, with them. “Where is your wife?”
“Reading. No sunburn wanted.”
“You poor neglected boy. It must be lonesome at times.”
I held my breath until my face got red, and stuttered, “N-not when I’m with you.” And we got along famously.
All the time I was wondering where she kept those letters of Maxwell’s. Trixie was right. Not in her room. That would be the first place private dicks would look. And despite the fact that Trixie had seen no one with her, Thompson’s hint that she did not work alone kept pricking at my mind.
So I admired the big diamond ring on her finger and told her about the jewels I had bought the little woman since the oil wells came in. Three hundred grand worth, diamonds, pearls, emeralds and what not.
The Orchid swallowed the hook. “What a fortunate woman your wife is,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen her wearing any.”
I grinned. “She’s afraid to. Jewel thieves. So she keeps them in the bottom of her trunk.”
The Orchid lay there on the sand like a lazy cat. Her pink finger nails dug in gently when I said that. I saw her leg muscles stiffen slightly. But she didn’t bat an eye.
“How dangerous,” she warned abruptly. “She should keep them in a safety deposit box.”
“Susan doesn’t think so,” I yawned. “She likes to take them out and play with them. She’s like a kid. Always wanted a diamond ring — and then got a lapful. And she’s convinced no one would ever think of looking in the false bottom she had built into her trunk.”
“I suppose she’s right,” the Orchid nodded lazily. “But just the same if they were mine I wouldn’t take chances.”
“Not you,” I thought. Aloud I said: “Let’s forget ’em. If she is robbed, I’ll buy her some more. And how about taking a ride with me this evening? The wife is going to be downstairs playing bridge until late. I may have to leave tomorrow. Got a wire from my partner.”