Лесли Чартерис - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 3, March, 1953

“That’s a promise?”

“Yes.”

I held out my hand. “Shall we seal it?”

It wasn’t her way of closing a deal. She had other ideas. She turned sideways and tilted back into my arms. Her fingers squirmed along the back of my neck, pulling me close. Her lips were cushion-soft and pouting. I didn’t have to move more than half a millimeter to make contact.

I held back a moment. Nothing here seemed disloyal to my clients. She had promised to pay. The case was closed. Ostensibly, I was on my own.

I moved the half a millimeter. It was something. Have you ever been caught in the propwash of a B-29? Her mouth opened on mine, hungry and lingering. Her fingernails gouged into the nape of my neck. She made a small whimpering savage noise and the thing got out of hand. I felt myself spinning and whirling into a vortex that left me dizzy and breathless.

The spinning stopped, and only a white heat remained, and it tried to burn a hole in the pit of my stomach. The heat moved to her mouth then, and her lips were on fire, and she squirmed closer in my arms, pressing the length of her body against mine. In less than ten seconds, the whole room was a blazing holocaust and we were in the middle of it, and we didn’t give one little damn.

We rested for a while after that and we didn’t say much. There wasn’t much else we could say. And then that hungry look came into her eyes again, and she moved closer to me again, and I was getting ready for another three-alarmer, because these were fires I liked.

So the damn doorbell picked that precise moment to start ringing.

At first, she ignored it. But an insistent finger kept the button depressed. It took will-power, but I finally got her disengaged. She moved away from me and stood up, straightening her dress. Her eyes were muddy and her lipstick smeared. When her breathing slowed down she said, “Don’t go way now,” and disappeared into the foyer.

I heard the door open. I heard her gasp of surprise. “Gladys!”

The visitor’s voice was harsh and strained. “I must speak to you, Joyce.”

“Some other time, Gladys. I’m very busy. Can we have cocktails tomorrow at—”

“No. It won’t wait. I have to see you now.”

The voice had resolution and inflexibility. I knew the visitor was coming in. I felt foolish sitting there with lip-rouge all over my face. I got out of the love seat and through a swinging door into a tiny kitchen just as Joyce Arnold backed up into the living room. I kept the door open a quarter of an inch.

No wonder Joyce had backed up. Gladys had both the vigor and the physique. She was built like one of those showgirls Ziegfeld used to hire in the old days to stand around in a tassle and smile for the stimulation of jaded executives and visiting firemen. A tall, statuesque, peroxide blonde, full blown, pneumatic and boiling mad.

She put her hands on her hips and made her lips thin. Her eyes were ominous. “You listen to me, Joyce, and get this straight. I’m warning you. Stay away from Matt. Understand? Stay away from Matt.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“He’s my husband and he’s going to stay my husband.”

“Who wants him?”

“You do. You’ve been seeing him.”

Joyce managed a laugh. “You’ve got the wrong number, Gladys. I wouldn’t take Matt on a silver platter.”

“Then why have you seen him?”

“Business. Strictly business. Matt Frost and I were once associated, weren’t we?”

“You mean you worked for him.”

I thought, Matt Frost. That would be Mathew B. (for Blackstone) Frost. A well-known legal-beagle with offices on Foley Square. A short bald pudgy specimen with a devious brain and an active practice in matrimonial actions.

I saw the peroxide blonde take a threatening step. “This is my last warning, Joyce. If you don’t leave him alone, so help me, I’ll kill you.”

Joyce Arnold held her ground. “He’s all yours. I never wanted him and I don’t want him now. Will you please leave?”

Gladys concentrated a glare of pure unadulterated hatred. If looks could kill, Joyce would have been horizontal on the carpet, stone cold dead. The blonde turned suddenly and marched through the foyer. The whole apartment trembled with the impact of the door when it slammed shut.

I stepped out of the kitchen.

Joyce heard me. “Oh, there you are.” She dropped onto the love seat, sighing. “Come over and sit down.”

Damned if she didn’t want to resume where we’d left off as if nothing had happened.

I lit a cigarette. “That blonde,” I said, “was really sore.”

“You got an earful, didn’t you?”

“How could I help it?”

“Well, she was mistaken.”

I shook my head. “First time I ever heard of two women fighting over Mathew Blackstone Frost.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You know Matt Frost?”

“Business-wise, not socially.”

Joyce bent over and reached for a box of cigarettes on the coffee table. I struck a match and brought the flame close. She filled her lungs with smoke and kept it there. Then she leaned back and half closed her eyes. “Know who Gladys used to be?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The first Mrs. Charles Brownlee.”

I almost dropped my cigarette. “You don’t say.”

“We got her the divorce. I was associated with Matt when he handled the case.”

“So the lawyer married his client,” I said.

“It’s not the first time.”

“She had blood in her eyes. Better watch out, Joyce.”

She shrugged indifferently. Twin streams of smoke leaked through her nostrils. “I’m not worried. Come over here and sit down.”

I looked at my watch and started to get up. “By God, it’s late,” I said, “and I’ve got an appointment with a judge.”

She was pouting. “You really have to go?”

“It’s very important.”

“Will I see you again?”

“Sure.”

“Tonight?”

“Why not.”

“Come for supper,” she said. “You’d be surprised. I can cook.”

You’re always cooking, I thought. “It’s a date,” I said.

She got up and moved to a liquor cabinet. “One for the road?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Thanks just the same.”

She was trying her luck on a shot of Black Horse when I left. Halfway down the hall I thought of something and tiptoed back. Her voice came through in a monologue. She was talking to someone on the telephone.

“... it’s Eve Brownlee, I tell you. She’s impatient. I promised the lawyer I’d send a check. We’ll have to figure something, Matt. Can I see you?” A pause. “Yes, I’ll be here all afternoon if you call back.”

I didn’t hear the handset click into its cradle. But the monologue was suspended. I hurried to the elevator.

I called Sutro’s from my office. “Eve,” I said, “I spoke to Joyce Arnold. She promised to mail us a check tomorrow afternoon.”

“Scott, you’re a genius.”

“Hold on,” I said. “She made the promise, not me. I don’t know if she’ll keep her word.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Then we’ll sue.”

“It’s in your hands, Scott.”

“Good enough.”

I stayed at my desk and worked all afternoon, correcting syntax on a brief for the Appellate Division. Then I went home for a shave, a shower, and a complete change. At seven o’clock I headed for Gracie Square.

The self-service elevator took me up.

I put my finger on the buzzer. She was probably in the tiny kitchen. Those pressure cookers usually make a lot of noise. Nobody answered. I rattled the knob and the door swung open easily.

I went in and I saw her.

No wonder she couldn’t hear me. She was through hearing anything, ever again. The one bullet was enough. It had knocked in the left temple and she sat sprawled awkwardly in the peppermint-striped chair. Her wide open eyes were fixed on the high ceiling, blank and glassy.