Roy Carroll - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 4, April, 1953

When he lunged at Hagen, it had nothing to do with the sapphires. And later, when he was tossed out of the office, a sack of bleeding meat, he didn’t hear the clinking sound of the stones in Hagen’s hand. All he heard was a woman’s laughter, a disdainful laugh that told him he’d been played for a sucker.

Now, a year later, he stood before the mirror and saw his lips moving and heard himself saying, “God damn her.”

But when the door opened, his body seemed to melt and the fire came into his eyes. It was the fire that always leaped up at the sight of her.

She was dazzling. She had the kind of face that couldn’t be captured with camera or paint-brush. Only the living flesh could show the perfection of eyes and nose and lips. Her hair was platinum, and her skin had the softness of camellia petals. The slender elegance of her body was sheathed in pale green satin, cut low in front to display the cleavage of her breasts. She had exquisite breasts. Everything about her was perfect, her shoulders and her belly and her hips and her thighs.

He was making an effort to steady himself. He tried not to look at her. He said, “You here on business?”

“Strictly.”

“If that’s a business outfit you’re wearing, I got a few dollars ain’t busy.”

She didn’t even flinch. She was like a clever boxer neatly slipping a right-hand smash to the jaw. “I’ll do the buying,” she said very softly. She helped herself to one of his cigarettes, lit it and took a long drag and let it go way down. As it came up and out of her lips, she was smiling at him. “May I see the stone?”

“No.” Then he looked at her. “I didn’t show it to Dodsley and I won’t show it to you. And tell Hagen to stop sending representatives. If he wants to know what it looks like, I’ll let him see it. But he’ll have to phone for an appointment.”

She was quiet for some moments. When she spoke, her voice was calm and level. “Let’s leave Hagen out of this. The only buyer I’m representing is myself.”

“You?” He was caught off balance. But then his eyes narrowed and and he said, “Where’s your money?”

She was carrying a small kidskin handbag. Her fingers tapped the side of it. “In here,” she murmured. “I think it’s enough for a down payment.”

Then she opened the bag and took out a roll of bills. They were thousand-dollar bills and as she leafed through the roll, he counted twenty of them.

His eyes remained narrow and he said, “The full price is three hundred thousand.”

She smiled dimly. “Rather expensive.” Then the smile went away and she said, “I’ll have the balance here tomorrow.”

The roll of bills was extended toward him but he made no move to take it. He was watching her eyes. Finally he shook his head slowly and said, “No sale.”

“Why not?”

He laughed at her. “You think I’m stupid or something? You give me the twenty, I give you the stone, and then you hand it over to Hagen. That’s as far as it would go.” The laugh became sour and jagged. “Tell Hagen to think of a better scheme.”

“This isn’t a scheme, and Hagen knows nothing about it.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll show you Hagen’s scheme. Here’s the method he wants me to use.”

She reached into the handbag and took out a small automatic revolver.

Clayton tensed himself.

But the gun wasn’t pointed at him. She held it loosely, did nothing more than display it, then let it fall into the handbag. She inserted the roll of bills in the bag, closed the bag and tossed it onto the bed. In almost the same gesture she pointed toward the window, indicating that Clayton should take a look outside.

He hurried across the room and peered through the blinds. Outside a man was waiting in the street below. He saw the greasy face and sloppy white suit of Dodsley.

He turned and looked at her.

Her voice was low. “It would have been so easy,” she said. “The gun would have forced you to give me the stone. But Hagen’s plan went further than that. He wanted me to shoot you dead, then go to the window and throw the stone to Dodsley. I’d be waiting here when the police arrived. My dress would be torn and I’d tell them I did it only to protect myself. And of course I’d know nothing about a sapphire.”

Clayton was quiet for some moments. Finally, he said, “An old idea, but a good one. And I’m sure it would have worked. Why didn’t you use it?”

Her eyes tried to penetrate the stoniness of his face. “Can’t you answer that?”

“There’s more than one answer. You’re a shrewd operator.”

“At times,” she admitted. “At other times I’m a woman.”

She was moving toward him. His brain reeled with the thought I want her, I want her. And then the ice-cold thought, I don’t trust her. And finally the snarling decision, Damn her, I can play this just as cheap as she can.

The platinum hair came nearer. He stood there waiting, watching the parted lips, watching her tongue moisten them. He felt the mild caress of her breath against his face, and suddenly he found her in his arms, and her lips crushed against his mouth. His hands followed the smooth curve of her back, and he breathed deeply of her hair, drugged with the nearness of her. He didn’t see the clock that said Now and the bed that said Here. He was aware only of her closed eyes, the swell of her breasts against his chest, the warmness of her. He was swept outward and away from the boundaries of reality and yet somehow he knew this wasn’t a dream, it was something he had waited for and hungered for and it was happening...

The warmth left him too soon. He felt the steely grin forming on his lips again. He watched her adjust her skirt, smoothing it over her hips, watched the long flash of thigh as she got to her feet.

“Before you go downstairs, you better fix your mouth,” he said. “You need new lipstick.”

It wasn’t the words. It was the look on his face. She stared at him incredulously. “Is... is that all you can say? After... after... haven’t I proved...?” She stopped, choking on the words.

Clayton said, “You’ve proved you’re a filthy tramp. Now get out.”

“Clayton—” She sobbed it.

He had turned away. “Go on, get the hell out of here.”

He was facing a wall. He heard her moving toward the door, and the door opening and closing. Minutes passed, and he stood there gazing vacantly at the wall. Gradually he began to think about taking a bath. He felt dirty and he told himself he really needed a bath.

Showered and shaved and wearing clean linen and a freshly pressed suit, he stood at the bar and watched Kroner tilting the bottle. Kroner poured with a seemingly clumsy motion but the gin came up to the edge of the glass and stopped right there. Clayton reached for the glass, lifted it, spilled some of the gin, and shot the rest down his throat. He extended the empty glass and mumbled, “Another.”

“You can’t hold another.”

“I said give me another.”

Kroner poured it. They were alone in the place except for two drunken natives who had fallen asleep and were stretched out on the floor like a couple of dead men. A dirty-faced clock above the bar indicated twenty minutes past four. The small window behind the bar showed that it was still dark outside.

“Almost morning,” Kroner commented. He watched Clayton. “You want me to help you upstairs?”

“I’m not going upstairs.” Clayton emptied the glass. He looked at the Dutchman. “How much have I had?”

“Plenty,” Kroner said. “It’s a wonder your legs can hold you up.”

“Let me buy you one.”

“My dear Clayton, you know I never touch liquor.”

“You mean liquor never touches you. Nothing ever touches you.”