Beware the Curves

THINK OUR CLIENT WANTS TO ADD A PLANT OF THIS COMMONPLACE VARIETY TO HIS COLLECTION. REGARDS, DONALD.

CHAPTER 6 …

    I TAPPED gently on the door of Stella Karis’ unit of the motel.
    “Who is it?” she asked.
    “Donald,” I said.
    “Come on in.”
    I opened the door. She was seated in front of a mirror at the dressing table.
    She turned slowly to look over her bare shoulder at me and lowered her long lashes. “Hello, Donald,” she said seductively.
    I knew damn well it had been carefully rehearsed, but if it was effect she was after, the rehearsal was worth it.
    She got slowly to her feet and came toward me.
    She was wearing a semiformal creation that left her shoulders bare and showed her figure to great advantage.
    Seeing her dolled up, I became increasingly aware of her curves, of her cool, competent eyes with their long lashes, the supple way in which she moved, the long, artistic fingers; which rested lightly on my arm.
    “Donald, you’ll forgive me, won’t you?”
    “For what?“
    “For thinking you ware the local law sent to chaperone me across the state line and make sure I didn’t turn back. I was so damn mad... well, I thought I’d pull that tom clothing act on you and panic you into a disorderly retreat.”
    “That,” I told her, “was taking an unfair advantage of your sex.”
    “Everything about sex is unfair,” she said. “Even nature is unfair about sex. Sex gives both sides an unfair advantage—otherwise I wouldn’t be with you right now.”
    “I think you need a drink,” I told her.
    “I think I do, too.” She gave me a wrap. I held it for her and we went out on the town. I bought her two cocktails before dinner, and she insisted on a third, watching me to see whether she could loosen me up that way. We had a nice dinner. We played roulette. We played twenty-one. We shot craps. We played the slot machines. I was about eight dollars ahead, and she’d cleaned up something over a hundred and fifty, all without any great trace of excitement.
    It was about one-thirty when I drove her back to the motel.
    “Coming in?” she asked.
    “It’s late,” I said.
    What are you afraid of?”
    “You.”
    “How come?”
    “You have such a delightful habit of tearing your clothes off and calling the law.”
    Oh,” she said, “I only do that with my cheaper Working clothes. When I’m wearing these clothes, you’re perfectly safe.”
    I went in.
    She sat on the davenport. I sat down beside her.
    All right,” I told her. “This is the showdown. I know your name. I know your license number. I’m a detective. I can look you up. That takes time. It takes money. Why don’t you tell me?”
    She said, “I know your name. I have your business card. I know your address. I know your telephone number. Look, Donald, is there any chance that you’re in this thing investigating the murder of Karl Carver Endicott?”
    “I told you I couldn’t discuss my reasons for being up here.”
    She looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Drude Nickerson is crooked.”
    “The whole city’s crooked,” I told her.
    “Susanville?”
    “Citrus Grove.”
    “Donald, if your interest is in the Endicott murder case, we might be able to help each other.”
    “In my work, I’m not allowed to give help. I can only accept it.”
    “That makes it nice,” she said.
    “Doesn’t it?”
    “For you.”
    We were silent for a little while.
    “Are you working on the Endicott case, Donald?“
    “No comment.”
    “I could help you.”
    “Many comments, but quite inaudible.”
    She swept her long, dark lashes down on her cheeks, held her eyes closed for half a second so that the darkness of the eyelashes showed against the smooth skin of her cheeks. Then she slowly raised her eyes to mine. She said suddenly, “All right, Donald. Here are the cards face up on the table. I’m twenty-three. I’ve been married. I’m a hell of a business woman. Aunt Martha died and left me the works. Most of it was property in Citrus Grove. I was an artist, not a real good one, just fair, advertising illustrations, things like that.
    “A factory wants to come to Citrus Grove. I have the land the factory wants. At one time the land was residential property. I need to get a zoning ordinance changed. Any other city would change the ordinance just as a matter of course. Citrus Grove doesn’t do things that way.”
    “How does Citrus Grove do things?” I asked.
    “Citrus Grove,” she said, “is under the dominance of the