Beware the Curves

cigarette. “Who is it?” she asked without looking at me.
    “Girl by the name of Helen Manning,” I said. “An ex-secretary. She worked for Endicott. Endicott fired her. It’s not generally known, but she went to Mrs. Endicott and told her that Endicott was a heel, that he’d sent John Ansel into the Brazilian jungle so he could get John out of the way. It was one hell of a story.”
    “I can imagine how that must have made Mrs. Endicott feel,” Stella said.
    I didn’t say anything. Stella Karis thought things over for a while. “You know, Donald,” she said, “I think you’re right at that. I think I should convert my property into securities that would give me an income and get back to my art work.”
    “Just be careful who holds the securities,” I said.
    She pursed her lips. “I can usually size up character,” she said. “And if I can’t, well, if anyone tries to give me a double cross, Donald, I’m ruthless, absolutely, utterly ruthless.”
    “Most women are,” I told her, “but few of them admit it.”
    “I not only admit it, I’m proud of it. Don’t ever try to give me a double cross, Donald.”
    “I won’t,” I said.
    “I’m a hell cat,” she said.
    She got up to pour more liqueur. She was wearing some kind of a filmy white thing. The bottle was getting empty. She had another bottle in the kitchen. She opened the kitchen door to go get the bottle.
    Bright lights were on in the kitchen. The fights flooded through the doorway and silhouetted every curve of her figure against the white gossamer.
    Halfway through the doorway she thought of something, turned and said, “Would you prefer brandy and Benedictine to crème de menthe, Donald?”
    I took a little time debating the matter. "You have both?” I asked.
    “Yes.” She shifted her position slightly.
    The light behind her did its stuff.
    “Brandy and Benedictine,” I said. "But only a short one, Stella, I’ve got to go. I’m working on this damn case.”
    “You and your case!” she blazed.
    “But when it’s over,” I said, “you’re going to see more of me.”
    “By that time,” she said angrily, “you may not be able to see any of me!”
    She walked out into the kitchen, got the brandy and Benedictine. When she came back, she turned the kitchen lights out.
    We had a brandy and Benedictine. I kissed her good night and went home.
    At eight o’clock the next morning, my phone rang. I picked up the receiver and said hello.
    The voice that came over the wire was almost hysterical.
    “Mr. Lam?”
    “Yes.”
    “This is Helen, Helen Manning.”
    “Oh, yes, Helen, what’s on your mind?”
    “I’ve just been served with a subpoena. There’s an officer here. He says the district attorney of Orange County wants to talk with me.”
    “The officer’s there now?” I asked.
    “Yes.”
    "Where?”
    “In the other room. I told him I had to go in the bedroom to change my clothes. What shall I do?”
    “What can you do?” I asked.
    She thought that over. “Nothing, I guess,” she admitted.
    “You could consult an attorney,” I said. “But that wouldn’t look so good. It would look as though you had something to conceal. You could refuse to talk, but that would simply center attention on you. I guess about the only thing you can do is tell the truth.”
    “Oh, Mr. Lam. Donald, I wish I could talk with you.“
    “You can’t,” I told her. “I’m leaving right now for Santa Ana. I have to be in court while they’re selecting a jury. You’d better tell them the truth.”
    “I can’t. I simply can’t tell them the truth.”
    “If you get caught in a mess of lies,” I said, “it’s going to look bad. There’s one tip I can give you.“
    “What’s that?” she asked.
    “Mortimer Irvine, the district attorney of Orange County, is tall, dark, handsome, very impressionable and a bachelor. And in case you don’t happen to know it, you’re a dish!”
    Her voice perked up. “Do you think so, Donald?”
    “I know it,” I said. “You have that something which radiates from a good-looking woman—personality, sex appeal, poise, the ability to wear clothes.”
    “Oh, Donald!”
    “Don’t talk with any of the deputies. Don’t discuss anything with the officers. Say that your story is for the ears of the district attorney alone.
    “You get it?” I went on. “Alone.”
    Her voice showed a lot more vitality.
    “Donald,” she said, “you’re wonderful! You’re a tonic!”
    “Be seeing