Hell's Gate

right shoulder asked.
        He turned, smiled automatically, and said, “Yes.”
        The trapped portion of his mind, the humane part that kept trying to assert itself, reacted much more violently. That part had been expecting a jolly, hard-sell jackass in loud clothes and squeaking shoes and was presented instead with this stunning, lithe, five-foot-five-inch blonde with a dark tan and a long fall of coarse, bright hair. She made the lovely receptionist look like the boy on the corner. Her face was the sort of creamy perfection that made Hollywood starlets scream and break mirrors in frustration. She had stolen her eyes from a large cat. The figure under the face came from somewhere in mythology, though it was not quite obvious whether it was Diana, Venus, or Helen.
        She smiled, though it was a slightly unsure smile. Plainly, she expected a greater reaction from men than the iron Victor Salsbury was giving her. “Were you renting or buying?” she asked, flashing even, white teeth.
        “That depends on the property, Miss-”
        “Oh, sorry. Lynda Harvey. Just Lynda, please.” But even as she said it, she wondered whether he would unbend enough to call her by her first name. He gave her the chills, so formal, cold, like a hollow man. She had watched the pulse in his throat when he had turned to look at her-a standard way of judging a man's reaction to her-and had seen no change. That was highly unusual!
        “Victor Salsbury,” he replied.
        Very well, if he was going to be so businesslike… “The Jacobi estate calls for a sale, no renting provision.” Even the factual statements sounded mellow, full, sensuous coming from her honeyed lips. He did not seem to notice. Strange, he did not look queer.
        “What's the asking price?”
        “Forty-two thousand.”
        He did not wince at the price tag as she had expected. Instead, he nodded sharply and said: “Fine. Let's take a look at it.” He had considered taking it without being given a tour. But considering the odd circumstances around Harold Jacobi's death, he thought that might be unwise. The iron Victor was irritated with the facade he had to erect, but knew it was necessary to arouse as few suspicions as possible.
        She arranged for one of the other salesmen to take a call she was expecting, left a memo with the receptionist, grabbed a big straw purse from the desk in her cubbyhole office, and came briskly across the floor to where he waited by the front door. “Your car or mine?” she asked.
        “I came by bus.”
        “Mine's right behind the place. Come on.” She said it in the tone of a woman used to leading men around a bit. Not domineering, but efficient and brisk.
        Her machine was a copper colored Porsche with a white canvas top. Together, they put the top down. Two blocks from the Wilmar Realty Agency, he relaxed, uncramping his long legs as best he could. She was a good driver; she accelerated smoothly, cornered sharply on the edge between too slow and too fast. Her maneuvers were swift and clean, and she did not let other drivers bother her. Soon, they were off on a pleasant country lane fringed on both sides by trees so that, for a great deal of the drive, they were swathed in cooling shadows. He did not notice the scenery. He stared ahead, only anxious to get the play-acting done.
        “It's a lovely old place,” she said.
        “Yes. So the picture would indicate.”
        She looked over at him, then back to the road. He was the first man in a long time who had unsettled her. There was something creepy about him, yet something attractive she could not define.
        “You haven't asked the standard question,” she said.
        “What's that?”
        “What a woman is doing as a real estate agent.”
        “I suppose a woman could do as well as a man,” iron Victor said, still staring ahead.
        She had been expecting a lead-in to conversation. With this cool, almost unconscious rebuttal, she bit her lip, cursed him silently, and drove on.
        Several minutes later, she pulled the Porsche off the lane, brought it rapidly up a long, curved drive toward the front of the Jacobi house. She stopped before the front steps that led to a glassed-in front porch.
        “Do you know the history of the house?” she asked. “To some people, it might make a difference about buying or not buying.” Despite the fact that he angered her, she could not be