I could see only the upper half of her when she got stripped down to damp flesh, but she had smooth shoulders and her breasts were pink and firm.
She disregarded me utterly while she rubbed down with a hand towel. Then her breasts went into a lacy brassiere — which they filled competently; a silk slip went over her head; and lastly a white dinner gown of some shimmery stuff slithered down her figure.
I’m a bachelor and it was the first time I’d ever sat in on the intimate secrets of a lady’s boudoir. I’d forgotten all about murder and Michaela O’Toole when she brought out a comb and smoothed down her brown bob, took a compact from her purse and began doing over her face.
She used a generous amount of lipstick... and I thought about the murdered Leslie Young. Every woman uses more or less, I suppose, but my passenger was one of those who uses more.
Lipstick on his mouth... smeared on his cheek, A woman’s voice warning him over the phone not to go to the hacienda...
The dome-light blinked out and she was spreading the robe from the back over the wet cushion beside me. Then she slid over as calmly as though we had been married ten years and were driving a few blocks to attend a session of the local bridge club.
An evening wrap of coral satin was drawn snugly about her shoulders, and she had a demure smile for me when I looked her over.
“I hope you won’t be ashamed to present me as your wife... that is... if none of those present have met your wife.”
I was so taken by surprise that I blurted out: “I haven’t any wife.” I realized it was a slip as soon as it was said. I was posing as Leslie Young, and Young had been married two years.
She said, “Well...” doubtfully, and I broke in:
“None of them know I’m a bachelor, though. We can tell them you’re my wife... if you particularly wish to be introduced that way.”
“I thought it might be best. In a situation like this, they’re not going to trust just anybody.”
I had told Jerry Burke I was good at keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut. I tried to make good on my boast. Not having the slightest idea what “situation” she was talking about, I changed the subject:
“What shall I call you?”
She laughed and leaned closer to me. “You might call me darling... just for camouflage. I’ll answer to Laura also.”
Laura? That was the name Mrs. Young had mentioned. I made an effort to be casual, saying:
“And you can call me Leslie if you like.”
She pulled away from me and I heard a quick breath sucked in between her teeth. I kept looking straight ahead... keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut.
There was a catch in her voice when she spoke again: “And I’ll be...”
“Mrs. Young,” I supplied. I looked at her and she was in the act of swallowing whatever words were about to pop out. It seemed to me there was more of bewilderment than any other emotion on her face.
Then my headlights picked up two stone gateposts on the right with a high archway between. A lifesize stone statue of a bull pawed the air atop the archway. I slowed down and started to turn in.
A barefooted peon stepped in front of the car, holding an American Springfield rifle at an awkward port arms. I stopped and rolled down the window while he came to it. In Mexican, I told him: “I am expected by Michaela O’Toole.”
“Como se llama usted?” He had a thin hungry face, and his teeth were a dirty yellow.
I answered his question as casually as I could: “My name is Leslie Young.”
“’Sta bueno.” He nodded and stepped aside to let me drive onward toward lights which glowed faintly from the windows of a sprawling two-story adobe house.
Laura Yates didn’t say anything. She hadn’t said anything since I told her my name was Young. She was drawn back in her corner, staring at me.
Weeds grew along the drive, and what had once been a lawn was now an expanse of untended grass. Two cars were drawn up in front of the adobe house. One was a long glittering limousine with a Texas license. The other was a battered Model A coupe carrying a Mexican license. My lights lit up a ragged hedge and I was sure I saw a bulky shadow pressed close to the bushes. My nerves got jumpy until I remembered Jerry Burke’s promise. I wondered if Jerry had arrived so quickly.
When I pulled up behind the limousine I saw the outline of a chauffeur sitting behind the wheel. I memorized the license number before cutting off my ignition and lights.
It was too dark to see Laura’s face but I could feel the intensity of her regard as we sat there in the dark for a moment. I tried to speak lightly but I muffed it:
“Here we are, Mrs. Young... darling.”
She didn’t say anything. I got out, baffled and uneasy, went around to her side and opened the door. The rain had stopped and a slit of a moon was looking down at us through a crack in the clouds.
She put her hand on my arm and got out. I took her arm and felt it quiver beneath my touch. We went up the gravel walk to the front door and I lifted the heavy bronze knocker and let it drop twice. The knocker was a miniature of the bull above the archway.
I don’t know what I expected to happen. Nothing, I’m sure, could possibly have surprised me. There was only one thing definitely in my mind... to keep my eyes open and my mouth shut.
The heavy oak door opened a cautious slit and a pair of black eyes stared at me while a cruel mouth asked: “Quien es?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Young.”
The door swung open and a brown hand slid a pistol back into the pocket of an unpressed coat. The Mexican spoke in perfect English:
“I will take you to Miss O’Toole.”
We went over the threshold into the great wide hallway and he closed and barred the door. There was a mouldy smell of dampness in the hall and the only illumination was a single candle in a wall bracket.
Laura pressed close to me and a tremble was communicated from her body to mine. I wasn’t feeling like a tower of strength, but I braced myself and followed the Mexican down the hall, with dust swirling up from the thick carpet under our feet.
We passed one wide doorway on the right. Light and the sound of voices streamed past heavy curtains.
Our guide drew the curtains aside from another arched doorway beyond. With my hand on Laura’s elbow we went into a low-ceilinged room lit by flickering tapers in a wrought-iron candelabra suspended from an overhead beam.
In a far corner of the room from us, a girl and a man stood in low-voiced conversation. The man was tall, stooping in what appeared an earnest and argumentative posture. His hands moved nervously as he spoke. His back was turned to us, and they stopped talking abruptly when the guard announced us.
I knew the girl was Michaela O’Toole though her features were shadowy so far from the candelabra. I had thought of that name subconsciously ever since I first heard it. The last name was, of course, flagrantly Irish, but as she came toward us and the flickering candlelights fell upon her, I knew that her high cheek bones and finely chiseled chin were a heritage from Spanish and Indian ancestors.
But I was in no way prepared for her strange beauty as she moved slowly and gracefully forward, a sharp little frown coming in her smooth brow, as if she were annoyed at this interruption.
Her eyes were that deep fiery blue of Irish eyes; when she half closed them, long black lashes hung like silken fringe, dimming their light. Her hair was intensely black, drawn back from a smooth high forehead the color of ivory. A sweep of black and perfectly arched brows made her eyes look enormous when she opened them wide, which she now did in her intent scrutiny of Laura Yates and myself.