Never Bet Your Life
Page 19
He offered a cigarette, and she took it and a light. At that moment there seemed to be nothing that either could say and Dave’s glance moved idly along the rows of units. In the apartment next to Betty’s, Mrs. Craft would be getting ready to wake up for another day of observation on the frailties of others. Next to her Frank Tyler, the catalyst who had started things even though he had no part in the murder, would be sleeping. The next apartment, Workman’s, was empty and would presently be vacant.
The cars parked beside the two bungalows flanking Gannon’s were ready and waiting to go and light showed in one of the windows, indicating that at least one tenant was making preparations for the day’s journey. The three units diagonally opposite were still quiet and the fourth, the one next to Stinson’s, was Thelma Colby’s—Workman’s Widow Collins. Dave wondered if her sleep had been troubled by thoughts of the estate she had wanted so badly, and if she realized how narrowly she had missed being an accessory, at least technically, to murder….
“I’m sorry,” he said, aware that Betty had spoken.
“I said, what will they do to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will—will they—”
“It depends on what her lawyers think of her chances. I think the least she’ll get is a long term in jail.”
“She deserves it,” she said without vindication. “I can’t feel too sorry for her. I think I feel sorriest for—”
“Stinson?”
“Well—yes. But I guess I was thinking of Mr. Resnik. She did it for him and now—”
She did not finish the thought but Dave knew what she meant: that it was the dead you mourned but the living you felt sorry for. He glanced away and now he saw through the trees the sunlight dancing on the water. He looked over at the light burning in the Coffee Shop and knew it would soon open for business. That gave him the idea.
“What time does it open?” he asked.
“At seven,” she said, following his glance.
“What time is the coffee ready?”
“About a quarter of.” She sighed. “Which means it’s almost time for me to go to work.”
“You’ve got time for a swim,” he said. “Then we could have some of that coffee, couldn’t we?”
“Why not? You’re the boss.”
“The boss?” he said, and then realized that this was so. He was the boss and it was time to think about what he was going to do about the Seabeach Motel. “Yes,” he said. “I’m the boss and you’re an heiress.”
“Let’s not talk about it. Ever.”
He knew that the “it” she referred to meant the events of the past three days. He knew there would be times throughout the years when they would talk about them but they did not have to talk about them now.
He stood up and pulled her with him. For the second time he kissed her, lightly as before, without passion but with fondness and affection. When her hazel eyes smiled at him he told her to put her suit on; he said he would be waiting for her at the bungalow.
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copyright © 1952 by George Harmon Coxe
cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
978-1-4532-3348-1
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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GEORGE HARMON COXE
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