The Mike Hammer Collection - Mickey Spillane [51]
Underwater she was like an eel, golden brown, the black of the bikini making only the barest slashes against her skin. She was slippery and luscious and more tantalizing than a woman had a right to be. She surged up out of the water and sat on the edge of the pool with her stomach sucked in so that a muscular valley ran from her navel up into the cleft of her breasts, whose curves arched up in proud nakedness a long way before feeling the constraint of the miniature halter.
She laughed, stuck her tongue out at me and walked to the grass by the radio and sat down. I said, “Damn,” softly, waited a bit, then followed her.
When I was comfortable she put her hand out on mine, making me seem almost prison-pale by comparison. “Now we can talk, Mike. You didn’t come all the way up here just to see me, did you?”
“I didn’t think so before I left.”
She closed her fingers over my wrist. “Can I tell you something very frankly?”
“Be my guest.”
“I like you, big man.”
I turned my head and nipped at her forearm. “The feeling’s mutual, big girl. It shouldn’t be though.”
“Why not?” Her eyes were steady and direct, deep and warm as they watched and waited for the answer.
“Because we’re not at all alike. We’re miles apart in the things we do and the way we think. I’m a trouble character, honey. It’s always been that way and it isn’t going to change. So be smart. Don’t encourage me because I’ll only be too anxious to get in the game. We had a pretty hello and a wonderful beginning and I came up here on a damn flimsy pretext because I was hungry for you and now that I’ve had a taste again I feel like a pig and want it all.”
“Ummmm,” Laura said.
“Don’t laugh,” I told her. “White eyes is not speaking with forked tongue. This old soldier has been around.”
“There and back?’
“All the way, buddy.”
Her grin was the kind they paint on pixie dolls. “Okay, old soldier, so kill me.”
“It’ll take days and days.”
“Ummm,” she said again. “But tell me your pretext for coming in the first place.”
I reached out and turned the radio down. “It’s about Leo.”
The smile faded and her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh?”
“Did he ever tell you about his—well, job let’s say, during the war?”
She didn’t seem certain of what I asked. “Well, he was a general. He was on General Stoeffler’s staff.”
“I know that. But what did he do? Did he ever speak about what his job was?”
Again, she looked at me, puzzled. “Yes. Procurement was their job. He never went into great detail and I always thought it was because he never saw any direct action. He seemed rather ashamed of the fact.”
I felt myself make a disgusted face.
“Is there—anything specific—like—”
“No,” I said bluntly, “it’s just that I wondered if he could possibly have had an undercover job.”
“I don’t understand, Mike.” She propped herself up on one elbow and stared at me. “Are you asking if Leo was part of the cloak-and-dagger set?”
I nodded.
The puzzled look came back again and she moved her head in easy negative. “I think I would have known. I’ve seen all his old personal stuff from the war, his decorations, his photos, his letters of commendation and heard what stories he had to tell. But as I said, he always seemed to be ashamed that he wasn’t on the front line getting shot at. Fortunately, the country had a better need for him.”
“It was a good try,” I said and sat up.
“I’m sorry, Mike.”
Then I thought of something, told her to wait and went back to the bathhouse. I got dressed and saw the disappointment in her eyes from all the way across the pool when I came out, but the line had to be drawn someplace.
Laura gave me a look of mock disgust and patted the grass next to her. When I squatted down I took out the photo of Gerald Erlich and passed it over. “Take a look, honey. Have you ever seen that face in any of your husband’s effects?”
She studied it, her eyes squinting in the sun, and when she had made sure she handed it back. “No, I never have. Who is he?”
“His name used to be Gerald Erlich. He was a trained espionage agent working for the Nazis during the war.”
“But