Lay Her Among The Lilies

“Hit them!” she commanded furiously. “What are you frightened of? They won’t dare

touch you again. Beat them up!”

“Sorry,” I said. “It wouldn’t amuse me. Let’s turn them out. They’re lousing up the room.”

She turned, snatched up the cosh and walked up to MacGraw. His white face turned yellow,

but he didn’t move. Her arm flashed up and she hit him across his face. An ugly red weal

sprang up on his flabby cheek. He gave a whimpering grunt, but he still didn’t move.

As her arm flashed up again I grabbed her wrist and snatched the cosh out of her hand. The

effort cost me a stab of pain through the head and a hard-stinging slap across the face from

Miss Spitfire. She tried to get the cosh from me, but I held on to her wrists and yelled: “Beat

it, you two lugs! Beat it before she knocks the hell out of you! “

Holding her was like holding an angry tigress. She was surprisingly strong. As I wrestled

with her MacGraw and Hartsell charged out of the room as if the devil was after them. They

fell down the steps in their hurry to get away. When I heard their car start up I released her

wrists and stepped away.

“Take it easy,” I said, panting with my exertions. “They’ve gone now.”

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For a moment she stood gasping, her face set and her eyes blazing; a lovely thing of fury,

and then the anger went and her eyes lost their explosive quality and she suddenly threw back

her head and laughed.

“Well, we certainly scared the daylights out of those two rats, didn’t we?” she said, and

flopped limply on the settee. “Give me a drink and have one yourself. You certainly look as if

you need one.”

As I reached for the bottle I said, looking at her intently, “The name, of course, is Maureen

Crosby?”

“You’ve guessed it.” She rubbed her wrists, making a comical grimace. “You’ve hurt me,

you brute!”

“Sorry,” I said, and meant it.

“Lucky I looked in. If I hadn’t they would have had your hide by now.”

“So they would,” I said, pouring four fingers of Scotch into a glass. My hand was very

unsteady and some of the whisky splashed on to the carpet. I handed her the glass, and began

to fix myself a drink. “Whiterock or water?”

“In its bare skin,” she returned, holding the glass up to the light. “I don’t believe in mixing

business with pleasure or water with Scotch. Do you?”

“It depends on the business and the Scotch,” I said, and sat down. My legs felt as if the shin

bones had been removed. “So you are Maureen Crosby. Well, well, quite the last person I

expected to call on me.”

I thought you would be surprised.” There was a mocking expression in the dark eyes and

the smile was calculated.

“How’s the drug cure going?” I asked, watching her. “I’ve always heard a dopie should lay

off liquor.”

She continued to smile, but her eyes were not amused.

“You shouldn’t believe all you hear.”

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I drank some of the whisky. It was very strong. I shuddered and put the glass on the table.

“I don’t. I hope you don’t either.”

We sat for a long moment, looking at each other. She had the knack of making her face

expressionless without losing her loveliness which was quite an achievement.

“Don’t let’s get complicated. I’m here to talk to you. You’re making a lot of trouble. Isn’t it

time you took your little spade and dug in someone else’s graveyard?”

I made believe to think this over.

“Are you just asking or is this a proposition?” I said finally.

Her mouth tightened and the smile went away.

“Can you be bought? I was told you were one of those clean, simple, non-grafting

characters. I was particularly advised not to offer you money.”

I reached for a cigarette.

“I thought we had agreed we didn’t believe all we heard,” I said, leaning forward to offer

the cigarette. She took it, so I had to reach for another. Lighting hers caused me another stab

of pain in the head and didn’t improve my temper.

“It could be a proposition,” she said, leaning back and blowing smoke at the ceiling. “How

much?”

“What are you trying to buy?”

She studied the cigarette as if she hadn’t seen one before, said, without looking at me, “I

don’t want trouble. You’re making trouble. I might pay you to stop.”

“What’s it worth?”

She looked at me then.

“You know you’re a big disappointment to me. You’re just like any of the other slimy little

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blackmailers.”

“You’d know about them, of course.”

“Yes; I know all about them. And when I tell you what I think it’s worth I suppose you will

laugh the way they always laugh and raise the ante. So you will tell me what it’s worth to you

and give me the chance to laugh.”

I suddenly didn’t want to go on with this. Maybe my head was aching too badly; maybe,

even, I found her so attractive I didn’t want her to think me a heel.

“All right, let’s skip it,” I said. “I was kidding. I can’t be bought. Maybe I could be

persuaded. What makes you think I’m stirring up trouble? State your case. If it’s any good I

might take my spade and go dig elsewhere.”

She regarded me for perhaps ten seconds, thoughtfully, silently and a little doubtfully.