Lay Her Among The Lilies

“Nurse Gurney.”

“Then I’d like to see Nurse Gurney,” I told him, and leaned some of my weight on the door.

No exercise, too much sleep, cigarettes and the run of the cellar had sapped whatever iron

he had had in his muscles. He gave way before my pressure like a sapling tree before a

bulldozer.

I found myself in an over-large hall, facing a broad flight of stairs which led in a wide, half-circular sweep to the upper rooms. On the stairs, halfway up, was a white-clad figure: a

nurse.

“All right, Benskin,” she said. “I’ll see to it.”

The tall, lean bird seemed relieved to go. He gave me a brief, puzzled stare, and then cat-footed across the hall, along a passage and through a baize-covered door.

The nurse came slowly down the stairs as if she knew she was good to look at, and liked

you to look at her. I was looking all right. She was a nurse right out of a musical comedy; the

kind of nurse who sends your temperature chart haywire every time you see her. A blonde,

her lips scarlet, her eyes blue-shaded: a very nifty number: a symphony of curves and

sensuality; as exciting and as alive and as hot as the flame of an acetylene torch. If ever she

had to nurse me I would be bed-ridden for the rest of my days.

By now she was within reaching distance, and I had to make a conscious effort not to reach.

I could tell by the expression in her eyes that she was aware of the impression she was

making on me, and I had an idea I interested her as much as she interested me. A long,

tapering finger pushed up a stray curl under the nurse’s cap. A carefully plucked eyebrow

climbed an inch. The red painted mouth curved into a smile. Behind the mascara the green-blue eyes were alert and hopeful.

“I was hoping to see Miss Crosby,” I said. “I hear she’s not well.”

“She isn’t. I’m afraid she isn’t even well enough to receive visitors.” She had a deep,

contralto voice that vibrated my vertebrae.

“That’s too bad,” I said, and took a swift look at her legs. Betty Grable’s might have been

better, but there couldn’t have been much in it. “I’ve only just hit town. I’m an old friend of

hers. I had no idea she was ill.”

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LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

“She hasn’t been well for some months.”

I had the impression that as a topic of conversation Maureen Crosby’s illness wasn’t Nurse

Gurney’s idea of fun. It was just an impression. I could have been wrong, but I didn’t think

so.

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Well, not serious. She needs plenty of rest and quiet.”

If she had had any encouragement this would have been her cue for a yawn.

“Well, it’s quiet enough here,” I said, and smiled. “Quiet for you, too, I guess?”

That was all she needed. You could see her getting ready to unpin her hair.

“Quiet? I’d as soon be buried in Tutankhamen’s tomb,” she exclaimed, and then

remembering she was supposed to be a nurse in the best Florence Nightingale tradition, had

the grace to blush. “But I guess I shouldn’t have said that, should I? It isn’t very refined.”

“You don’t have to be refined with mc,” I assured her. “I’m just an easygoing guy who

goes even better on a double Scotch and water.”

“Well, that’s nice.” Her eyes asked a question, and mine gave her the answer. She giggled

suddenly. “If you have nothing better to do …”

“As an old pal of mine says, ‘What is there better to do?’”

The plucked eyebrow lifted.

“I think I could tell him if he really wanted to know.”

“You tell me instead.”

“I might, one of these days. If you would really like a drink, come on in. I know where the

Scotch is hidden.”

I followed her into a large room which led off the hall. She rolled a little with each step,

and had weight and control in her hips. They moved under the prim-looking white dress the

way a baseball flighted with finger-spin moves. I could have walked behind her all day

15

LAY HER AMONG THE LILIES

watching that action.

“Sit down,” she said, waving to an eight-foot settee. “I’ll fix you a drink.”

“Fine,” I said, lowering myself down on the cushion-covered springs. “But on one

condition. I never drink alone. I’m very particular about that.”

“So am I,” she said.

I watched her locate a bottle of Johnny Walker, two pint tumblers and a bottle of Whiterock

from the recess in a Jacobean Court cupboard.

“We could have ice, but it’ll mean asking Benskin, and I guess we can do without Benskin

right now, don’t you?” she said, looking at me from under eyelashes that were like a row of

spiked railings.

“Never mind the ice,” I said, “and be careful of the Whiterock. That stuff can ruin good

whisky.”

She poured three inches of Scotch into both glasses and added a teaspoonful of Whiterock

to each.

“That look about right to you?”

“That looks fine,” I said, reaching out a willing hand. “Maybe I’d better introduce myself.

I’m Vic Malloy. Just plain Vic to my friends, and all good-looking blondes are my friends.”

She sat down, not bothering to adjust her skirts. She had nice knees.

“You’re the first caller we have had in five months,” she said. “I was beginning to think

there was a jinx on this place.”