The Guilty Are Afraid

She came back to stand in the doorway and she again gave me her small bewitching smile. Just to look at her got my blood running around in my veins like a car on a roller coaster.

“It’s terrific.”

I was looking at the bar. There was an assortment of bottles on the shelves. It seemed to me there was every drink you could want there.

“Are those bottles the property of your dad or are they yours?”

“They’re his. I took them from the house. Four bottles at a time.” She smiled. “He has everything. I don’t see why I shouldn’t help myself sometimes, do you?”

She went behind the bar, opened the door of a refrigerator and took out a bottle of champagne.

“Let’s celebrate,” she said. “Here, you open it. I’ll get the glasses.”

She went out of the lounge. I broke the wire around the cork of the bottle and, as she returned with two champagne glasses on a tray, I eased the cork out. I poured the wine and we touched glasses.

“What do we celebrate?” I asked.

“Our meeting,” she said, her eyes sparkling at me. “You’re the first man I’ve met who doesn’t care if I’m rich or poor.”

“Now wait a minute . . . what makes you think that?”

She drank the champagne and flourished the empty glass.

“I can tell. Now go and look at your new home and tell me what you think of it.”

I put my glass down.

“Where do I begin?”

“The bedroom is through there to the left.”

We looked at each other. There was an expression in her eyes that could have meant anything.

I went to look at the bedroom, finding I was a little short of breath. I told myself I was letting my imagination run away with me, but the feeling that she wasn’t here merely to show me the bungalow persisted.

It was a nice bedroom: a double bed, closets and a mosaic floor. The closets were full of her clothes. The room was decorated in pale green and fawn.

The bathroom was right next door and looked as if it had been built for a Cecil B. de Mille movie with a sunken bath and a shower cabinet in pale blue and black.

I returned to the lounge.

Margot was lying full length on the window seat, her head supported by two cushions. She was staring out across the expanse of moonlit sea.

“Do you like it?” she asked, without looking at me.

“Yes. Are you quite sure you want me to have it?”

“Why not? I don’t use it now.”

“You have your things here still.”

“There’s nothing I want immediately. I’m a little bored with them. Later, I’ll use them again. I like giving clothes a rest. There’s plenty of room for your things.”

I sat in a lounging chair by her. Having her alone in this bungalow gave me a feeling of acute excitement. She turned her head and looked at me, then she said, “Are you making any progress with your murder?”

“I don’t think I am, but you can’t expect me to keep my mind on my job with this sort of thing happening to me, can you?”

“What is happening to you?”

“This—the bungalow. And, of course, you. . .”

“Am I so disturbing then?”

“You could be. You are.”

She looked at me.

“But then so are you.”

There was a long pause, then she swung her long legs off the window seat.

“I’m going to have a swim. Coming?”

“Why sure.” I got up. “I’ll get my bag. It’s in the car.”

Leaving her, I went out into the darkness, got my bag out of the car and came back.

I carried the bag into the bedroom where I found her standing before the full—length mirror. She had taken off her dress and she had on now a white negligée. She was looking at herself, her hands lifting her hair off her shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said, setting down the bag. “I’ll do it for you.”

She turned slowly. There was that look in her eyes I’ve seen from time to time in the eyes of a woman who is making a proposal.

“You think I’m beautiful?”

“More than that.”

I felt myself sliding over the edge. I made a poor attempt to stop this from developing into something I could be sorry about in the morning, by saying, “Maybe we’d better skip the swim and I’ll take you home.” I was aware of feeling suddenly short of breath. “We might be sorry. . .”

She shook her head.

“Don’t say that. I’m never sorry for anything I do.” Still looking at me, she walked slowly towards me.

II

Give me a cigarette,” Margot said from out of the darkness. I reached for my pack on the bedside table, shook one out, gave it to her, then flicked my lighter alight. In the tiny flame, I could see her with her golden head resting on the pillow. There was a relaxed, peaceful expression on her face and she looked at me, our eyes meeting above the flame and she smiled.

I snapped out the flame, and all I could see of her was the faint outline of her nose as she drew on the cigarette, making the spark burn redly.