Free Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll by John Farris Page A

soft dark-red hair with streaks in it like hot flame, high cheekbones, cozy blue eyes. She had a near-perfect figure and the clothing she liked made you instantly familiar with every good line of it. Her breasts were almost outsized. She stood with one hand on a stuck-out hip, the other on the doorframe.
    “Hello,” she said. She looked past me at the gardener. “Who’s this, Bradley?”
    “I don’t know, ma’am,” he said in his dignified voice. “He was looking for Mr. Maxine.”
    She looked at me. “Stan’s not here. He was, but he left just a few minutes ago.” She smiled. “Could I help?”
    “I don’t—”
    “Come on in anyway,” she invited, turning to let me see the profile. She stood straight, belly flattened a little too much, as if she were holding it in. I could see the rounded edge of her rib cage.
    I went past her into the house. It was very cool inside. The living room was wide and deep and shady, decorated and planned by an expert to seem as casual as a chew oftobacco. There was a patio beyond wide French doors, with gaudy lawn furniture.
    “I’m Gerry,” she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa. She was barefoot. “Are you a friend of Stan’s?”
    “Yes. Are you?”
    That got her. She laughed charmingly, a laugh that put dimples at the corners of her mouth. “I sure am,” she said.
    A sudden gash of sound startled me. It was a booming bass voice rolling out a piece of something from an opera. The singing was excellent, though loud enough to wrinkle glass. It ended as abruptly as it had begun. I looked around in bewilderment.
    “What was that?”
    Gerry shrugged. “Bradley. You saw him outside. He’s going to be an opera singer.”
    “What does he do around here?”
    “Oh, he works for Stan. He’s sort of a gardener and chauffeur, and he keeps an eye on the place. Spends most of his spare time taking singing lessons. He breaks out like that all the time. I’ve got used to it. The neighbors complain, though. The people next door moved away because their cocker spaniel went around shaking all the time and wouldn’t eat.”
    “Could you tell me where I might find Stan?” I asked her.
    She tossed her head, putting fingers to her hair. She slid a look at me I wasn’t supposed to see. It totaled me up like an adding machine.
    “I suppose he went back to the office. He’s president of Marlin Linen Supply Company. You didn’t tell me your name.”
    “His name’s Pete Mallory,” Stan Maxine said.
    Neither of us started guiltily. Maxine was standing in the doorway to the dining room looking at us. Gerry glanced at him casually.
    “I thought you were gone, Stan.”
    Stan mopped his misting dark face with a pink handkerchief. He wore a cream-colored suit, dull orange dress shirt with a black tie, and black suede shoes. His hair was tumbling on his forehead and he waved it back into place with fingers that trembled slightly.
    “I, ah, I forgot my stomach medicine, sweetie,” he said. His moist, moody eyes kept swinging back to me. There were acne scars on either cheek, and the knife scar at one corner of his mouth held his lips slightly apart and got in the way of his speech when he talked rapidly, which was most of the time. There was a congested look on his face as he suppressed a stomach rumble.
    “It’s probably upstairs,” Gerry offered, swinging one small foot briskly as she sat on the arm of the sofa.
    “Yeah,” Stan said. “Probably. Listen, honey, would you mind going into the kitchen and maybe stick the dishes in the washer while Mallory and I talk private?”
    Gerry grimaced unhappily.
    “Just for a minute or two, honey,” Stan coaxed. She picked up a pair of slip-on shoes and walked slowly toward the dining room. When she was close to Maxine she looked back at me and a smile touched one corner of her mouth. Maxine’s finger flexed, but he continued to look at her fondly. When she had shut the door to the dining room he took three big strides toward the