Free The Kissed Corpse by Brett Halliday

without warning.”
    I wanted to laugh. Burke has a way of saying things in deadly earnest, yet giving an impression, to one who knew him as well as I did, that he was laughing inside.
    â€œJust my idea,” Jelcoe said emphatically. He turned back into the house with a stride as nearly a strut as his thin legs and rounded shoulders could manage.
    Burke and I followed him into a large living room. Bearskin rugs were scattered on the floor, and at one end there was a huge fireplace of native stone. Rows of well-worn books filled the bookcases lining one side, and a long center table was littered with books and papers. A covered typewriter sat on a desk in one corner.
    Up above was a narrow balcony with its balustrade strewn with bright shawls and Indian rugs. A triple row of shelves held an array of what-nots which I imagined Leslie Young had brought from Mexico. There was nothing in particular to give the room an air of disarray, yet the impression was given. As if Myra Young gave little time and thought to housekeepng.
    Jelcoe wore rubber-soled shoes and had a catlike way of treading soundlessly. He reminded me of Slim Summerville in a burlesque. We followed him to a door leading onto a screened rear porch which gave onto a splendid vista across a small wooded valley. The stone gables of the magnificent Dwight mansion peeped through treetops on a small plateau beyond the valley.
    Myra Young lay outstretched on a leather-cushioned glider. She wore a man’s khaki shirt, faded riding breeches and well-worn boots. Her black hair was uncombed, her mouth sullen. Little lines ran down from the corners of it as if she spent many hours with desperately unhappy thoughts, during which her lips drooped. Her dark eyes were smouldering when she looked up from a book in her lap and saw Jelcoe standing in front of her. She didn’t seem to notice us standing slightly behind him.
    â€œI told you to go ahead with your detecting and leave me alone,” she flared.
    â€œI’m all through.” Chief Jelcoe’s voice was oily with certitude. “I believe you told me you didn’t have a pistol?”
    She tensed and then relaxed. “I did tell you that. And I haven’t.”
    â€œThen why are these hidden in your house?” Jelcoe palmed his find under her nose.
    She glanced down at the brass cylinders and shrugged disdainfully. “Hidden?”
    â€œIn a baking powder can where you didn’t think I’d find them.”
    â€œIt’s no concern of mine whether you found them or not.”
    â€œIs that so? Where’s the pistol that they fit?”
    â€œIt was Leslie’s pistol.”
    â€œA .25?” Jelcoe leaned forward and his voice was harsh. “That’s a lady’s choice … not a man’s.”
    â€œLeslie bought it for me … for my protection when I was alone here while he was traipsing off God-knows-where.” Myra Young managed to put a sneer into the words without changing her facial expression.
    â€œAh! He bought it for you? Then you did own a .25 pistol? Why didn’t you tell me that yesterday instead of denying it?”
    â€œI don’t own a pistol. I’ve never owned a pistol. Leslie bought the one those bullets are for.” She swung her legs off the cushions and sat up, seeing Burke and me behind Jelcoe. Her eyes narrowed and she said:
    â€œReinforcements, eh? Are the three of you going to try and beat a confession out of me?”
    Jelcoe waved a bony finger under her nose. “Where is that pistol?”
    â€œI don’t know.” She stood up and her lips were twisted. Her hips filled out the riding pants, and the loose shirt didn’t wholly conceal full breasts.
    â€œSomeone stole it three weeks ago. It disappeared after that Yates wench was here the last time. You might ask her where it is. She probably stole it because she was afraid I might use it on her … and I might have. Now, get the hell out of