developed sudden interest in the Sunday comic section.
“Now, Miss Jordan — ” John Henry edged away from the white knit hip.
“Call me Faye.”
“Now, Miss Faye — ”
“Faye! With an ‘e’ like in ‘easy.’”
“Now, Faye, with — ”
“You’re improving — Johnny.”
“Now — ” said John Henry and forgot what it was. The girl had slid along the yellow tile so that her bare knee nudged his leg. He couldn’t retreat any farther without falling into the pool or actually getting up.
John Henry started to give the whole thing up when he saw the card tucked into the waistband of her swim suit. Too large for a calling card, it evidently had some engraved letters on the side that was against her flesh. At least, the engraving had dented through onto the blank side in places. What was she doing carrying the card around in her bathing suit?
“Let’s talk,” he suggested, torn between retreat and curiosity.
“Intimately,” Faye amended. “You start.”
“No — let’s talk about you.”
“All right. Do you know why I think you’re cute?”
“No — ”
“It’s because you give a virile impression, as though you could — ”
“I mean — no, let’s you tell me about yourself.” The fingers with which John Henry intended to steal the card from between her bathing suit and her stomach were turning hot and cold alternately. He fiddled casually with a belt loop on his trousers, wishing his hand wouldn’t perspire so.
Faye put her crimson lower lip out. ‘Oh, you didn’t want to see me at all! You’re just trying to pump me, squeeze me dry and throw me away. If you don’t build me up, I’ll go talk to that cute boy in the pool.”
She turned her head toward the white-haired swimmer for a second and John Henry saw his chance. He streaked his hand for the mysterious card. And she turned back.
“Oh, don’t!” he murmured desperately and dropped his hand. Faye stopped pouting and her small full mouth curved into a wise smile. “I wouldn’t think of it now,” she giggled.
John Henry had dropped his unsuccessful hand on something warm and firm; he suddenly realized it was her bare leg. He drew back his fingers as from a hot iron. Faye put her face up close and whispered, “Are you a policeman?”
He didn’t see any connection immediately. “Is that the way — ”
“I’ll bet you think I had something to do with the murder.”
“What murder?” He had her now. John Henry breathed deeply, trying to discern the odor of spilled peppermint. All he smelled was overpowering jasmine which made him sneeze.
“You know what murder, Johnny. It was in the paper this morning.”
“Oh.” He’d forgotten about the newspapers.
“Do you think I did?”
“Well, did you?”
Faye Jordan shook her black braids disconsolately. “I wish I had. Nobody ever thinks I’m criminal. It’s not exciting. Nothing’s exciting.” Her eyes strayed down to the end of the pool where the athletic man was resting, his brown arms flattened across the tile, the bulk of his body still submerged.
John Henry considered the engraved card again and was baffled. It had slipped down inside her white knit trunks. He said suddenly, “Why did you insist on changing cottages with us, Faye?”
Her wide-eyed stare was innocent. Conover sought in vain for deception behind the purple eyes. “I didn’t, Johnny.”
John Henry pounced. “Mr. Gayner said you did.”
Faye rubbed the back of her fist against her chin reproachfully. “You don’t trust me.” Her generous lip trembled.
“Sure, I trust you, Faye. We — no, I just wondered — and then Gayner said — ”
“Johnny,” she crooned throatily, “I don’t care what cottage I have. I can sleep anywhere. But that Mr. Gayner insisted that I move to Cottage 15.”
“Oh-ho!” John Henry said. He heard a sniff from the direction of her turned-up nose, so he patted her shoulder paternally. “That’s okay. I believe you, Faye.”
She