Mambo To Murder by Dale Clark

Author:Dale Clark [Clark, Dale]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery
Publisher: Wildside Press
Published: 2021-04-27T12:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 7

NOTHING happened. I didn’t drop the cup, didn’t even slop over into the saucer. Either my nerves were okay, or at the moment I was practically paralyzed.

“Cream? Sugar?” the blonde asked.

“No, I take it straight. Better drop in my office sometime, ah, um, got the equipment there to do the job on you right.”

“Well, doctor, it’ll be a little difficult for me to get away from the shop during your office hours.” She studied me out of green, malicious eyes. “If you don’t mind stepping into my bedroom a minute? Then we can discuss the case over our coffee, and if necessary arrange for a more thorough examination at your office.”

Vivette Lyselle gently took the cup and saucer from my benumbed fingers, smiled over her shoulder as she led the way. How many years do they pin on a man for practicing medicine without a license?

I groped along behind her, my brain in a spin. . . . I had an idea she damned well knew I wasn’t an M.D. . . . This green-eyed witch was going to have her fun with me.

Her bedroom was a something. It was a fun house of mirrors, fancy lamps, fancier French dolls. It had white satin instead of wallpaper, zebra skins for rugs, and a great big wonderful Hollywood bed damned near the size of a boxing ring.

Vivette faced me. She said in a tinkling music-box voice, “A funny thing happened last night.”

“Hmm,” I said.

“I came in late, didn’t bother to switch on the lights, and one of the mobiles had partly fallen from the ceiling.”

“Phhh,” I said.

“I walked into it in the dark and it caught me here.” Her hands loosened the frou from her throat. She opened the front of her peignoir and showed the bruises where the red-headed mugger had clamped on his throttle-hold.

“Hmm, pah. You’re lucky you didn’t get your neck broken. Those mobiles play rough,” I slung at her.

“It’s really painful and tender to the touch,” and she tipped up her face close to mine. “Doctor, why don’t you kiss it and make it well?”

And suddenly I had my arms full of frou-frou and chichi, like hugging a perfumed cloud with a woman’s bare throat arching up out under my lips. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted and waiting.

My eyes stayed open. And in one of those mirrors I saw her hand snaking out from under my coat clutching a brown blob of something.

“You damn hell-cat!”

She raked her nails at my face, and the cloud dissolved into froth in my hands as she twisted out of the peignoir. She dived for the bed, rolled over twice, and whipped up holding my wallet flapped open in her hands.

“Doctor, hell . . . says here the name’s Moran, a private detective.”

I stared at the blonde-haloed silhouette she made, pale ivory flesh in white bra and panties, in front of a window so bright the sunlight seared my eyes. I couldn’t see her expression, just a kind of blurred, fuzzy smile on her face.

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