The driver’s face brightened. “That’s an idea, boss,” he said. “Can you unwrap ’em?”
Phillips looked over at Franklin. “For Gawd’s sake, did you hear that?” he said. “This gaul wants to see some Paris pictures.”
The driver looked abashed. “Don’t get me wrong, boss,” he pleaded. “If you don’t think I oughtta look, I won’t.”
Phillips was pulling open drawers quickly, peering inside and hastily shutting them. “Real hot numbers don’t seem to die these days,” he said regretfully. “All old dames here.” He paused and pulled a drawer open further. “Say, this looks better. Hi, Franky, come an’ look at this.”
Franky got up slowly and came over, impelled by irresistible curiosity. They all stood looking down at the girl lying in the drawer. She had flame−coloured hair, that showed a darker brown at the roots. Her thin pinched face wore a tragic look of one who has missed the good things in life. Her lips were gentle in death, in spite of the almost pathetic smudge of the lipstick that smeared her chin.
Phillips pulled off the sheet that covered her.
The driver said, “Oh, boy!” and trod on Franklin’s toes to get nearer.
She was slender, but firmly rounded. Her body was as perfect as the three men had ever seen.
Franklin took the sheet from Phillips and made to cover her again, but Phillips stopped him. “Let her lie,” he said, “she does somethin’ to me. By God! She’s nice, ain’t she?”
The driver said wistfully, “It’d take a heapa jack to play around a dame like that.”