“Laur, I can’t. It’s got... nothing to do with anything. Just some cockeyed thing of my own.”
Laurel seated herself on the bed again. He was very long, and broad, and brown and muscular and healthy-looking. She took a Dunhill from her coat pocket and lit it with shaky fingers. But when she spoke, she sounded calm. “There are too many mysteries around here, Chesty. I know there’s one about you, and where you’re concerned...”
His eyes opened.
“No, Mac, stay there. I’m not entirely a fool. There’s something behind this tree house and all this learned bratwurst about the end of civilization, and it’s not the hydrogen bomb. Are you just lazy? Or is it a new thrill for some of your studio girls ― the ones who want life with a little extra something they can’t get in a motel?” He flushed, but his mouth continued sullen. “All right, we’ll let that go. Now about this love business.”
She put her hand in his curly hair, gripping. He looked up at her thoroughly startled. She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
“That’s for thanks. You’re such a beautiful man, Mac... you see, a girl has her secrets, too― No! Mac, no. If we ever get together, it’s got to be in a clean house. On the ground. Anyway, I have no time for love now.”
“No time!”
“Darling, something’s happening, and it’s ugly. There’s never been any ugliness in my life before... that I can remember, that is. And he was so wonderful to me. The only way I can pay him back is by finding whoever murdered him and seeing him die. How stupid does that sound? And maybe I’m kind of bloodthirsty myself. But it’s all in the world I’m interested in right now. If the law gets him, fine. But if...”
“For God’s sake!” Crowe scrambled to his feet, his face bilious. A short-nosed little automatic had materialized in Laurel’s hand and it was pointing absently at his navel.
“If they don’t, I’ll find him myself. And when I do, Mac, I’ll shoot him as dead as that dog. If they send me to the gas chamber for it.”