Curves Can Kill

by Larry Kent

  “Larry, it’s your play,” Lee said.

  “Hm?”

  “I just trumped your partner’s lead.”

  I played a card. Lee beamed. Rita slammed down a card and Lee gave a triumphant whoop.

  “I hope your brought your check book, Larry,” Lee said.

  “Capitalist,” I said.

  Lee leaned back and laughed.

  Finally we finished the rubber. I settled with Lee after we said goodnight to the girls. Lee and I had a nightcap and went to bed. My room adjoined Vicki’s. Our rooms were the two Lee had added to the cabin. His room was at the back, Rita’s was on the front. I could hear Vicki move around in her room as I started to take off my things. I was down to my trousers when I thought I heard a noise of some kind outside the cabin, near Lee’s room. I threw the shirt back on, opened the window as quietly as possible, climbed out. I had a .32 revolver in my pocket. I usually use a .45 automatic, but a .45 is too bulky to carry except in a shoulder harness. Hence the .32. I pulled it out as I walked around the cabin. There was a full moon, so I tried to stay in the shadows. My heart jumped as I reached the end of the cabin and saw someone move into the trees, about a hundred feet away. It was just a quick look, hardly enough for identification. All I knew was that it was a man, or a woman wearing slacks. Rita had been wearing slacks. I remembered the car. Maybe a meeting was planned and the driver had been checking to see how far he had to come. Well, if there was a meeting I wanted to hear what was said. So I waited for a slow count of ten before crossing the moonlit clearing. Once inside the trees. I stood and listened, heard what could have been the snap of a twig somewhere ahead, continued on.

  I stopped every now and then to listen, not wanting to walk in on a conference and get my head blown off. A few times I heard movement through brush and over the leafy surface of the woods. It seemed that my quarry wasn’t moving very fast, though it occurred to me that what I was hearing might be the sounds made by a prowling animal. Bears often get about at night, and bobcats are not unknown in New Hampshire. Raccoons can make a hell of a racket at times, too.

  I was at the edge of the woods near the clearing behind the cabin in about ten minutes. The lights were on in the kitchen. I saw Lee walk past the window, a cup in his hand. Then, a moment later, I saw Rita in the kitchen. Damn! Whatever she’d been doing, it was finished.

  I returned to the cabin. Rita and Lee were having tea or cocoa or something. He had probably heard her moving around, left his room. Rita, of course, would have told him she decided to have something to drink before going to bed. No point in going to the kitchen. She might think I saw her leave or re-enter the cabin, and it would make her doubly careful before she made another move. If only I could get into her room and look around. But this wasn’t the time—the kitchen lights went out as I went around the back of the cabin.

  I climbed through the window of my room, slid the window down, unbuttoned my shirt ... and stiffened, my heart hammering, as I heard a sound just behind me. There was someone else in the room! I reached into my pocket, felt the butt of the .32, started to slide it out of my pocket ...

  “Where have you been?” asked Vicki from the bed.

  I let go of the .32.

  “When I heard you open the window,” Vicki said, “I expected a visit. When you didn’t come. I decided to find out why.”

  “I went for a walk,” I said, turning around.

  Vicki was sitting up on the bed. There was a click as she snapped on the bed lamp She had that look in her eyes.

  “How do you like my nightie?” she asked.

  “You must have bought it where you picked up the flesh-colored swimsuit,” I said.

  She gave a little laugh. I put a finger to my lips to shoosh her.

  “Afraid they might hear?” she said teasingly. “I’m not. Anyhow, they both know how it is between us.”

  I took off my shirt. “Rita does, that’s for sure.”

  “You don’t think for a minute that she hasn’t told him I went skinny-dipping in the lake, do you? Don’t let that ‘Mr. Howard’ routine of hers fool you, Larry. She’s got ideas about the guy, and she knows he’s interested. I don’t say they’re as ... friendly as we are, but that’s because she doesn’t have my low boiling point. Hers is about the same as Lee’s, I would say. But we’re different, aren’t we?”

  “I thought you and Rita were good friends,” I said.

  “But we are!”

  “You don’t sound like it.”

  “Because I come right out and say Rita’s a square? I’ve told her that a thousand times. And she keeps telling me I’m a wanton little piece of baggage and I’ll never land a good husband unless I mend my ways. It’s a regular routine we have. She tries to reform me, and I tell her how much fun she’s missing. We enjoy it. By the way, darling, it’s getting late. Don’t you think you ought to get some sleep?”

  She posed in an exaggerated position. She was shameless. And breathtakingly beautiful.

  “You belong in a harem,” I said.

  She looked shocked. “A harem! And share one man with twenty or thirty other wanton little pieces of baggage! Not on your life!”

  She changed her pose. The way she looked, a suit of armor would have got excited. I went to her.

  Chapter 7 ... a bullet between friends ...

  Lee and I smoked cigarettes over coffee after breakfast. Rita was typing away in her room; the click-clacking of the keys came right through the walls. Vicki was powdering her nose somewhere.

  “When are you going to the post office to mail the article?” I asked.

  “Well, Rita should be finished at about ten,” Lee said. “I’ll leave right after that.”

  “With Rita?”

  “No. It s a pretty rough drive.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “Four or five hours.”

  “I see. By the way, I heard somebody moving around after we went to bed last night.”

  “That was Rita and me, Larry. I heard her out here, so I joined her. We had a cup of cocoa. I’m glad we did. I slept like a baby. Hope we didn’t keep you awake.”

  Did I see a smile lurking behind his expression of concern? “No,” I said. “I slept pretty good myself.”

  “Evidently Vicki did, too. She looks absolutely radiant this morning.” Lee winked at me. “Could it be the company? Rita says Vicki’s taken a shine to you.” He nudged me with an elbow, chuckled. “I’ll never forget that blonde showgirl you smuggled into the fraternity house. Not that I’m comparing Vicki with her, mind you.”

  He didn’t have the vaguest idea that Vicki and I were “fraternizing”, I decided.

  “How about some fishing this afternoon?” Lee asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Good. I’m anxious to wet a line now that my work is done. I’ll pick up some live bait in town. Shiners. I tossed in fifty wall-eyed pike the year before last. Maybe we’ll hook into one of them. They should be at least six pounds by now.”

  “Okay by me.”

  Vicki emerged from her room. She did look radiant. We had some more coffee, then we did the dishes and just lounged around until Rita came from her room carrying a manuscript-sized envelope. We all left the cabin to see Lee off.

  I asked Rita what she’d like to do. She said she had some letters to type, which would keep her busy for about four hours. She thought she might have a nap before getting back to work; she hadn’t slept too well.

  “But I’m sure you two can amuse yourselves without my help,” she said, straight-faced. “Will you excuse me?”

  Vicki and I went to the billiard room.

  “Does that empty table remind you of anything?” she asked.

  “I give up. What?”

  “A bed.”

  “I do give up!”

  “That’s what I like, Larry, a submissive man.”

  She took my hand and led me to the arena.

  A few hours later, I looked at Vicki’s face. She slept with a smile on her l
ips. I tip-toed out, lit a cigarette in the living room. Rita’s typewriter was click-clacking. Rat-a-tat-tat-tit-tit-tat-tok-DING! Carriage over like a supersonic zipper. Rat-tat-tat-tok-tit-tit etcetera. There was a rhythm to it that was almost hypnotic. I sat down, very nearly went to sleep. She was a tiger on that typewriter. Never stopped to light a cigarette or think or—I got to my feet. If she was writing letters, there should be a pause every now and then for the letter to be taken from the machine. There was none. I walked to the door of Rita’s room, bent to look through the keyhole. All I saw was her bed, and a window with the shades drawn. I rapped on the door. The typing continued. I rapped harder. More typing. I got out my skeleton keys. The lock was easy. I opened the door. No Rita. But there was a tape-recorder beside the covered typewriter on her desk. The volume was on full. One spool turned. Its opposite number was a tape cartridge. The tape that went out was returned to the main spool. It was a loop system. Result: continuous recording. It’s used in advertising on trucks, outside theatres, even from helicopters.

  I left the cabin, looked around, found a few fresh footprints between the cabin and the lake. In the softer earth near the lake were some better prints. Sandals. Rita had been wearing sandals, I remembered. I walked along the lake, following the trail. Suddenly there were no more prints. I backtracked, saw that Rita had moved at an angle away from the lake. But the ground was hard now; it would have taken the talents of an Australian aboriginal black tracker to find some signs. I walked around aimlessly. I had just about given up when I saw a spiral of smoke rising from beneath hassock grass. Under the grass I found the stump of a cigarette. I squeezed out the end. The cigarette butt was flattened; apparently it had been stepped on, but not hard enough. It had a plain end. There was no sign of lipstick. The brand name had been at the other end, unless it was an exclusive cigarette made from a special blend of tobaccos. I placed the butt in a handkerchief, returned to the cabin.

  Rita’s typewriter was still click-clacking. I knocked on her door. The typing stopped.

  “Yes?” Rita said.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “The door’s not locked.”

  I opened the door. She was behind the typewriter. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the desk. A filter-tip. There was a pack of L & M’s beside the ashtray.

  “I’m going to make a cup of coffee,” I said. “Thought you might like one.”

  She smiled. “That’s very nice of you, Larry. I would. Milk and one spoonful of sugar, thank you.”

  “Coming up.”

  I went to the kitchen, put on the kettle. I was sure that Rita had been talking to someone near the lake, someone who smoked cigarettes that didn’t have filter tips. Wait a minute. I( could have been an L & M. I’m a Camel smoker. When I have to smoke a filter-tip I take off the filter and stick the other end in my mouth; that way, the brand name gets burned off. So maybe Rita gave her friend an L & M and he was a Camel or Lucky smoker and got rid of the filter. Well, it didn’t really matter. What did matter was that cigarette—the evidence that Rita had seen someone. And the tape machine was evidence that she wanted me to think she was still in the cabin.

  The kettle was boiling; its urgent whistling pierced my thoughts. I poured the water into two cups, made Nescafe, added milk and sugar, carried the two cups into Rita’s room. She made room for her cup on the desk. I set it down, then I placed my cup on the desk, took out my Camels, offered her one.

  “No, thank you, Larry. I prefer these.”

  I lit her L & M with my Ronson, lit my Camel.

  “How do you like working for Lee?”

  “I enjoy it. He’s a very talented writer. And it’s a change of pace after my last job.”

  “Oh?”

  She had another sip of coffee. “I was private secretary to a scientist.” She puffed on her cigarette, looked away. “You may have heard of him. Professor Vincent Galek.”

  “Galek? Not the fellow who killed himself at Yale?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess that must have been quite a shock to you.”

  “It was. A great shock.”

  She was playing it just right. There would be no slip-ups from this girl. It was as though she knew what to expect from me and had her responses lined up and ready. I said: “I guess it’s time for a change of subject.”

  Her smile was shaded with gratitude. She said, “You and Vicki seem to be getting along very well together.”

  “I’m glad you brought that up, Rita. I’ve been meaning to thank you for inviting Vicki to come along. It’s almost as though you set out to make sure I’d—er—have a good time.”

  Rita laughed lightly. “Well, I’m happy it has turned out that way.”

  “Oh, Larrrr-y!” It was Vicki, calling me from outside the cabin.

  “I think she’s down by the lake,” Rita said.

  “Larrrr-y! Where are you?”

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Of course. Have fun, Larry.”

  Rita’s typewriter resumed its click-clacking the moment I closed her door behind me. Vicki stood near the jetty, her back to me. She cupped her hands to her face and called out my name a few more times.

  “Here I am,” I announced.

  She turned, surprised. “But I thought—”

  “Yes?”

  “It must have been my imagination. But I could have sworn I saw you standing ’way over there, beneath that tree near the shore. It was just as I left the cabin. But when I looked again, no one was there. I thought you may have gone into the woods.”

  “Optical illusion,” I said. “I was with Rita.”

  One eyebrow lifted. “Oh you were, were you?”

  “I got her a cup of coffee. I had just about enough strength to carry the cup into her room.”

  Vicki’s laughter trilled across the lake. Then she hooked an arm under mine and said, “I recommend a nice, restful day, darling.”

  We went to the jetty, took off our shoes, sat down and dangled our feet in the cool water. A disturbed crayfish left a patch of sand and dived under a submerged log. Small sunfish flashed their bright sides as they fled.

  “It was funny,” Vicki said.

  “What was?”

  “I was sure I saw a man under that tree.”

  “Did the apparition look like me?”

  “Well, I thought it was you. Who else could it have been?” Who else indeed?

  As the sun climbed higher, it got warmer. I stripped off my shirt and lay back on the jetty.

  “That’s it,” Vicki said soothingly. “Have a nice rest, darling. Gather your strength ...”

  She stroked my brow. The sun felt good on my body. I closed my eyes. Soon I was asleep. I awakened to the sound of splashing in the water. Vicki’s things were on the jetty—all of them. I got to my feet.

  “Come on in, sleepy-head,” Vicki said. “The water’s beautiful.”

  I stripped to my shorts and dived from the end of the jetty, swam toward Vicki, who was about fifty feet out. Before I reached her, she went under. Her cute bottom flashed in the sunlight. Her feet kicked. I followed her down. She was like a water sprite. Her beautiful body twisted, turned, standing out vividly against the dark green of the weedy bottom. Yes: diverting was the word. We surfaced together, out of breath.

  Suddenly something slapped viciously at the surface of the water between us. I looked in the direction of the tree Vicki had pointed out, saw a patch of white against the darkness of blueberry bushes. I was about to tell Vicki to dive again when the patch of white disappeared.

  “What on earth was that?” Vicki asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Something just hit the water. It was like a stone, or—”

  Or, I thought, a bullet from a silenced gun. “We must have scared a fish,” I said. “Let’s go in.”

  We swam to the jetty, put on our clothes while wet.

  “That was no fish,” Vicki said.

  “Hm?”

  “Something hit the
water hard, Larry, really hard.”

  “It had to be a fish, honey.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  I laughed. “Well, if it wasn’t a fish, what was it?”

  “It was more like—” She hesitated. “…like a bullet.”

  “A bullet!” I laughed some more. “What happened to the sound of the shot?”

  “That’s right,” she said, “we didn’t hear a shot, did we?” But she shivered.

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing her arm. “Get on some dry clothes before you catch a cold.”

  Chapter 8 ... a better target ...

  Lee got back to the cabin at mid-afternoon. He had bought a mess of live shiners in town; the minnows were in a cardboard carton.

  “Let’s get these in some fresh water,” he said. “They’ve been in the car for a couple of hours now.”

  I got an empty pail and we went down to the jetty. I filled the pail with lake water. Lee dumped in the shiners. A few were dead. He tossed the dead fish into the lake. He seemed thoughtful, puzzled.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked. Apparently he didn’t hear me. I repeated the question.

  “Wrong, Larry? Why, no. No, everything’s fine. I ... I was just thinking of something—a writing problem.”

  “Still want to go fishing?”

  “I sure do.” He brightened. “But first let’s have something to eat, eh? I’m starved.”

  “How does spaghetti and meat balls grab you? Nothing quicker than spaghetti when the sauce and meat balls are ready. Simmering on the stove right now is some sauce a la Kent.”

  Lee threw a playful left jab in the general direction of my chin, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it. “Let’s go at it, pal. Lead the way!” His exuberance fell far short of conviction. He was troubled about something. Well, maybe he’d tell me what it was about when we were alone on the lake.

  The spaghetti dinner was a success. I estimated that each of us took in at least a thousand calories in that one meal, counting the bottle of Chianti that washed it down. The meal over, Lee and I left the girls with the dishes while we rigged up our spinning rods for minnow fishing. The Chianti had loosened him up quite a bit, but I still had the feeling that he was chewing something over in his mind. As for myself, I was more than somewhat concerned about the bullet—if it was a bullet—that had slapped at the water between Vicki and me. If it was a bullet, a silencer-equipped gun had been used. There are silencers for rifles, but they’re not very effective; the bark of the rifle can still be heard, particularly at short range in a secluded place. So—if it was a bullet—a handgun had been used. Vicki and I had been more than a hundred and fifty feet from the tree—long range for a hand gun. But not long enough for comfort.