Murder in Mount Holly Read Online Free PDF Page B

over money to flocks of ragged stool-pigeons who tipped him off. He dressed fit to kill and was very well-mannered. And when the spying was over for the day he came back to his sumptuous apartment and slapped Miss Ball around. When he got tired of slapping her around he nuzzled her, and bit her on the neck, and then threw her a gold lamé dress and they went out on the town where, in the middle of their expensive dinner, they were set upon by the squat shaven-headed crooks. Her undercover agent boyfriend was a real bastard, but you couldn’t help liking the guy. In the end he ran out on Miss Ball. To do good.
    â€œHere he comes now,” said Miss Ball to Mr. Gibbon.
    Mr. Gibbon turned away and began staring at the loudspeaker of the radio.
    â€œGood morning.” It was Herbie.
    â€œYou’re early,” said Miss Ball. “You’re an early bird.”
    â€œ Shh .” Mr. Gibbon did not turn. He seemed to be shushing the radio.
    â€œI try,” Herbie whispered.
    â€œThat’s what counts.”
    â€œShut up,” said Mr. Gibbon. He still did not turn away from the radio, and the radio happened to be playing the National Anthem. As soon as he said it the anthem ended, and the effect was quite incongruous. Shut up and then the end of that glorious song.
    â€œYour first breakfast,” said Miss Ball.
    â€œYes,” said Herbie. “My first breakfast.”
    â€œDid you ever shoot a machine-gun?” Miss Ball leaned toward Herbie.
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œA machine-gun.” She chewed her toast. “Did you ever shoot one?”
    â€œNo. Why?” Herbie twitched.
    â€œJust asking, that’s all.”
    â€œDid you ever shoot a machine-gun?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBut you’d like to shoot one. Is that it?”
    â€œNo.” Miss Ball laughed. “Really no.”
    â€œYou’re interested in guns? You collect them or . . .”
    â€œGosh,” said Miss Ball, “I didn’t mean to start anything. I was just wondering out loud, just making conversation. Idle conversation I guess you’d call it.”
    â€œThat’s what I call it,” Mr. Gibbon said, turning full face upon Miss Ball.
    Mr. Gibbon’s face was a study in hardened stupidity. It had an old hungry look about it.
    Mr. Gibbon’s lips kept moving, as if he were silently cursing Miss Ball’s idle conversation or finishing his egg. This made his nose—which was pointed and hooked—move also. Mr. Gibbon was wearing a khaki tie, a gray shirt—a sort of uniform.
    â€œI’m not talking to you , ” Miss Ball said petulantly.
    â€œI’m talking to you,” said Mr. Gibbon. “I went through three wars just so’s I could sit here in peace and quiet and listen to my favorite song. And with you blathering I can’t hear myself think, let alone listen to my favorite . . .”
    â€œWe have a new boarder.”
    â€œ. . . song,” Mr. Gibbon finished. He recovered and said to Herbie, “You been in the army?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo what?”
    â€œ What? ”
    â€œI said, no what?”
    â€œNo what?” Herbie shook his head. “What what?”
    â€œ You haven’t been in no army,” Mr. Gibbon roared.
    â€œI didn’t say I had, did I?”
    â€œDidn’t have to.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWhy what?”
    â€œWhy,” Herbie caught on, “ sir ?”
    â€œ ’S’better. Sounds a hell of a lot better too. Reminds me of a fella we had in basic. A buddy of mine. He caught on. Didn’t sir nobody.”
    â€œWhat happened to him?”
    â€œHe learned how.”
    â€œHow did he learn,” said Herbie, “sir?”
    â€œThey fixed him up real good. Then he learned.”
    â€œFixed him up?” asked Miss Ball, suddenly becoming involved in the conversation.
    â€œBeat the living stuffings out of him.”
    â€œThat will be just