The Devil To Pay Read Online Free PDF Page B

by crying in corners. But whenever her father bustled into view she said something gay about their new furnished apartment at the La Salle which Walter, who had taken rooms there, had recommended. How thrilling it was going to be living there! Yes, agreed Rhys, and different, too. Yes, said Val—that ducky little five-room place—hotel service—built-in radio—even a really fair print or two on the walls. … And all the while little frozen fingers crawled down her back.
    She found Pink in the dismantled gymnasium, sweating powerfully over a litter of golf-bags, skis, Indian clubs, and other sporting paraphernalia. “Oh, Pink,” she wailed, “is the La Salle really so awful?”
    “It’s all right,” said Pink. “Anything you want, you ask Mibs.”
    “Who’s Mibs?”
    “Mibs Austin. Girl-friend of mine.”
    “Why, Pincus!”
    Pink blushed. “She’s the telephone operator there. She’ll take care of you. … Just one of ’em,” he said.
    “I’m sure she’s sweet. … After all,” said Val absently, “Walter does live there.”
    “And me,” said Pink, wrapping a pair of skis. “I sort of rented me a ’phone booth there, too.”
    “Pink, you didn’t!”
    “I got to live somewhere, don’t I?”
    “You darling! ”
    “Anyway, who’s going to cook? You can’t. And all Rhys can make is Spanish omelet.”
    “But, Pink—”
    “Besides, he needs his exercises. You can’t give him his rubdown, either.”
    “But, Pink,” said Val, troubled, “you know that now—we weren’t figuring on extra expenses—”
    “Who said anything about pay?” growled Pink. “Get out of here, squirt, and let me work.”
    “But how are you going to—I mean, have you any plans?”
    Pink sighed. “Once I was going to start a health farm and make me some real dough out of these smart guys that run to rubber tires around the middle, but now—”
    “Oh, Pink, I’m so sorry about your losing all your money!”
    “I got my connections, don’t worry. I can always go back to being an expert in the movies—double for some punk with a pretty pan who don’t know how to hold a club but’s supposed to be champ golfer of the world—that kind of hooey.”
    “Pink,” said Val, “do you mind if I kiss you?”
    Pink said gruffly: “Keep ’em for Little Boy Blue; he has ’em with cream. Val, scram!” But his nutbrown face reddened.
    Val smiled a little mistily. “You’re such a fraud, Pincus darling.” And she kissed him without further opposition.
     
    The auctioneer cleared his throat. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a few announcements before the sale commences. As you know, this is not a forced sale. So the owner, Mr. Rhys Jardin, has exercised his privilege of making last-minute withdrawals. If you will kindly note these changes in your catalogue…”
    Val, sitting beside her father in the front row of chairs, felt him tremble; she did not dare look at his face. She tried to preserve an air of “Who cares?”, but she knew the attempt was a miserable failure.
    “… the sixty-foot yacht Valerie has been withdrawn from the auction, having been disposed of in a private sale yesterday. …”
    Walter was here—sitting in the rear, the coward! The least he might have done was say hello—or isn’t it a lovely day for an execution—or something like that. But Walter was acting very strangely. He hadn’t even glanced at her before the people took seats, and he was so pale—
    “… your number one-two-six, a collection of four hundred and twenty-two assorted sporting prints. Also your number one-five-two, a collection of small arms. Also your number one-five-three, a collection of medieval arrowheads. Due to the great interest in the sporting-print collection, Mr. Jardin wishes me to announce that it has been donated to the Los Angeles public library association.”
    There was a little splatter of applause, which quickly died when some one hissed. Val felt like hiding her head. A man’s voice behind