The Dishonest Murderer Read Online Free PDF Page A

stammered rather badly. He had grown stern with himself. The sternness was evident on his young face when the face was quiet. It vanished when he looked at Celia.
    â€œY-your father’s going to miss the year,” he said, and his smile was the youngest thing about him as he looked down at Celia Kirkhill, reached out to put an arm around her shoulders. He looked over her head at Freddie Haven. “The baby’s worried,” he told her. (He said, “The bu-baby’s wh-worried.” After he had hesitated on the brink of a word he said it rapidly, clipping it.)
    Freddie said she knew. She said it wasn’t anything.
    â€œOf course not,” Curtis Grainger said. “I’ve been telling Ce. As my father says, the senator’s indestructible.” He grinned, disarmingly. “My father ornaments it,” he said.
    â€œI’ll bet,” Freddie said.
    The buzzer had sounded in the foyer. She was conscious she was listening; that she had frozen in listening. She heard one of the maids move to the door, heard the door open, her ears straining.
    â€œGood evening, miss,” Freddie heard Marta say, and heard a voice she knew, speaking quickly, accenting the words. “ So late,” the voice said. “Has every body—?”
    Breese Burnley came into the living room quickly. She wore a white dress, her shoulders bare, a thin, flat circle of diamonds about her lovely throat. As always, now in spite of her disappointment, Freddie Haven was conscious of surprise when she looked at Breese. It was difficult to grow accustomed to such perfection—such perfect perfection. Surely, coming out of a snowstorm, one strand of all the black, artfully arranged hair, would be at odds with art; surely one of the long eyelashes over deep blue eyes would have lost its curl.
    â€œDarlings!” Breese said. “I’m so late. So sorry.”
    Breese Burnley looked at Freddie with a perfect smile, at Celia, at Curtis Grainger. Then, almost without hesitating, only slowing a little as for a grade crossing, she looked on beyond them, her smile still perfect, still ready. It was sometimes difficult to speak to Breese Burnley, so rapidly did she pass you, go on to the person beyond.
    â€œHello, Breese,” Freddie Haven said, feeling that she was calling the words after Breese, although Breese herself had not moved. Celia said, “Hello,” and there was little expression in her young voice. Curtis Grainger said, “Hello, Bee-Bee,” making himself utter the difficult nickname, the obvious nickname, without trace of stammer. He wants, Freddie thought, to give her no hold on him, not even the hold of this tiny weakness, this meaningless vocal uncertainty.
    â€œ So late, darlings,” Breese said again, looking beyond them, still smiling at them. “And I did hurry.”
    â€œStill time for a drink, darling,” Freddie promised her. “I’ll—”
    â€œDarling,” Breese said. “As if you didn’t have enough! I do it myseps.” It was a catch word of hers, “myseps.” It stemmed from baby-hood. “Breese will do it herseps,” Fay Burnley said of her daughter, admiringly. Credit where it was due, Freddie had thought. Breese did it herseps, all right. (“B-B indeed,” Bruce had said of Breese. “A five-inch shell.”)
    Now Breese, patting Curt’s arm in passing, patting it with almost no trace of lingering, went on—went on, slim and perfect, infinitely provocative to the male, very beautiful, very certain because of her beauty. The three of them watched her go. There was a faint smile on Freddie Haven’s lips. “Our only Bee-Bee,” Curt said, not bothering, now, to enunciate with precision the difficult nickname.
    The smile was insecure on Freddie’s lips. It faded away. She was conscious that Celia was looking at her again. The girl’s eyes were demanding