March Violets by Philip Kerr Page B

feasting my eyes on what I had never dreamed of possessing.
    We kept the light on, so that finally I had a perfect view of myself as I plugged into the crisp fluff between her legs. And afterwards she lay on top of me, breathing like a sleepy but contented dog, stroking my chest almost as if she was in awe of me.
    â€˜My, but you’re a well-built man.’
    â€˜Mother was a blacksmith,’ I said. ‘She used to hammer a nail into a horse’s shoe with the flat of her hand. I get my build from her.’ She giggled.
    â€˜You don’t say much, but when you do you like to joke, don’t you?’
    â€˜There are an awful lot of dead people in Germany looking very serious.’
    â€˜And so very cynical. Why is that?’
    â€˜I used to be a priest.’
    She fingered the small scar on my forehead where a piece of shrapnel had creased me. ‘How did you get this?’
    â€˜After church on Sundays I’d box with the choirboys in the sacristy. You like boxing?’ I remembered the photograph of Schmelling on the piano.
    â€˜I adore boxing,’ she said. ‘I love violent, physical men. I love going to the Busch Circus and watching them train before a big fight, just to see if they defend or attack, how they jab, if they’ve got guts.’
    â€˜Just like one of those noblewomen in ancient Rome,’ I said, ‘checking up on her gladiators to see if they’re going to win before she puts a bet on.’
    â€˜But of course. I like winners. Now you . . .’
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜I’d say you could take a good punch. Maybe take quite a few. You strike me as the durable, patient sort. Methodical. Prepared to soak up more than a little punishment. That makes you dangerous.’
    â€˜And you?’ She bounced excitedly on my chest, her breasts wobbling engagingly, although, for the moment at least, I had no more appetite for her body.
    â€˜Oh, yes, yes,’ she cried excitedly. ‘What sort of fighter am I?’
    I looked at her from the corner of one eye. ‘I think you would dance around a man and let him expend quite a bit of energy before coming back at him with one good punch to win on a knock-out. A win on points would be no sort of contest for you. You always like to put them down on the canvas. There’s just one thing that puzzles me about this bout.’
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜What makes you think I’d take a dive?’
    She sat up in bed. ‘I don’t understand.’
    â€˜Sure you do.’ Now that I’d had her it was easy enough to say. ‘You think your husband hired me to spy on you, isn’t that right? You don’t believe I’m investigating the fire at all. That’s why you’ve been planning this little tryst all evening, and now I imagine I’m supposed to play the poodle, so that when you ask me to lay off I’ll do just what you say, otherwise I might not get any more treats. Well, you’ve been wasting your time. Like I said, I don’t do divorce work.’
    She sighed and covered her breasts with her arms. ‘You certainly can pick your moments, Herr Sniffer Dog,’ she said.
    â€˜It’s true, isn’t it?’
    She sprang out of bed and I knew that I was watching the whole of her body, as naked as a pin without a hat, for the last time; from here on in I would have to go to the cinema to catch those tantalizing glimpses of it, like all the other fellows. She went over to the cupboard and snatched a gown from a hanger. From the pocket she produced a packet of cigarettes. She lit one and smoked it angrily, with one arm folded across her chest.
    â€˜I could have offered you money,’ she said. ‘But instead I gave you myself.’ She took another nervous puff, hardly inhaling it at all. ‘How much do you want?’
    Exasperated, I slapped my naked thigh, and said: ‘Shit, you’re not listening, spoon-ears. I told you. I