The Uncomplaining Corpses by Brett Halliday Page A

and his eyes became brighter.
    He knocked twice again before he heard the sound of heels clacking on the floor inside. He kept on waiting and presently the door opened inward a few inches.
    He put his shoulder against the door and went in past a woman wearing a rich red and yellow silk kimono of Oriental design who was pushed back by the opening of the door but who made no great effort to hold it against him.
    Little light filtered into the living-room past the drawn curtains of two wide south windows. The atmosphere was heavy with the sweetish odor of perfume or incense, overlaid with a peculiar scent that was irritatingly familiar to the detective but one which he couldn’t immediately name.
    He strode directly across the room and drew back one of the draperies, then lifted the window to let in fresh air.
    Mona Tabor was closing the door as he turned back from the opened window. She was a tall woman with a willowy grace which bespoke firm flesh and inward poise. She looked an assured thirty-five and there was a hint that some of her earlier years might have been tough ones. She wore no make-up on her strong regular features but there was deep natural color that tinted her smooth cheeks, and full lips took color from the flaming crimson of her robe. Coppery hair was brushed directly back from a wide, smooth forehead and the same metallic glint showed in thick eyebrows and long lashes above the brown eyes which calmly appraised this intruder.
    Shayne took off his hat before her cool appraisal and rubbed a calloused hand over his coarse red hair, waiting for her to speak.
    She didn’t say anything. Her attitude was wary though not hostile. She stood facing him with an impersonal directness which simply questioned his presence.
    Shayne grinned disarmingly after a time and said, “You’re okay, sweetheart.” He lounged down on a padded window seat and tossed his hat on a brocaded divan.
    Mona’s left shoulder lifted slightly and her lips curved in a not unfriendly smile. She said, “Maybe you are too,” her gaze catching the reflected flame of sunlight on his red hair. She added, “Maybe not,” as an afterthought and moved across to the divan.
    When she sat down, Shayne saw that she was short- waisted with a pair of the longest legs he had ever seen.
    She leaned back gracefully, letting her head lie so that chest muscles lifted high breasts against the silken fabric. She looked down her straight, nice-sized nose at Shayne with a hint of mockery in her eyes.
    Shayne held her gaze unwaveringly. He said, “I’m okay, all right. I’m a friend of Carl’s.”
    She showed no sign of being impressed. Her expression did not change when she said, “That doesn’t prove a damned thing.”
    Shayne asked, “Doesn’t it?” He was digging in his pocket for a cigarette and he looked away. When he got the pack out she was holding flame-tipped fingers toward him.
    Shayne stuck a cigarette in his mouth and shook another from the pack for her. She didn’t move and he had to take three steps to give it to her. She looked up searchingly into his face while he lit a match and held the flame to her cigarette.
    Her brown eyes were slumbrous , conveying the same hint of passion in repose that her body and position cried out. There was no odor of perfume about her, and Shayne liked that, but her parted lips exuded that half-familiar scent he had noticed strongly when entering the room.
    He took a step backward to light his own cigarette and her gaze lingered on the strong, harsh lines of his face. She patted the divan beside her. “It’s more comfortable here than by the window.”
    Shayne shook his head and muttered. “Thanks.” He retreated to the safer position and sat down, reminding her, “I told you I was a friend of Carl’s.”
    She said, “How nice.” Her tone was mocking, and it was as though claws had been momently unsheathed.
    Shayne knew that she was a dangerous woman. Dangerous as hell. An intelligent woman with no