Adventure Magazine Cover — page 148: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

138 Drount lifted his fingers playfully and hurried off for the whisky. Something told him that this would be a pleasant, aye and profitable, evening. He came back with the decanter on a silver tray and two small glasses with threads of gold at the brim. Leela poured out a jolt of whisky big enough for a stevedore and drank it off as a cockney maiden takes her gin. “Another?” asked Drount encouragingly. “All right,” she answered with an irritated © overtone, which seemed to say: “You think I am pretty much of a fool; but that I will be a bigger one if you get me drunk; and I will just show you a thing or two that you never knew before about Leela Cabron—when mixed with whisky.” But Drount’s ears were not tuned to catch overtones. He brushed back his wavy hair, smiled beamingly, put an arm gently around her shoulder to relieve her of the fur’s weight and let his hand lie for a mo- ment with the gentlest of caressing pressure. Leela had been in a reckless mood before she took the whisky. Recklessness is some- thing that compounds itself faster than in- terest in the hands of a usurer; and she was not far from the breaking-point. She looked at him, and then at the hand on her shoulder, then back at him. She was not insulted, she was not indignant, she was not amused. She was just telling him to take his hand away and keep it away. He caught the wordless message and did as told, but of course felt this was the rebellious coyness that every woman assumes in some shape or other because she likes to be coaxed. fend “LISTEN, Drount,” she said coldly, moege! harshly using his last name. ‘‘You = made a big mistake when you gave me whisky. Whisky makes me business- like and doesn’t leave any soft woozie feeling at all. Iam in trouble, and I need a friend who——”’ Drount, unabashed, unrepressed, was in- stantly at her service. He rubbed his hands and beamed, shrugged his shoulders with an air of submission to her least desire. ‘“‘__ a friend who likes me well enough not to make love.” “But ah, such an ordeal! Impossible, Leela. As well expect one to yield to witch- craft without being charmed!’ She drew a cigaret, which he hastened to touch with a match, and through a stream Adventure of smoke eyed him doubtfully. Leela crossed her knees, and a sharp little toe stuck up straight as a spine as she slowly swung her leg and eyed him. “I’m in a of a pickle,” she said with an edge to her voice as if half-proud of being in a dangerous mess; and either she or the whisky seemed determined to do away with womanish grace and softnesses in dealing with Drount. | And he liked it. He had taken a couple of shots himself, and liked the bitter flavor of this girl, cynical, fanged, clawed, poison- ous and hectic. She had already confided enough to make him feel that the intimacy gave privilege. He assured her that he and his resources were at her feet. “You know Mame Sims? No, Drount, you wouldn’t know her. She’s not a swell crook—just an ordinary little shoplifter. Well, Mame says it’s curiosity makes girls go wrong. Mame’s right. That’s what made me take his finger-print to my friend in the Identification Bureau. I was just 4?? curious to find out. She said it with self-disgust. “T found out.” “T believe,’ Drount answered with oily agreeability, “there was an incident of that kind in the Garden of Eden. The woman wanted to find out.” Leela stared at him, not understanding, not greatly caring to understand. There was just the least little suggestion in her manner of that jerky rigidity that often follows a couple of stiff drinks. Some people grow fluid and oozy, others quarrelsome, still others jerky and dignified—all accord- ing to their personality and the character of the booze. “Well, I found out. My _ friend’s been stepping on me—on me, Drourt—ever since. He wants the fellow that owns those finger- prints. Huh, I told him I found them finger-prints, and they looked interesting. Think he’ll believe that? He won’t. He guesses I know this Black Wolf personally. ‘“That’s the trouble with the police. They don’t respect a lady’s word. Don’t try to hide that whisky. Give me a drink.” Drount protested as gracefully as he knew how, but with an imperative flash of her hand and tilt of chin she commanded; and he served. | “Now if anybody thinks I’m going to turn up Middleton, they’d better go shoot themselves and get rid of their craziness. DOOK (C©@