Oh, Murderer Mine | Page 4

men from them."
"I'll bet that's the truth," said the man. "My name is Doan. What's your name?"
"Melissa Gregory."
"Hello," said Doan. "That's Carstairs in front of you. He works with me--that is, when he's not working against me or just not working."
"He looks like a very good dog."
"That's what he looks like," Doan agreed. "I've got a word of warning for you."
"A what?" Melissa asked, staring at him.
"A word to the wise. Lay off the bird in your office. He's not for sale or for rent."
"What?" said Melissa.
"Eric Trent," Doan explained. "Mustn't touch."
"What?" said Melissa.
Doan sighed. "You must not make passes at Eric Trent. That is verboten."
Melissa's eyes narrowed. "I don't believe I like the idea you're selling. Suppose you elaborate on it..."
"It's simple," Doan told her. "I keep females from making love to Eric Trent."
"Well, why?"
"Because I've been hired to do it. And, believe me, it's a full-time job. Women fall for him in squads. I mean, they would fall--over backwards--if I didn't stop them."
"I understand the words you're saying," Melissa said. "But they don't seem to make sense. Are you seriously telling me that this--this person has a bodyguard to keep women from falling to love with him?"
"That's right," Doan agreed. "And I'm it."
Melissa shook her head groggily. "Well, why? I mean, I'll agree, just for the sake of argument, that there might be one or two women in the world hard up enough or dumb enough to want that insolent imbecile, but they're the type who would deserve him if they got him. Why should either he or you worry about them?"
"We're not," said Doan. "But his wife is."
"Oh. He's married?"
"And how."
"Hmmm," said Melissa. "Now wait a minute. I'm just catching up with you. You have the barefaced insolence to warn me. I think I'll slap your face."
"Don't," Doan warned. "Carstairs will bite you if you do. Not that he cares anything about me, but he would feel it was a reflection on him."
Melissa looked at Carstairs. He was lying down on the floor with his eyes shut.
"Don't let him fool you," said Doan. "He's ready to go into instant action. He's just pretending he's not interested."
"Hmmm," said Melissa. "You know, this is all sort of fascinating in a repugnant way, and I know I've seen this Trent party before, but I can't remember where. Have you any idea where I could have seen him?"
"Yes," said Doan.
"Well, where?"
"His wife is Heloise of Hollywood."
"Heloise," Melissa repeated. "Of Hollywood. Oh!"
"Oh," Doan agreed.
"Now wait," said Melissa. "Now wait a minute...I know! He's Handsome Lover Boy!"
"Yup," said Doan.
"Stay right here!" Melissa ordered. "I'll be right, back?"
She ran down the hall and through the malodorous gloom of the chem lab. The door of Number 5 was open, and her notes were arranged in well-ordered confusion all over the floor and the swaybacked desk. Melissa dug through them, spewing lecture fragments in all directions, until she found the current issue of a large and slick and all too popular woman's magazine. She trotted back to the hall, thumbing eagerly through the back pages of the magazine.
"Wait, now," she said. "I know I saw one... Here!" It was a full-page ad. In the upper left-hand corner there was a portrait photograph of a very handsome young man in a naval officer's dress whites. The very handsome young man was Eric Trent. Under it there was a message in artistically slanted and swirly facsimile handwriting.
"... and I can hardly bear the thought of the endless, weary days that must somehow pass before I can find safe haven once more in the dear circle of your strong arms... but I too know my duty, dear one... and I shall keep alive the beauty that charmed you... keep it alive and glowing until your return, my own handsome lover boy..."
"Doesn't that make you feel like you just picked up a dead fish?" Melissa asked.
"Sort of," Doan agreed.
"I thought it was just an advertising gag," Melissa said. "I had no idea that anyone in the world would have a strong enough stomach to aim drool like that at an actual person and do it in public. Is this really a picture of Heloise of Hollywood, too?"
"Oh, yes," said Doan.
A second portrait, three times the size of Eric Trent's, filled up the lower right of the ad. This was a woman. It was taken in profile, and she had her head tilted back to show the long, smooth line of her throat. She had blond hair, and a cold, smooth, ice-frosted beauty. She looked as artificial, but just as well-designed, as a wax orchid. There was a message beside her picture, too, but this one was in printing, not in handwriting.
"...Heloise of Hollywood, fifty-four years young, at the supreme pinnacle of gracious, mature beauty--poised, assured, alluring --waits with calm confidence