American Gun Mystery Read Free Page B

focus? …She was in the East, resting between pictures. An impossible, insatiable woman with the appetites of a nature-myth and the lure of Cabellian Anaitis. Just now she was obsessed with a hunger for the society of overwhelmingly masculine men. Behind her loomed three of them, faultlessly dressed, carefully shaved; one of them held a yelping Pomeranian in his arms.
    There was a little silence as Mara Gay drifted over the stone floor and meltingly looked at Curly, at his big frame, his flat hips, his broad shoulders, his curly hair and dusty clothes. Kit’s small chin hardened; she lost her smile and took a little, cautious, noiseless, backward step.
    “Uh—hello, Mara,” said Curly with a feeble grin. “Uh—Kit, ya know Mara? Mara Gay? Hangs out in Hollywood, too. Haw, haw!”
    The lynx eyes met the gray-blue expressionlessly. “Yes, I know Miss Gay,” said Kit steadily. “We’ve bumped into each other in Hollywood on several occasions. But I didn’t know you knew Miss Gay, Curly. So I’ll be going.”
    And she calmly left the armory.
    There was an uncomfortable interlude. The three large men in faultless clothes behind the actress stood quite still, blinking. The Pomeranian, his civilized nostrils scandalized by the vulgar odors drifting up from the stables, yelped and yelped.
    “Cat,” said Mara Gay. “High-hatting me! She and her small-time horse operas.” She tossed her extraordinary head and smiled bewitchingly at Curly. “Curly, my love, you’re beautiful! Where did you get that mop of hair?”
    Curly scowled. His eyes were still on the door through which Kit Horne had vanished. Then Mara’s words took meaning in his brain. “For the love of Pete, Mara,” he grumbled, “can that kind o’ mush, will ya?” His hair was the bane of his life; it lay in cunning ringlets which he had vainly attempted for years to straighten.
    The actress rubbed herself gently against his arm. Her eyes went innocently wide. “This is so thrilling! All these awful revolvers and things. …Can you shoot ’em, Curly darling?”
    He brightened and moved away from her with alacrity. “Can I shoot ’em! Gal, yo’re talkin’ to Dead-eye Dick himself!” Reloading quickly, he flipped his revolver and once more manipulated the catapult. Balls popped into nothingness. The actress squealed with delight, moving closer.
    Outside, Kit Horne paused and her eyes were very coldly blue. She heard the pops!, the tinkle of breaking glass, Mara Gay’s little squeals of admiration. She bit her lip and dashed off, striding along blindly.
    The actress in the armory was saying: “Now, Curly, don’t be so bashful. …” Something predacious came into her lynx eyes; she turned sharply and said to the three men behind her: “Wait outside for me.” They went obediently. She turned back to Curly and smiled a smile famous over the length and breadth of a romantic land, whispering: “Kiss me, Curly dear, oh, kiss me. …”
    Curly took a backward step, very noiseless and cautious, like Kit’s, and he lost his grin as his eyes narrowed. She stood very still. “Look here, Mara, aren’t you forgettin’ yourself? I don’t aim to rustle other men’s wives.”
    She stepped close to him; she was very close to him now, and her scent filled his nostrils. “You mean Julian?” she said softly. “Oh, we’ve a perfect understanding, Curly. Modern marriage! Curly, don’t look so mad. There are five million men who’d leave their happy homes to have me look at them this way—”
    “Well, I ain’t one of ’em,” said Curly coldly. “Where’s yore husband now?”
    “Oh, upstairs somewhere with Tony Mars. Curly, please. …”
    If the Colosseum was the Colossus of sport arenas, its creator Tony Mars was the Colossus of sport promoters. Like Buck Horne, Mars was a living legend; but a legend of quite a different sort. He was the man who had put prize-fighting in the million-dollar class. He was the man who had scrubbed wrestling until