and blue plastic and cork sandals. She was bare-headed, and her thick, short hair looked like
burnished copper in the strong sunlight. She was as different from the blonde curie as a Ming
vase is from a vase you win at a shooting-gallery, and lovely without being sensational. Her
eyes were big and blue and serious; her mouth, with just the right amount of lipstick, wide
and generous, and her figure neat, compact and curved where it should be curved.
I stood looking at her. The Scotch was still giving me a false sense of security. I seemed to
have stepped out of the darkness into the sunlight, and to have turned my back on something
that was as unreal as a bad dream. Just to look at this girl, singing to herself, unaware of me,
made Della and Reisner, and the immediate horrible future, go out of my mind the way dirty
water leaves a sink when you pull out the plug.
III
I stood for maybe a minute, listening to her song, and watching her sun-browned hand and
the paint-brush at work, wondering who she was and how she came to be in such an out-of-the-way place. Then suddenly she must have felt me watching her, for she looked up and saw
me. She gave a little start and dropped her brush.
I came out from behind the shrub.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I heard you singing and wondered who it was.”
139
Not a very brilliant approach, but it was, at the moment, the best I could do. For the first
time since I had left the cabin my voice didn’t sound like the croak of a frog.
She bent to pick up the brush.
“I’ve missed my way, and I think I’m lost,” I went on. “I’m trying to find the casino.”
“Oh.” The explanation seemed to reassure her. “It’s easy to do that. I suppose you came
through the mangroves.”
“That’s right.” I moved to one side so I could see her painting. The sea, sand and palms and
the blue of the sky made a vivid and attractive picture. “That’s good,” I said. “It’s absolutely
lifelike.”
That seemed to amuse her, for she laughed.
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Maybe, but a lot of people couldn’t do it.”
I fumbled in my hip pocket for a packet of cigarettes, flicked out two and offered them.
“No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”
I lit up.
“Just how far away am I from the casino?”
“About three miles. You’re walking away from it.”
She began to clean the brush that had dropped into the sand.
“You mean I’m off the casino’s beach?”
“Yes; you’re on my beach.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trespass.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she said, smiling. “It’s all right. Are you staying at the casino?”
It flashed into my mind that I didn’t want her to know me as Johnny Ricca, gambler and
gangster. It didn’t matter to me that the blonde, Georgia Harris Brown, should think so, but
this girl was different.
140
“I’m only staying a few days. Some place, isn’t it?” Then I asked her, “Do you live around
here?”
“I have a beach cabin close by. I’m collecting background material for display work.”
“What was that again?”
I dropped on the sand, away from her, watching to see if she disapproved, but her
expression didn’t change.
“I work for Keston’s in Miami. It’s a big store. You may have heard of it,” she explained.
“I provide sketches and colour schemes for window dressing and special displays.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“Oh, it is.” Her face lit up. “Last year I went to the West Indies and did a series of
paintings. We turned one of the departments into a West Indian village. It was a terrific
success.”
“Must be a nice job,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind me holding up your work. I’ll get
along if you do.”
She shook her head.
“It’s all right. I’ve just finished.” She began putting away her brushes. “I’ve been working
since ten. I guess I’ve earned some lunch.”
“A little late for lunch, isn’t it?”
“Not when you live alone.”
She studied the painting, and I watched her. I decided she was the prettiest and nicest girl
I’d ever met.
“I think that’ll do,” she said, and stood up. “The easiest way back to the casino is for you to
walk along the beach.”
“I’m Johnny Farrar,” I said, not moving. “I suppose I couldn’t carry your stuff back for
you? There seems a lot of it.”
“Sounds as if you’re inviting yourself to lunch,” she said, smiling. “I’m Virginia Laverick.
141
If you haven’t anything better to do …”
I jumped to my feet.
“I haven’t a thing. I guess I’m sick of my own company, and meeting you …”
I picked up the easel and her other stuff when she had packed it, and went with her across
the hot sand.
“I can’t ask you in,” she said suddenly, “I live alone.”
“That’s okay,” I said, only too glad to be walking at her side. “But I’m harmless, or maybe
you don’t think so.”
She laughed.
“Big men usually are,” she said.
After a short walk we came to a bungalow, screened by flowering shrubs, with a green-painted roof and gay flowers in the window-boxes and a wide verandah on which were
lounging chairs, a radio set and a refectory table.
“Sit down,” she said, waving to one of the chairs. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get you a
drink - Scotch?”
“Fine,” I said.
“I won’t be a minute.”
But she was a lot longer than that, and I was pacing up and down the verandah, my nerves
on the jump again, by the time she reappeared. I saw why she had been so long. She had
changed out of the sun-suit which she had probably decided wasn’t suitable to be wearing
when entertaining a strange man in an empty bungalow, and she was now in a white linen
dress, shoes and stockings. I gave her full marks for good sense.
She carried a tray on which were bottles, glasses and plates of sandwiches. She set down
the tray on the table, smiling at me.
“Go ahead and fix yourself a drink,” she said. “If you feel like eating, there’s plenty.”
I poured myself a big slug of Scotch, splashed ice water in it, while she flopped into an
armchair and started on the sandwiches.
142
“You look as if you’ve been in a fight,” she said.
“Yeah, I know.” I felt my nose, embarrassed. It was still a little sore and swollen. “I got
into an argument with a guy. It looks worse than it feels.” I took a mouthful of Scotch. It hit
the spot all right.
She was drinking orange juice, and I was aware she watched me just a little uneasily.
“It’s nice of you to take pity on me,” I said. “I was feeling pretty low. You know how it is.
I’ve been around on my own, and got sick of my own company.”
“I thought there were lots of attractive girls staying at the casino.”
“Maybe there are, but they don’t happen to be my style.”
She smiled.
“What is your style?”
I never believe in pulling punches, in or out of the ring. I let her have it.
“Well, you are, I guess,” I said, and added hastily, “and don’t think that’s your cue to yell
for help. You asked me, and I’ve told you, and another thing while we’re on the subject, I’m
not the type who makes a girl yell for help.”
She looked steadily at me.
“I didn’t think you were or I wouldn’t have asked you here.”
That took care of that. Anyway, it cleared the air. She started talking about her work. From
what she told me it seemed to be well paid, and she seemed to do more or less what she liked,
and go where she liked.