This Girl for Hire Read Online Free Page B

point it had been a series of breaks which had sprung him into the choice situation comedy series about a bachelor-writer who mixed verbs, consonants and beautiful women.
    These criss-cross accusations were puzzling. Sam Aces and Golden Boy suspected each other of murdering Herb Nelson and of plottingthe same end for each other. I was more inclined to believe my client’s story. A phone call earlier to Daws, Inc., a pharmaceutical lab in Beverly Hills, had verified the presence of arsenic in Aces’ drink. L.A. police had backed this up with an official re port listing the incident as “closed due to insufficient cooperation.”
    â€œThird chapter,” I said.
    â€œThird chapter,” Swanson said, grinning slyly, “is where beautiful blonde with gorgeous blue eyes throws her book out and agrees to accompany handsome young television star on a tour of the night spots. Come on!”
    He whisked me into his Cadillac convertible before I could argue. A quick thought struck me. If Bob Swanson had slipped arsenic into Aces’ drink, it was just possible he still might have some of the poison lying around. I wanted to have a look at his personal stationery too. Herb Nelson had said the threat note had been typed on bright orange bond with a giant letter “S” embossed in the corner.
    â€œWhy waste time in a bunch of dingy bars?” I leaned against his shoulder. “Why not your place? I bet you even have a swimming pool!”
    His eyes lit up like a neon sign. “Have I got a swimming pool?” he roared. “This pool was designed especially for you, baby doll. Wait until you see it!”
    We zipped out to Beverly Hills in eleven minutes flat. Bob Swanson’s home was fantastically modern. It was so low-slung you had to duck to get through the front door. The house was a gigantic flat-roofed square with a swim ming pool in the center. Therewere no inside walls, only a few moveable partitions, and at each corner of the house there were elevated platforms. These were built much like television sound stages with arc lights in the ceiling and steps leading up. There was only one major difference. They were entirely carpeted with thick foam rubber. From each of them, things happening on any of the other stages could obviously been seen merely by looking over the low-slung, unwalled kitchen, the tremendous indoor swimming pool or the equally un walled bathrooms. Bob Swanson’s home was the most spectacular, and at the same time vulgar looking, place I’d ever seen.
    He pointed at the four raised stages. “The bedrooms,” he said casually. “This is a four bedroom home.”
    â€œBut, no beds,” I observed. “Where do you sleep?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, no beds?” Swanson demanded. “Four of the biggest king-size hammocks in captivity. Twelve by twelve. A foot depth of the softest foam rubber you ever snuggled your lily-white rear into, I’ll bet!”
    â€œYou sleep on the floor?”
    Golden Boy grinned. “Natch. Best place to sleep. No falling out of bed. Plenty of room to roam. No pillows. Just pull a blanket over you if it gets a little cold.”
    I looked at this guy and shook my head. “Did you design the place?”
    â€œEvery last inch.”
    â€œYou don’t like privacy, I take it?”
    â€œThe hell with privacy,” Swanson said. “Notice! No permanent walls. A few partitions for those futile numbskulls who have to hide something thatnobody gives a damn about seeing in the first place. You ever think about that? Nothing’s worth seeing if it’s ugly. The partitions are for the ugly ones. I get a few of those now and then.”
    He led me to the swimming pool. It was immense and shaped like the body of a very large-bosomed woman.
    â€œWhat are you, a nudist?” I asked.
    Golden Boy raised his eyebrows as if he smelled some thing foul. “Hell, no. Nobody is ever allowed in