Voyage into Violence Read Online Free Page A

a voice a little tinged with disappointment. She began to oil her right leg, having finished with the left. Bill nodded, but without lifting his head. “Why not the Missing Persons Bureau?” Pam asked. She found that, already, she was getting sleepy. But she had come for an invigorating dip.
    â€œBecause sometimes people want to keep things in families,” Bill told her. “When we move in, officially, a good many people get involved. Necessarily. And sometimes there’s no legal justification for searching people out and—” It appeared that the subject tired him. Or that he felt it finished. McShane must, Pam thought, have been extremely hard to come up with.
    There were at first only a dozen or so around the pool, and only two in it—a blond young woman with a blond young boy. But more came. Mrs. Macklin came. Mrs. Macklin wore a wide straw hat. She wore sunglasses, and a green wrap. She stood and looked at chairs, and at the sun, and at the other people, and at chairs again. Hilda Macklin came after her, carrying things—a large bag, towels, several magazines and a thermos bottle.
    â€œHere,” Mrs. Macklin said and selected a chair on the edge of the North-Weigand reservation. “This will have to do.”
    Her voice was high; there was still a crack in it. In the sunlight, her skin seemed to fit more tightly than ever on her bones. Hilda Macklin unloaded on the chair next the one Mrs. Macklin indicated. Hilda wore a loose robe over, presumably, a bathing suit—at any rate, slim legs were visible below the robe. She bent and looked at the tag on the chair.
    â€œI’m afraid,” she said, in a low and colorless voice, “that this one belongs to someone. A Mr.—Folsom.”
    â€œDon’t be absurd,” Mrs. Macklin said. “There are plenty of chairs, as anyone can see.” She sat in Mr.—in Respected Captain—Folsom’s chair. She slightly parted the green wrap. Under it she wore a pink sports dress, very short on elderly white legs; quarreling in color with the red hair, all but a little of which was concealed by the wide hat.
    Pam North oiled her left arm and shoulder.
    â€œWell,” Mrs. Macklin said, in the same high voice, “go if you’re going.”
    Hilda Macklin slipped out of the shapeless robe. Under it, she wore a bathing suit—an unexpectedly sleek bathing suit. And—well, for goodness’ sake! Pam thought. Who would have thought it? She looked at Hilda Macklin with generous surprise.
    Hilda Macklin, peeled out of linen suit, of loose-hanging robe, was by no means the shape of a broomstick. She was slender, not thin. Nowhere did she lack anything it was appropriate for her to have—from slender high-arched feet upward. Hilda walked toward the deep end of the pool. Unencumbered, she moved with fluid grace—moved, Pam thought, almost as Dorian moved. She poised on the pool’s rim, her arms lifted, the position lifting small and perfect breasts. She dove, cutting cleanly into the sparkling water.
    â€œAppearances deceive,” Bill Weigand said, softly, from the chair beside Pam’s. He was still lying relaxed, but it was quite evident he was not asleep.
    â€œBut,” Pam said, as softly, “why? Why hide them under a bushel?”
    Bill had no answer. Jerry rounded into sight again. He wasn’t now, Pam thought, doing better than three knots. He flicked a hand, however, and rounded out of sight.
    â€œOnce more, and we get him to keep,” Pam told Bill Weigand, and then Dorian came along the deck—came with almost a cat’s matchless grace. She wore a green swim suit darker than her eyes, and a short white jacket. She sat next Pam. She oiled. When she was ready, she said, “Well?” and Pam went with her to the pool, and into it. They came out, in time, and toweled, and Hilda Macklin remained, darting like a fish among half a dozen others in the water. Jerry