Wife or Death Read Online Free Page B

Matthew Fallon, a lank and sad-eyed man with a horse face and uncombable red hair. In his late thirties, Fallon drew a cartoon strip for a newspaper syndicate. His hobo get-up was remarkably realistic.
    Jim Denton got on the end of the buffet line, and by the time he had helped himself to ham and turkey and potato salad he found all the living room chairs occupied. So he stepped into the hall and sat down with his plate on the second step of the stairway.
    â€œThat’s a fine place to sit, Jim.”
    Denton looked up; it was Queen Elizabeth. “Hi, Your Majesty. This isn’t my night for pushing ladies off chairs onto their duffs.” He moved over. “Aren’t you eating?”
    Ardis Wyatt sat down beside him. She had a drink in her hand. “Speaking about duffs—no.”
    â€œDon’t give me that. Your fanny isn’t any bigger than mine.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean. You’re getting editorial spread, Jim.”
    â€œThe hell I am. Though this potato salad could do it. It’s delicious.”
    â€œDon’t thank me,” Ardis laughed. “On ball nights and such, when I have people over afterwards, I have my food catered. I wish I had your wife’s figure.”
    Denton said dryly, “Well, she certainly isn’t making any secret of it.”
    Gerald Trevor’s daughter glanced at him, and away. “I think,” she said lightly, “that Angel’s made a conquest.”
    He nearly said, “Which one?” Angel, who carefully counted calories, was neither eating nor drinking. She was standing near the bar talking animatedly to Matthew Fallon and old Gerald Trevor. Instead, Denton said, “It’s my guess your father’s the one who’s made the conquest, Ardis. After all, he’s a pretty big shot in show business.”
    â€œYou’re kidding,” Ardis Wyatt said.
    Denton laughed. “How do I know what I’m doing?”
    Norman Wyatt went to answer the doorbell. Ralph Crosby, purpler-faced even than he had been at the country club bar, walked in with elaborate steadiness. He was very drunk. The rain had begun to come down tropically. The district attorney stood dripping, his black hair plastered to his forehead, and staring around.
    â€œRalph, you’re soaked,” Norm said quickly. “How about coming upstairs? I’ll give you a change of clothing.”
    Crosby stooped carefully to inspect the sopping legs of his farmer’s overalls. “Little water never hurt anybody,” he said, and pursed his lips. A trickle ran down his forehead and dangled at the end of his nose. “Gimme a drink.”
    Wyatt hesitated, then returned to his post behind the bar, Crosby in his wake. The D.A. stopped abruptly behind Angel Denton; she was still chatting with old Trevor and the cartoonist.
    Crosby said in a very loud voice, “Hey, you. Angel.”
    Angel half turned. Gerald Trevor seemed startled and annoyed. Matt Fallon looked disgusted.
    â€œHello, Ralph,” said Angel pleasantly. “Something on your mind?”
    â€œWanna talk to you.”
    â€œWell, I don’t want to talk to you,” Angel said, still pleasantly. “And not so close, Ralph, please. You’re all wet. And you smell. Excuse me?” And she undulated across the room toward Thad and Clara Sommers.
    Crosby glared at Angel’s nakedly receding back. Then, muttering belligerently, he lurched toward the bar. Mr. and Mrs. Long stepped aside to make room for him and turned their backs. Trevor, Fallon were scowling at him.
    Norm Wyatt murmured, “Ralph, there’s food in the dining room.”
    â€œHell with it.”
    Jim Denton glanced around. Everyone was pretending in a well-bred way that the interchange between the district attorney and Angel Denton had not taken place. But that was for his benefit, Denton was sure; he noticed that people were making a point of not looking at him. He was also