The Kissed Corpse by Brett Halliday

couldn’t put too much of the blame on her. By exposing me as an imposter she had simply rushed ultimate exposure. Dwight would have ruined things even if Laura hadn’t been along.
    I stood at the window a long time before the thought struck me forcibly that Laura Yates might fit into the scheme of things in a terrific way. If she had murdered Young as Mrs. Young intimated, wouldn’t she pull just such a stunt as she did tonight? To throw suspicion away from her?
    Whirling from the window, I asked directly: “Why was Young bringing you with him tonight?”
    â€œBecause I asked to come.” She spoke impatiently.
    â€œDo you generally keep your dates under a cottonwood tree on rainy nights?”
    â€œWe agreed to meet there this afternoon … before it started raining. I came down on a bus from Juarez late this afternoon.” She paused, then went on coolly: “Mrs Young has a very jealous nature and doesn’t approve of me. Naturally, it was best for her not to know Les and I were meeting tonight.”
    â€œYou made the arrangement this afternoon? Where?”
    â€œI don’t see how that can concern you.”
    I didn’t tell her that it was going to concern the police. Instead, I persisted:
    â€œWhat time did you see Young this afternoon?”
    She didn’t answer for a time. I struck another match and started toward the bed. She was lying back as if she had suddenly grown weary.
    â€œWell … what time?” I asked again.
    She sprang up to a sitting position. “Why the cross-examination?” she flared. “It seems to me you’re the one who should be answering questions. Why are you pretending to be Les? Where did you get that note you showed the girl downstairs? What’s it all about?”
    â€œDon’t try to be naive all of a sudden,” I grated.
    She stood up and went to the window and I walked over and stood beside her. She was tight-lipped and quiet. Her shoulder was touching my arm. I was thinking hard about her heavily rouged lips, and about the rouge found on Young’s dead face and mouth.
    Suddenly my hands gripped her shoulders and shook her. “You’d better come clean and answer some questions. This isn’t any time for smart repartee.”
    Her flesh was softer under my fingers than I had supposed it would be. She let me shake her without offering any resistance.
    The faint moonlight touched her face. Her red lips mocked at me and there was a gurgle of laughter in her throat.
    â€œYou wouldn’t be wanting to take … advantage of me … locked up in a place like this, would you?”
    She was taunting me and I knew it. She was one of those women who recognize a man’s feelings before he, himself, is aware of them. Her words brought me to a realization that beneath my anger another emotion surged.
    My fingers were tight on her shoulders, but I wasn’t shaking her any more. She was leaning back, laughing up into my face, a shaky, baffling sort of laugh. The pliant warmth of her body was pressed close to me, and her lips parted beneath mine in the semi-darkness.
    Perhaps there is a psychological tie-up between the presence of danger and the sex-urge. Many psychologists argue that this is true. Explain it any way you want to … or let it pass … but instead of hurling leading questions at a woman who might be a murderess, I was holding her in my arms and kissing her—when a key grated in the lock.
    The beam of a flashlight was on us before we were wholly untangled. Two uniformed Mexican policemen were dimly outlined in the back-glow of a candle. One of them spoke in broken English:
    â€œYou weel both come weeth me to ze jail in Juarez.”
    Laura clung to my arm as I stepped forward and said heatedly: “You can’t arrest us. What the hell have we done? We’re American citizens and I demand …”
    Both policemen held revolvers. “Eeet ees for murder, ”