And I had heard vague rumors that somebody was running a gambling den out here, and that there was — or would be in the very near future — a girly house, in defiance of the ladies armed with tomahawks who had previously run them out of town.
I turned and shot a look at the Chinese doll.
No.
She no more looked the part of an inmate than you do, Louise. But I had a hunch in another direction and fired a trial rocket.
“Is there ice on the lake yet?”
“Oh — yes sir.”
She hesitated over the three words and I watched her reserve crumble. She reflected upon herself for some minutes and then added the first real bit of conversation.
“Perhaps by tomorrow it will be safe enough for skating, sir.”
That was a good opening. I followed up with, “Do you like to skate, too?”
She turned her eyes on me, rather shy and warm eyes that cause men to manufacture dreams. There were little fires burning in them, small glowing coals a man delights to look into across the breakfast table.
“I skate as often as I may,” she told me. “I would have liked to skate tonight, but—”
“But what?” I prompted patiently.
“It is too thin,” she finished lamely. The girl was obviously lying; it embarrassed her to know that I realized it. She hadn’t intended to say that at all. Even her voice refused to underwrite the answer. She recovered herself and directed attention away from the lie by a direct question.
“Do you, sir?”
“Roller skating,” I backed out hastily. “I have to have wheels under me; I’ve never been on ice skates in my life. Perhaps I could learn?” But she didn’t accept the suggestion.
“The ice is wonderful. You’d like it.” And with that her attention went back to her driving and stayed there. She seemed to feel somewhat guilty about it.
I tried to say: “My name is—” but she cut it off.
“Don’t. It’s better I didn’t know, sir.”
“Excuse me,” I protested. “I’m not getting smart. I only wanted to get acquainted with you.”
She smiled softly as though she were pleased. The smile would wear well, too, across a breakfast table.
“Perhaps I’ll be driving again some night soon, sir.”
“Perhaps.”
I had been thinking for some minutes that I was already skating, and on very thin ice. The Chinese doll supposed I had been ‘there’ before, and that I would return again. I realized then I would have to maintain that illusion, not only for her but for whatever might follow. Which could be difficult, at best. The doll’s particular job was plain enough: she was operating a regular and scheduled commuting service from some unknown point to some equally unknown point.
Well — in all fairness, perhaps neither point was wholly unknown. I had climbed in the car at one point, and I was beginning to entertain suspicions as to the second point. If my suspicions proved true, I was going to be awfully disappointed in my judgment
We were leaving the houses behind and passing a few boarded-up gas stations. I was peering out the window again when the girl abruptly whipped the car around in a tight twist to enter a narrow, rutted lane. The sudden movement threw me against the side of the car.
She spoke briefly, “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Okay,” I returned. “Should have remembered it.”
She accepted it as a right answer. Reaching out with one hand, she snapped off the headlights. The coupe continued to bounce slowly along, partly guided by the ruts. Outside my window I caught an astonishingly near glimpse of the lake. The lake was just beyond the fender tips.
“You’re a damned good driver,” I said admiringly.
“Thank you, sir.” And then she added, “You’re a good sport, sir.”
“Meaning what?”
There was a minute silence. Finally, “Usually men start something when we turn out the lights here.”
It was my turn to be embarrassed, and I used a non-committal throat-clearing to cover my reaction to the information she had just given me. “Usually men...” and “when we turn out the lights...” Especially the use of “We.”
Much to my relief we left the lake behind, passed the snow-covered bandstand and picnic tables, and headed towards an old, unpainted barn standing gloomily in the far corner of the field. A fisherman’s cabin stood in darkness off to the right, near the lake’s edge. It was much too dark to look for previous tire marks but the Chinese doll was supremely sure of herself.
The gun holster under my armpit began to itch and I had the first faint qualms over the foolhardiness of my act. I mentally apologized to the girl for my half-formed suspicions.
She drove the coupe up to one corner of the barn.
There was a small, shack-like structure adjoining it on the side nearest us. This was the end of the line, the second point on the commuting schedule and every passing second found me more and more convinced the barn did not house the girls from Croyden.
Partly pushing open the door of the car, I turned to the girl and slid my hand into my trouser pocket.
“I’d like to—”
“No sir,” she cut me off quickly and politely, all the friendliness of a few minutes ago vanished into the darkness around us. “I cannot accept money, sir.”
