TWO O’CLOCK BLONDE
James M. Cain
My heart did a throbby flip-flop when the buzzer sounded at last. It was all very well to ask a girl to my hotel suite, but I was new to such stuff, and before this particular girl I could easily look like a hick. It wasn’t as if she’d been just another girl, you understand. She was special, and I was serious about her.
The trouble was, for what I was up to, man-of-the-world wouldn’t do it. From the girl’s looks, accent, manners, and especially the way she was treated by the other guests, I knew she was class. So I guess ‘gentleman’ would be more like what I was shooting for. Up until now I’d always figured I was one, but then—up until now—I’d never really been called on to prove it.
I had one last look at my champagne and flowers, riffled the Venetian blind to kill the glare of the sun, and then went to the foyer and opened the door. There she was, her pale face, dark hair, trim figure, and maroon dress making the same lovely picture I had fallen for so hard. Everything was the same—except the expression in her eyes. It was almost as if she were surprised to see me.
I managed a grin. “Is something wrong?”
. . .
