A Kiss Before Dying by Ira Levin Read Free Book Online

snapshots she had taken from the wallet. He looked at the top one from across the table. It was of Dorothy and two other girls – her sisters, he supposed. Seeing his glance, she passed the picture to him. ‘The middle one is Ellen, and Marion’s on the end.’
    The three girls were standing in front of a car, a Cadillac, he noticed. The sun was behind them, their faces shadowed but he could still discern a resemblance among them. All had the same wide eyes and prominent cheekbones. Ellen’s hair seemed to be of a shade midway between Dorothy’s light and Marion’s dark. ‘Who’s the prettiest?’ he asked. ‘After you, I mean.’
    ‘Ellen,’ Dorothy said. ‘And before me. Marion could be very pretty too, only she wears her hair like this.’ She pulled her hair back severely and frowned. ‘She’s the intellectual. Remember?’
    ‘Oh. The Proust fiend.’
    She handed him the next snapshot, which was of her father. ‘Grrrr,’ he growled, and they both laughed. Then she said, ‘And this is my fiancé,’ and passed him his own picture.
    He looked at it speculatively, seeing the symmetry of the clear planes. ‘I don’t know,’ he drawled, rubbing his chin. ‘Looks kind of dissolute to me.’
    ‘But so handsome,’ she said. ‘So very handsome.’ He smiled and pocketed the picture with a satisfied air. ‘Don’t lose it,’ she warned seriously.
    ‘I won’t.’ He looked around, his eyes bright. On the wall next to them was a selector for the jukebox at the rear of the restaurant. ‘Music,’ he announced, producing a nickel and dropping it into the slot. He traced a finger up and down the twin rows of red buttons as he read the names of the songs. He paused at the button opposite ‘Some Enchanted Evening’, which was one of Dorothy’s favourites, but then his eyes caught ‘On Top of Old Smoky’ further down the row, and he thought a moment and chose that instead. He pushed the button. The jukebox bloomed into life, casting a pink radiance on Dorothy’s face.
    She leaned at her wristwatch, then leaned back, eyes closed rapturously. ‘Oh gee, just think,’ she murmured, smiling. ‘Next week no rushing back to the dorm!’ Introductory guitar chords sounded from the jukebox. ‘Shouldn’t we put in an application for one of the trailers?’
    ‘I was down there this afternoon,’ he said. ‘It may take a couple of weeks. We can stay at my place. I’ll speak to my landlady.’ He took a paper napkin and began tearing careful bits from its folded edges.
    A girl’s voice sang:
    On top of old Smoky,
    All covered with snow,
    I lost my true loved one,
    For courtin’ too slow …
    ‘Folk songs,’ Dorothy said, lighting a cigarette. The flame glinted on the copper-stamped match-book.
    ‘The trouble with you,’ he said, ‘is you’re a victim of your aristocratic upbringing.’ 
    Now courtin’s a pleasure,
    But partin’s a grief,
    And a false-hearted lover
    Is worse than a thief …     
    ‘Did you take the blood test?’
    ‘Yes. I did that this afternoon too.’
    ‘Don’t I have to take one?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I looked in the Almanac. It said “blood test required” for Iowa. Wouldn’t that mean for both?’
    ‘I asked. You don’t have to.’ His fingers picked precisely at the napkin.
    A thief he will rob you
    And take what you have,
    But a false-hearted lover
    Will lead you to the grave …   
    ‘It’s getting late—’
    ‘Just let’s stay to the end of the record, okay? I like it.’ He opened the napkin; the torn places multiplied symmetrically and the paper became a web of intricate lace. He spread his handiwork on the table admiringly. 
    The grave will decay you,
    And turn you to dust.
    Not one man in a hundred
    A poor girl can trust …
    ‘See what we women have to put up with?’
    ‘A pity. A real pity. My heart bleeds.’  
       
    Back in his room, he held the photograph over an ashtray and touched a lighted match to its lowest corner. It was a print of the