Mignon by James M. Cain Read Free Book Online Page A

nothing wrong. No—larceny, nothing like that. It’s just—that a search has to be made—for something——”
    I ran down, knowing nothing more to say, and damning myself for not rehearsing it better, because how could anyone, especially someone like her, who looked plenty smart, possibly fall for such a tale, one so thin I couldn’t even finish it? However, she seemed more curious than annoyed and kept staring at me, as though to figure me out. Then a thought seemed to hit her as a smile crossed her face, which she hid with my sawbuck. Then she shifted her stare to my hat, which seemed to interest her somehow, though why I couldn’t fathom. Then suddenly she said: “This is business indeed. This requires of thought.”
    I mumbled something, I guess, and then she said: “I should dress me. Shall we go to my apartment, perhaps?”
    I was too rattled to argue, so picked up my gear and followed her out to the hall. She led up the carpeted stairs to the second floor, then down a hall to a door at the rear, which she opened for me. I went in. The room downstairs had been red plush; this one was ivory and gold. It had a white cotton rug on the floor, a white bearskin rug over it, white chairs with gold brocade upholstery, and a white grand piano with gold beading on it. At one end was a white bed with gold canopy, faced by white armoires. She said: “Please give me your things,” and took them to an armoire, where she hung them up. Then she pulled a gold rope, and golden portieres closed after her, also cutting off the bed, on a white pole that ran across. I’d never been in such a place, and strolled around, to memorize what it was like. I had a quick flash at the prints on the wall, French by their style, all in gold frames and some downright saucy. Then I noticed the flower vases, of bright brass as I thought, some of them with the camellias which were just now coming in season. But then it occurred to me: Brass is not often used for vessels meant to hold water because moisture brings up the verdigris. Then I thought it odd that these vases showed no green cast, as all brass does, no matter how brightly shined. And then the truth hit me. I went over, picked up an empty vase, and snapped my finger on it. It clinked with the music made only by solid gold.
    It clinked and she popped—out from behind the portieres, a blue flannel dress half on, silken froufrou showing. Her eyes were like blue glass. I said: “You’ve good ears, Miss Tremaine.”
    “ Alors? Qu ’ est-ce que c ’ est? ”
    I went over, straightened her dress, put my arms around her, and gave her a little kiss, which she took on the cheek. I said: “I wasn’t stealing your vase—just testing it.”
    “It is of gold, non? ”
    “There’s no other such sound on this earth.”
    “I have six—from a château at Reze-le-Nantes.”
    “I compliment you. You like gold, I imagine?”
    “I love gold.”
    “Turn around, I’ll button you up.”
    She turned and I buttoned her, taking a seat and pulling her down in my lap. Then I dandled her and gave her another kiss. She took it this time on the mouth, and responded a little, but with an odd squint in her eye. She pulled my eyebrows, said: “ Doux , as coton .”
    “They’re not cotton, they’re hair.”
    “ Pourtant jolis , as you are.”
    “If I’m pretty, so is a cigar-store Indian.”
    “ Et sweet. Et naïf .”
    “What’s naive about me?”
    To tell the truth, I’d lost some of my fear, so I didn’t feel so rattled, and was beginning to be a bit chesty—as though I was now experienced in matters of this kind and could almost act like myself. She kept on pulling my brows, and said: “Oh—you give me twenty dollars—you take kisses as lagniappe —is not this naïf? You think me madam—yet you remove the hat—is not this naïf indeed? Don’t you know, petit , that with madam you keep the hat on? That this is the insulte ancienne a man pays to her who befriends?”
    “... If