Snow White and the Giants by J. T. McIntosh Read Free Book Online

if Jota's there . . . "

He let that hang, and I didn't take it off the hook. As far as we knew

Jota had only once broken trust with either of us in that particular

way. Gil knew what had happened -- Sheila had said something to Barbara.

The idea of Jota making a pass at Barbara seemed fantastic to me, but

it probably didn't seem so fantastic to Gil.

"All right," I said. "I'll ask her."

Rather surprisingly, Dina got on quite well with both Gil and Barbara.

Moody geniuses don't like competition or criticism, and Dina never gave

them any.

We said no more about Jota. Barbara would cling to

Dina, and away from me, away from Sheila (whom she

really trusted in a peculiar way) Dina would stick to the

one person she knew.

"There's something else about those kids," Gil said. "They came into

the bank and changed some money. Silver into notes. I was the only one

to notice a certain very strange thing, and for some reason I didn't

point it out to anyone else."

Gil felt in his pocket and produced two half-crowns, two florins, two

shillings. He made no comment, so I examined them.

It wasn't hard to get the point. The half-crowns were both fairly shiny,

dated 1961. The florins were old and worn, dated 1935. The shillings were

dated 1952.

"I see what you mean," I said.

"Do you?" He sounded skeptical. Gil, with his inflated IQ, could never

believe that anyone else had more capacity for putting two and two

together than . . . well, Dina.

I looked more closely, One half-crown had an infinitesimal scratch across

the Queen's hair. So had the other. The milling on the florins was

identical, particularly worn just below the date.

"There were a lot more of these?"

"Yes."

"Any notes?" I asked.

"No. Well?"

He was challenging me to reach his own conclusion.

I said: "I know why you didn't point this out."

"Do you?"

"They must be forgeries, of course. Forgeries so good they'd be hard to

detect, and won't ever be detected now that they're mixed with other

coins and the duplication isn't significant. Notes weren't forged,

or duplicated, because the numbers would eventually give them away."

Gil nodded with reluctant respect. "And why didn't I point it out?"

"Because you're responsible. This might mean trouble. If you let it go,

it can't possibly mean trouble."

"Clever," he sneered. "Now tell me why it was done."

"They needed money, so they made it," I said.

He sniffed, but didn't pursue the topic. Instead, he said: "Tell me what

you know."

I told him. I came last to the brief encounter with Miranda.

His eyes gleamed.

"The ultimate in provocation," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"Could it be simpler? The impact of any outfit any girl wears lasts

about five minutes. After she's taken off her jacket and you see the

lowest low-cut neckline you ever saw, after you've had a good look,

she might as well put the jacket on."

I must have looked unimpressed for he went on in a torrent of words to

develop the theme.

"Does anybody stare at the Grammar School senior girls in their little

white pants, except wistful old men? But let them put on skirts and ride

bicycles in a breeze . . . A pretty girl peels to a bikinl, and every

man on the beach stares. For a while. Then she puts on a beach wrap,

leaves it unfastened, and they stare again every time it falls open."

"I never thought of that," I said.

He gaped at me. "You never thought of it? Ten minutes after viewing the

delectable Miranda you've just been describing?"

"I was too busy doubting my own sanity. But I see what you mean now."

And I did. Successful strippers don't just take their clothes off. They

tantalize, And what could be more tantalizing than a luxon dress? What

greater inducement to look could there be than not knowing what you're

liable to see?

Gil had hit on a good phrase -- 'the ultimate in provocation.'

Current fashion wasn't anywhere near the ultimate in provocation. Indeed,

with untidy, too-long hair, tight jeans and loose sweaters,