Read Online Lady, Go Die! by Mickey Spillane - Free Book Online

cleaned. The protective covers of the tables were covered with a fine coating of dust and sand particles. Not much, but just about as much as would settle in a week.
    This place was certainly no amateur joint, nor was it the indulgence of a rich man’s whim, or rich woman, either. This nifty little casino had every hallmark of the real thing. Those wild parties in Sidon I had heard rumors about were juicy orgies of gambling.
    This house was run for one reason—to make money. But why, I couldn’t figure. Sharron Wesley had supposedly inherited a cool million or more from her late husband.
    A hard-living dame like that ex-chorine could go through money fast enough, that was a cinch, but a million is a lot to spend and she hadn’t had that much time yet. Still, I guessed there was no reason why she shouldn’t go into business for herself, to keep afloat among the money set.
    Oh, hell, that idea was out the window—that bimbo didn’t have enough brains in her yellow-haired head to put together a sophisticated gambling operation like this one on her own steam.
    Somebody had been backing her.
    The darkened opening of a foyer led from the casino area. I looked in, then—through the archway on one side—spying the bar, a big horseshoe-shaped affair. Damn! This lodge-type area alone could accommodate a few hundred at a sitting. Sharron Wesley had been no piker when she built this indoor amusement park.
    Stools were arranged in orderly fashion around the bar with tables-for-two set against the wall. The whole place had been swept and put in order after the last party, which hadn’t been so long ago, either. You’d think a place like this would be put in for the summer crowd, but that didn’t seem to be the case. This was a year-round operation that must have catered strictly to the city slicks who came out to throw their dough around, and away.
    Under the bar, I found a bottle of Scotch, removed the cork and took a short pull. Good stuff. I put the cork and the bottle back. The walls in this place had been finished in knotty pine, giving the room a healthy outdoor odor. I made my way completely around the bar, then took the foyer to the side door.
    A cloakroom was built into the wall with enough hangers for the Stork Club and then some. Next to the cloakroom was a second-floor staircase. I shone the light on the steps—they, too, were dust-covered. So much for servants. If anyone was up there, they must be hibernating. No one had used the staircase in a week, at least.
    Nevertheless, I took no chances. I judged the approximatenumber of steps to the top and went up, walking as close to the bannister as I could, to avoid letting any telltale squeaks announce my presence.
    The top landing was covered by a Chinese rug thick enough to muffle any sound. The corridor led to one main room that occupied half the entire upper floor—a ballroom. A stage that could have accommodated Glenn Miller’s band took up the far end, and a fully functioning bar ran along one wall, while a sea of little round tables with chairs surrounded a waxed and polished beach of hardwood, a dance floor larger than the usual night club variety.
    The other rooms were bedrooms. No one lived in them—they seemed to be designed to provide couples with a comfy trysting option; or maybe high-end prostitution was part of the party fare Sharron Wesley offered. At one end of the hall was a three-room apartment. This was the first place that looked well used. A glamorous, silver-framed portrait of Sharron was displayed on a baby grand. Around it were a dozen smaller framed photos, all of men.
    These had been Sharron’s quarters, all right.
    It was beginning to dawn on me how she operated. She lived here, but she lived alone. And while this apartment was nice enough, it was bizarre to think that the wealthy widow of E.J. Wesley existed in only three fairly small rooms in her own lavish mansion. This was how the help lived, at least they did if their rich boss