Three's a Shroud
Man-oh-murder, am I allergic to frails! This can be inconvenient when your name is Shell Scott and you carry a gat and a snooper's license - and murder is always creeping up on you.
Take, for instance, Diane. There was a hell of a lot of Diane for only one dame. But with her came a lot of loose - er - ends that tightened around my neck like a velvet noose.
Or Martita. She sizzled like tortillas frying - only I'm the guy the bullets singed.
And Ilona, the Hungarian Hurricane who looked as if she wanted to bite me. But gently. With abandon. So chunks of me went thataway.
It's true what they say - I'm barely alive to tell you. One frail's ferocious. Two's double trouble. And - pardon me for croaking - three's a shroud!