A hard day's knight

What had I asked? “But you did do it,” I prompted her. “And how did it turn out?”

“Oh!” She rolled her somewhat beady bird-eyes. “Barry would just kill me if he knew!”

“Why? Why "should Barry be jealous? From what I’ve seen he seems to take a pretty liberal attitude toward-—”

“He wouldn’t be jealous,” she interrupted, chirping with laughter at the idea. “He’d be mad because I pried into his affairs. With the Cromwell woman, I mean.”

“Oh. I see. And what did you find out?”

“You can ask nicer than that.” She pursed her lips like a sparrow going after an earthworm.

I kissed her, and she clung to me. “Now tell me about the Cromwell woman,” I crooned into her ear.

“Barry took her to a spank-party at Von Koerner’s while I was out of town,” she chirruped, taking my hand between hers and inserting it in her loose bodice.

“I already found that out,” I said.

“Oh? How? Well, never mind. I found out something else that’s sure to interest you.” Elsa nuzzled her bare breast against the palm of my hand so that the tip embedded itself between two of my fingers. “Do you think I’m too small?” she asked.

“What?”

“My breasts? Are they too small? You see, I’ve always had this inferiority complex, and I’m so anxious to please you—”

“They’re fine. Just perfect. Now what about Carrie Cromwell?”

“I sneaked the key from Barry’s desk out of his pocket and went through the drawers. I found a slip of paper with her address and phone number on it.” Elsa’s hand dropped to my thigh and trailed upward. “I know where she is,” she tweeted.

“Where?”

“You’d never guess in a million years.” Her hand slid under the waistband of my pants and grabbed.

“I won’t even try to guess. You’re going to tell me, aren’t you, honey?” I made my voice as intimate as her caress was.

“Ooh! I go all shivery when you call me honey that way. Say it again.” Her hand tightened.

“Ouch! Honey.”

“Sorry. I got carried away, I guess. Let me kiss it and make it better.”

“In a minute. First tell me where Carrie Cromwell is.”

“No, first I want to—-”

There was a sudden knock at the door, and her head shot up even faster than it had been lowered.

“Mr. Victor?” a voice called out.

“That’s Ingrid!” Elsa hissed. “What’s she doing here? She mustn’t find me! It would be just like her to tell Barry.”

“Just a minute,” I called back. “I‘m not dressed. I’m sorry, but I just stepped out of the shower. I don’t have a stitch on. Why don’t you wait for me down in the lobby? It’s more comfortable than standing there. I’ll come down and get you just as soon as I throw something on.”

“Oh, all right.” Ingrid sounded annoyed.

“You think fast,” Elsa said admiringly, her head sinking to its former position again.

“Sorry, baby, but we don’t have time.” I pulled her firmly to her feet. “Now suppose you tell me where Carrie Cromwell is, and I’ll get you out of here before Ingrid comes back and spots you.”

“Damn! I suppose you’re right. Well, brace yourself. Carrie Cromwell is right here in this very hotel. She’s registered here with her husband. That was the address and phone number I found in Barry’s desk. And she’s still registered here. I checked with the desk clerk. Now, aren’t you proud of me?”

“You’ve been a big help,” I lied. I saw no reason to tell her that the Cromwells were still registered because Putnam had seen to it so that their disappearance wouldn’t cause any more of a stir than it already had. “Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“Just that she called Barry tonight. I eavesdropped. She wanted to make sure he was coming to Von Koemer’s tomorrow. And from the conversation, I gathered that she wanted to be sure he was bringing you. What gives with you and her, anyway? Why can’t you contact each other directly? Does it have something to do with O. R. G. Y.? Is she working for you?”

“No time for questions,” I told her, steering her into the hall. “Now you wait around this bend here until you see me come up with Ingrid. Then you can go down to the lobby and get out without her spotting you.” I gave her a quick kiss goodbye and started for the lobby myself.

“Ooh, Steve, wait!” Elsa called after me. “I forgot to tell you something else.”

“What?”

“That Gretchen called me earlier this evening. You know, the fat-chested blonde.”

“Yeah. I know her. What did she want?”

“Your phone number. She said she had to reach you. She said you split in such a hurry last night that you didn’t have a chance to exchange numbers. I didn’t know you ‘saw her after you left us. I’ll bet your wife doesn’t know, either. You are a naughty boy. I could be very jealous about that, you know.”

“Elsa, you’re the only woman for me. Outside of my wife, of course,” I reminded myself.

“Anyway, I gave her the number. The flabby-bosomed wench, I mean. But even so, that doesn’t mean you have to start up with her.”

“I won’t,” I assured her. “I’m spoken for.” I blew Elsa a kiss as the elevator doors opened, stepped inside, and pushed the button for the lobby. Well, anyway, now I knew how come Gretchen had contacted me instead of my Russian double. And that was really about all that Elsa had told me that was helpful.

The look on Ingrid’s face when I strolled across the lobby toward her didn’t promise that she was planning to be too helpful, either. The look said she wasn’t used to being kept waiting. With her charms, there was no reason why she should have been used to it. Scenery-wise, Ingrid was a decided improvement over Elsa. When it came to conversation, though, the eye-filling blonde was nowhere. She didn’t say a word all the way up to the room. And the glare she shot me when I closed the door behind us was decidedly hostile.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked her.

“No. What do you want?” Her tone was arrogant, but there was a hint of fear in the way she kept her distance from me.

“Relax. I’m not going to bite you.”

“I wouldn’t be here at all if you hadn’t blackmailed me into coming.”

“All right then. I'll come to the point. I want you to tell me everything you know about Knute Hajstrom.”

“You mean your victim. One of them, anyway!”

“If you like.” I was getting tired of denying my murderous nature. “When did you meet him? How? "

“Velvet arranged it.”

“Did he, now!” That was something to think about.

“How come?”

“The same reason he arranged for you to go to the Quentins. Money. Hajstrom paid him.”

“But how come Velvet steered him to you?”

“Hajstrom wasn’t just looking for some underground fun. He was looking for a woman.”

“Carrie Cromwell,” I guessed.

“Yes. But I didn’t know that at the time. The way I figure it, he paid Velvet through the nose to get a lead on Carrie. But even so, Velvet was afraid to give him a direct lead. He didn’t know what might be involved, but he was scared. Too scared to steer Hajstrom directly to Barry, who knew Carrie Cromwell. Or even to the Quentins, where she’d gone with Barry one night. So Velvet just sort of steered him to me, which was a sort of indirect lead in a way.”

“Do you know where Carrie Cromwell is?”

“No. That’s what Hajstrom kept trying to find out from me. But I’d only met her the one time. All I knew was that Barry knew her.”

“Did you tell Hajstrom that?”

“No. I just told him I might know someone who could help him.”

“Why didn’t you level with him?”

“I was teasing him along. It kept him coming back for more.”

“Coming back to the ‘Friends of Sweden,’ you mean?”

“Yes.”

“But why were you leading him down the garden path that way? ” I wondered.

“Because I knew that once I told him what he wanted to know, I’d probably never see him again.”

“Were you in love with Hajstrom?”

“Not exactly. Not the way you mean, anyway. It was his eyes” Her own eyes shone as she said it.

“His eyes?”

“Yes. The way he looked at me when I used to strip for the camera bugs at ‘Friends of Sweden.’ It flipped me, that look of his. Sometimes I’d take him off into a room where we could be alone and just dance for him naked While he watched. His eyes on my body drove me nuts. I could really make it that way, just watching him ogling my naked body. His eyes were like the eyes of an animal: savage, filled with lust, but deep and mysterious, too. Sometimes I could catch the reflection of my naked flesh in their depths, and then I’d really go over the top.”

“Is that the only way you could make it?”

“Yes.” She looked at me defiantly.

“Just with Hajstrom?” I asked curiously. “Or with other voyeur types as well?”

“Oh, I could do it with others. That’s why I started going there in the first place. But it was best with Knute.”

“Is that what you were doing the night he was killed?”

“That’s what we were about to do. But I had to go -- umm—-powder my nose, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. So you weren’t actually there when he was killed.”

“If you mean when you stuck that sword into him, no. But you still had it in your hand with the blood dripping from it when I came back. Remember?”

“That I remember,” I granted her. “Do you have any idea why he was killed?”

“That’s one hell of a question for you to be asking me!”

“Take a stab at it anyway,” I prodded hers

“Something to do with Carrie Cromwell, I guess. You were both looking for her. What makes that dame so important?”

“Her husband,” I said truthfully. “Did you ever run across him in your travels?”

“I didn’t even know she had one,” Ingrid said. “And if you’re through asking questions, can I go now?”

“Yes. You can go. Mine eyes have seen the glory—- and once is enough!”

That riled her, as I’d known it would. “I didn’t notice you pulling down your lids the other night,” she said indignantly.

“Different circumstances.”

“What do you mean?”

“Then I could sample the texture. Now it’s a case of look, but don't touch. I don’t get my kicks that way.”

“If you weren’t so nasty—and so murderous—”

“Thanks all the same, but this is one of my busy nights.”

“It’s your loss.”

“Is it?”

Ingrid was facing the door now, away from me. She stood there for a full minute and suddenly whirled about. She’d unbuttoned her dress all the way down the front. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. Her hands were under her breasts, thrusting them towards me like some sort of sacrificial offering. The lower part of her body was moving in slow circles, the hips rotating, the belly undulating, the triangle of blonde curls pulsating over pink, quivering nether lips.

I'm human. I gasped. I stared.

The stare—that was all she wanted. Her hand dropped down, and a few seconds later a spasm shook her whole body. It was more than pleasure for her. It was an insult flung in my face. “Yes,” she said. “It is your loss.” Her hands flew up the buttons of her dress, and then she was going out the door.

“Give my regards to Phil,” I called after her. “Or Helen, as the case may be.”

I crossed over and closed the door behind her. Then I looked at my watch. There was still an hour to go before Gretchen was due. I curled up on the bed and grabbed a little snooze.

The phone woke me. It was the downstairs desk. Gretchen was there. I told them to send her up. I threw some cold water on my face and was just finishing combing my hair when she knocked.

I opened the door on a woman-and-a-half in a on-woman bag. Not that there was anything baggy about the dress Gretchen was wearing. Far from it. Her curves hugged the red silk so tightly that I figured the only way she could have gotten into it was by having someone blow her up into it like a balloon. Then I figured again-— There was so much to Gretchen that I had to blink for a second look before I could take it all in. She was six feet tall—maybe an inch or so over—-and with the heels she was wearing, she towered over me by a good two inches. I’d say she weighed about 150 to 160 pounds. But don’t get the wrong idea. There wasn’t an inch of fat on her. About half her weight was in three spots—her bosom, her hips, and her derriere. Yes, I guess the last-mentioned was a trifle plump, but it was firm and high and a natural focal point for any male eye.

She was the kind of woman all men admire, but are not necessarily attracted to. There was so much of her that many a man might be intimidated by all that pulchritude. Women, it follows, would resent her on sight. Gretchen would make almost all females feel inadequate. I hoped for my sake that my double leaned more toward sadism than masochism. The very idea of playing victim to this Amazon—-even by proxy—gave me butterflies in the tum-tum. I was scared she might want to pick up where my Russian look-alike had left off. On the other hand, if it was the other way around, Gretchen was an awful lot of territory to cover—-even with a whip.

She wore her long blonde hair loose and straight to the waist. The only makeup she had on was lipstick. She didn’t need anything else. Her eyes out-blued any mascara I’d ever seen, and her cheeks were red as ripe tomatoes with a touch of fever. They were even redder than the dress, which had a deep V neckline which followed her naturally deep cleavage. On either side of the V, the dress pushed straight out an impossible distance. Her breasts were so mammoth, you’d figure they’d have to be pulled downward by their own weight. But they weren’t. They stuck out firmly with no trace of sag, a mammarian defiance of the law of gravity.

“My goodness,” Gretchen said, “you’d think you’d never seen me before. Do I look that much better in clothes?”

“Sorry.” I remembered my manners and mixed her a drink. I mixed one for myself as well. I needed it. “You said you had some information about Carrie Cromwell,” I reminded her as she took a sip.

“And you said we’d discuss the matter of money. Five thousand isn’t enough."

“Isn’t it? Why not?”

“You killed the Swede. You might decide to kill Carrie Cromwell. If you got caught, I might be implicated. The risk is worth more than five thousand."

“Why should I kill Carrie Cromwell?”

“Why did you kill the Swede?”

She had me there. Why had Stevkovsky killed the Swede?

“When you wangled me into taking you there," Gretchen continued, “you never said anything about murder. That wasn’t in the deal.”

“Maybe you’d better refresh my memory about the deal,” I suggested.

“Well,” she admitted, “I guess it wasn’t exactly a deal. You just said something kiddingly about how this O. R. G. Y. outfit of yours was going to catch up with the times and do a survey of sex in outer space. And I told you about this fellow Hajstrom who might be just the one for you to talk to because he was some kind of space scientist from Sweden and a swinger besides. You wanted to know what I meant by a swinger, so I told you about ‘Friends of Sweden,’ and how the first time I went there was because I was a model and this Swedish photographer friend of mine took me there. I said it was a gas, and you said how you’d like to go there and maybe meet this scientist. So we arranged to meet after you ditched your wife, and I took you up there and introduced you to Hajstrom. I never should have left you alone with him. I never figured to be fingering him so you could kill him. But I’m not going to make the same mistake about Carrie Cromwell. If you want to know where she is to kill her, the price has gone up to ten grand.”

“It might be worth it,” I fenced with Gretchen, “if I had some assurance that her husband was with her.”

“Husband? I didn’t even know she had one.” Gretchen got to her feet. “Well, take it or leave it,” she said firmly.

“I think that Mr. Victor will leave it.”

Fear stamped itself on Gretchen’s face as she stared at the doorway from which the voice had spoken. I whirled around to look at the intruder. I had no trouble identifying him immediately. Bald, a scar on his cheek, monocle -—it all matched Hortense’s description of Von Koerner.

“What are you doing here?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“One of my--ahh—servants overheard Gretchen speaking to you on the telephone,” he informed us as he closed the door firmly behind him. “I feared that she might be interfering with my plans for negotiating with you. Now, from what I have just heard, I see that my fears were well founded. You have been very naughty and disloyal, Gretchen. I shall really have to discipline you.”

He was carrying a sleek black walking stick with a silver knob. Now he raised it so that it was parallel with his hip. A split second later, a sharp blade, about three inches long, sprang from its tip.

“Yes, you must learn your lesson, Gretchen.” The cane was a quick blur slashing at her body with two quick strokes. The red resss parted horizontally at the very tips of her bosom. Blood, a darker red, immediately covered the exposed portion of her flesh. “Now do you see why you must remain loyal, Gretchen?” Von Koemer asked in a calm voice.

It happened so fast that she didn’t even scream. She just moaned her anguish as she sank to her knees, her hands clutching at herself to stem the bleeding. Between her fingertips, I could see that he had neatly pierced the tips of both breasts. But, like Gretchen, I was so stunned by the suddenness of it that it was a moment before I reacted.

Then I did react. I was outraged, and I moved unthinkingly. “You dirty-—!” I dived for Von Koerner.

He took one step to the side, and the cane flashed out again. I braked to a halt with the blade nicking at my throat. It stayed there, pricking me as I backed away. Finally it forced me to sit down in a chair. Then it still hovered a scant quarter inch from my jugular.

“Now answer the phone, Mr. Victor.”

It must have been ringing for a while. I hadn’t heard it. I’d been too busy trying to keep my head on my shoulders. Now, automatically, I reached for it.

“Act natural. Be very careful what you say,” Von Koerner instructed, twirling the blade a little to drive home his point.

I gulped and nodded to show I understood. I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Hello, Steve, darling?” It was Hortense. “I know it’s awful of me to call you in the middle of the night like this, but I just had to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I was getting cross-eyed from focusing on the blade’s tip.

“About our wedding. You’ll never guess who I've persuaded to give me away.”

“Give you away?” My voice squeaked. Von Koerner didn’t want it to squeak. The blade scratched me slightly. I cleared my throat.

“I mean give away the bride, silly.” Hortense sounded very bubbly. “Guess who’s going to do it?”

“Who?”

“None other than Senator Alvin K. Leander himself. What do you think of that?”

“Fine. That’s fine.” Von Koerner was getting impatient. I tried to suck in my throat.

“It wasn’t easy to get him to agree, but I reminded him of a few things, and asked very sweetly after his wife, and he said he’d be delighted. He was really very chivalrous about it.”

“That’s nice.”

“Well, you could be more enthusiastic. I did it for you, darling. I want you to be proud of your bride.”

“I’m very proud.” Von Koerner’s impatience had him on the verge of performing a tracheotomy.

“I knew you would be. And, Steve, darling, I wanted to ask you about your mother. I respect her religious convictions. I want you to know that. But don’t you think with the Senator coming and all she might be a little tolerant. It's bound to look funny if she isn’t there. I thought maybe if I called her -”

“End it! ” Von Koerner hissed. The blade drew blood.

“You do that,” I told Hortense. “Let me know how you make out.”

“Wait! Don’t hang up yet, darling!” she said.

“Hang up! ” Von Koerner insisted.

“You’d better do as he says,” Gretchen moaned. “He’d think nothing of killing you.”

“Steve! What’s that voice? Do you have a woman in your room?”

“I won’t. I will. Yes. No,” I answered confusedly.

“Steve! Another woman! With the wedding only a few days off! How could you?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” I said weakly.

“Steve!”

“Hang up! ”

“He’ll kill you!”

The voices assailed me. The blade pierced my flesh, hungry for my blood. Crazily, a bizarre solution to all my troubles flashed across my mind. I’d ask Von Koerner to be my best man! And Gretchen could be a bridesmaid!

chapter NINE

“Look,” I told Hortense. “There’s no woman here. I_just left the radio on. That’s all. And I’m awfully sleepy right now. Can’t we talk about the wedding arrangements In the morning, my pet?”

“Look,” I hissed at Gretchen. “Just shut up, will you?

“Look,” I pleaded with Von Koerner. “If you’ll stop trying to skewer my Adam’s apple, I’ll get off the phone right away.”

“All right,” Hortense agreed.

“All right,” Gretchen agreed.

“All right,” Von Koerner agreed—and released the pressure on the blade at my throat.

Hortense hung up— finally. Gretchen cowered in a corner. Von Koerner smiled a humorless smile and kept the cane poised. “And now to business, Mr. Victor. It was really very foolish of you to bother with Gretchen here, he told me. “She isn’t even aware of the existence of the one you really seek. She would have arranged for you to meet Carrie Cromwell, but you would have thrown your money away. In the first place, I had already made arrangements for you to meet her free of charge.”

“Then it was you who had her call Barry tonight to make sure I’d come tomorrow evening,” I guessed.

“Correct. So you see, you should thank me. I have saved you ten thousand dollars. Or was it only five? No matter. In any case it would have been a dead end for you. It isn’t Carrie Cromwell you want. It’s her husband. I know that. And only I am in a position to help you.”

“Do you have Anthony Bowdler Cromwell?”

“I can produce him. For a price, naturally.”

“What price?”

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“She only wanted ten thousand.” I jerked my thumb at Gretchen.

“For the wife, yes. But I have the genuine article. And, I might add, if you aren’t interested, there are others who are.”

“What others?”

“Hajstrom was one.”

“He’s dead,” I reminded Von Koerner.

“Yes. Most unfortunate. I really don’t know what you hoped to accomplish by that. I’m sure his people will arrange to contact me despite his unfortunate demise.”

I got a glimmering of why Stevkovsky had killed Hajstrom. Sure! The piece fit neatly into place. Von Koerner was offering Cromwell to the highest bidder. And Stevkovsky had simply eliminated Hajstrom to cut down the chances of being outbid.

“Who else is in the running?” I asked Von Koerner.

“The Russians. The Chinese. The Egyptians. Many countries have reason to want Cromwell’s process.”

“Do you have the process?”

“No. But I can produce Cromwell. After that, it’s up to you. Of course, I’m assuming that you’re in a position to speak for your government. If you are, I’m sure they’ll see the logic of meeting my price.”

“Suppose that instead we just lock you up for the treacherous kidnapping blackmailer you are and throw away the key? ”

“That would not be wise. Believe me. Cromwell would never be seen again. Arrangements have been made to cover such an eventuality. If anything happens to me, Cromwell’s fate is sealed.”

“You certainly have a way with words,” I told him sarcastically. “But before I advise my government to fork over a hundred grand, I have to be awfully damn sure that they’ll get what they’re paying for.”

“That can be arranged,” Von Koerner assured me. “Do you think you can have the money for me—in small, unmarked bills, of course--when you come to our little discipline meeting tomorrow night?”

“If I’ve gotten the reassurance I require.”

“Very well.” Von Koerner handed me a card. “Come to this address at two tomorrow afternoon and you shall have it. Ask for me. Then we can conclude our business when we meet later on in the evening.” Von Koerner grabbed Gretchen by her elbow and pulled her to her feet. Still holding his cane at the ready, he propelled her to the door. “Good night, Mr. Victor." He flicked his thumb, and the blade snapped back into the walking stick. The door closed behind them.

I hit the sack. But I couldn’t fall asleep. There was too much to think about. There were still too many unanswered questions. There was the card Von Koerner had given me for instance: Embossed letter spelling out “RESEARCH INSTITUTE OF ADVANCED GYNECOLOGY," an address beneath, and in the lower right hand corner Von Koerner’s name with a “Dr.” in front of it. What sort of place was it? I wondered. What was Von Koerner’s position there? What did it have to do with Anthony Bowdler Cromwell? Was that where he take that kind of chance. But then how would my going there provide me with proof that Von Koerner could really produce Cromwell?

Other questions—disconnected ones— also chased themselves around my head. How had Hajstrom come to Von Koerner? Gretchen had seemed unaware of any connection between them. And what about Carrie Cromwell? How had she gotten involved with Von Koerner? Had she delivered her husband into his clutches? Knowingly? If so, why? And how had Von Koerner known of Cromwell’s importance in the first place? Also, what of Stevkovsky? How had he gotten onto Cromwell’s invention? Had Von Koerner approached the Russians? If so, why had my double had to follow my trail and impersonate me in order to get to von Koerner?

Most intriguing of all, who was Von Koerner, anyway? Who did he represent? A gang? Some secret organization? An international outfit loyal only to itself and ready to sell to any side for its own profit? Or was Von Koerner strictly a loner engaged in a onetime venture he’d stumbled into, a loner operating probably with the help of a few hired thugs?

Questions! Questions! Questions!

I fell asleep.

The phone-—trustier than any alarm clock—woke me as usual. It was Hortense—as usual. Her voice was starry-eyed with wedding plans—as usual.

“Steve, I’d like your opinion about the caterer. Now, he advised . . .”

I tuned out. I looked at my wristwatch lying on the night-table. It was almost noon. And I was due at the Research Institute at two o’clock.

“Yeah, honey.” I interrupted Hortense in mid-sentence. “That sounds dandy. We can go over the details when I see you tonight.” I hung up before she could object.

Next I dialed Putnam. “American original,” I identified myself. “I need a hundred thousand dollars in small, unmarked bills.”

“You must be planning a pretty big wedding.”

“It’s for your boy with the mousetrap. That's the asking price.”

“How sure are you that the people you're dealing with can deliver?”

“I’m not sure. But I should know one way or the other by tonight. Can you get the money up to my hotel about seven?”

“The government doesn’t like to pay ransom,” Putnam told me.

“I’m a taxpayer. Neither do I. And maybe we can get it back in the long run. But the first thing is to get the mousetrap builder back safe, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You’re right. We can’t afford to take chances. I'll see that you get the money.” Putnam hung up.

I got dressed, ate a huge brunch, and headed for the Research Institute. It was five of two when I got there. I stood in front of it for a moment, looking the place over. Only four stories, but impressive. Clean lines, glass front, sterile steel. Very modern. Very utilitarian. Very impressive!

Two pyramids with a phallic sweep to them flanked the front entrance outside. I walked between them. Inside a pair of wire mobiles pointed an aisle toward a center reception desk. The desk was marble. I walked up to It.

“I’d like to see Dr. Von Koerner,” I told the pleasantly smiling middle-aged woman behind it.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes. He’s expecting me.”

Her fingers went tic-tac-toe over the switchboard at her side, and she leaned discreetly into the echo-proof mouthpiece. Then she leaned back toward me and showed me some more of her dentures.

“Room three-one-six, third floor. The elevator’s right over there.” She nodded in the direction she meant.

The elevator was automatic and over-pressurized. It made my ears pop. They popped back as I entered room three-one-six.

“Mr. Victor?” More teeth from the girl behind the desk. She was younger. I guessed they were her own.

“Yes, I admitted.

“You can go right in. Doctor is waiting for you.” She indicated a door to her right.

I went through it. Doctor was indeed waiting for me. His smile of greeting was even less sincere than the other two. “Mr. Victor. I’m so glad you came.”

For a hundred thousand dollars, I bet he was glad.

“Doctor Von Koerner?” I made it a question more than a greeting.

“Oh, yes,” he acknowledged it. “I am indeed a doctor, Mr. Victor.”

“A doctor of what?” I asked curiously.

“Gynecology. I do not like to brag, but at one time I was one of the best-known gynecologists in Berlin.”

“West Berlin, or East Berlin?” It was a dig.

He recognized it as such and raised an eyebrow. “I went wherever my practice took me, Mr. Victor.”

“And always ended up in the same old place.”

“Of course.” He gave me a cold smile. “But then I am forgetting that our professions are closely related, aren’t I? We are, in a sense, colleagues.”

“Oh, I Wouldn’t say that. We’re only loosely in the same field. Gynecology is only of the most casual concern to O. R. G. Y.”

“But my interests extend far beyond the field of gynecology.” Von Koerner waved an arm. “This Institute, of which I am the director, has followed its nose—I beg your pardon; an unfortunate choice of words—-has extended itself, rather, in directions which are not dissimilar to those pursued by O. R. G. Y. Currently we are engaged in a series of experiments and observations designed to provide data relating to psychological and physical reactions of people engaging in the sex act.”

“You mean you’ve been surveying people as to their reactions?”

“Not at all. What we have been doing is actually observing and taking measurements while the act of intercourse is performed.”

“You mean going into the bedrooms of married couples and-—?”

“No. The people come here. To the Institute. Volunteers. And while we began with married couples, today we by no means limit ourselves to them. Many single people of both sexes come here. Some of them are paid. We use both male and female prostitutes. But many other single people simply come in the interests of abetting scientific investigation-—or perhaps merely to satisfy their desire. It is fascinating work. I am truly saddened that I shall have to give it up.”

“It sounds fascinating. But why do you have to give it up?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Victor. You don’t imagine that once we have concluded our business dealings I would be so foolish as to remain within catching distance. If you have entertained any such notion, let me assure you that foolproof arrangements have been made for me to disappear as soon as the matter is concluded. If that weren’t so, I should never have invited you here.”

“Just why did you ask me here? I thought it was to provide proof that you could produce Cromwell.”

“So it is. And you shall have your proof. If you will be so good as to come with me.” Von Koerner held the door open and then guided me down the hallway. We went into another room, an antechamber of some sort, and then through another door.

Now we were in a very large and very unusual room. The center area was taken up by a sort of bedroom setup. It was pleasant, not exactly plush, but well-appointed in the modern fashion. The furnishings were in good taste, yet there were voluptuous touches not found in the ordinary boudoir.

The double bed was king-size, covered with a positively lascivious red spread, and there must have been eight or ten pillows of different colors strewn suggestively atop it. There was a vanity, mirrored and neat, but with a variety of bottles of scent on it that would have been worthy of a Turkish harem. A wardrobe closet, sturdy and sensible, stood with its sliding doors opened. Inside I could see a variety of female lingerie and men’s sleepwear. There were styles and patterns to suit every taste with the stress on erotic appeal. Across from it was a make-believe window with drapes and a venetian blind.

Von Koerner turned out the light on the nightstand beside the bed and then raised the blinds. There was a flat on the other side of it with a very clever simulation of an evening sky. Von Kvoerner pushed a few buttons, and a moon and a spattering of stars lit up most realistically. He turned them out again and turned on the lights.

Now we proceeded to the outer section of the large chamber. The “bedroom” took up the center area, but the scene beyond its fringes was completely different Here, ringing it, was the most elaborate sort of laboratory equipment. There were machines and electrographs and recording instruments and banks of levers and a variety of other gadgets, most of which were meaningless to me. Von Koerner undertook to explain their functions. “Do you see that mirror?’ He pointed. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the ceiling suspended over the “bedroom” was all mirrored glass. “It serves several functions,” Von Koerner continued. “It provides erotic encouragement; that, of course, is obvious. It also serves as a one-way viewing glass by which we can watch our subjects while they engage in sex. And there are a series of motion-picture cameras which photograph them from every angle in full color. Built into the furniture of the room are tape recorders which pick up the slightest sound, right down to variations in the sonics of the subjects’ breathing. In the springs of the mattress itself are tiny transistor devices which connect up to this electro-cardiogram machine here and record the subjects’ pulse beats.” He indi- cated the machine of which he spoke.

“How do you tell their heart beats apart?” I asked.

“Each heart has its own individual pattern. The differences are minute, but detectable. By ferreting them out beforehand, we are able to distinguish one from the other in the graphs recorded by the machine.”

“I see.”

“Also, electrical connections from much of the apparatus are directly made to the subjects themselves. This machine records their brain waves as transmitted by electrodes fastened to their temples. This one measures both the extent and chemical content of their perspiration. Special vents in the experimental area pick up odors and transmit them to this machine which records their intensity and individualistic nature. All of these things tell us much about the subjects’ psychological reactions, as well as their physical ones. Perspiration may be a sign of fear, for instance. What was it that the subject found threatening at that particular moment? By correlating our data, We can determine that-—as well as many other things.”

“How do you correlate?”

“Do you see that large computer over there with the bank of switches and flashing lights?”

“Yes. I was going to ask what it was.”

“We call it the ‘Brain.’ All the information compiled by these other devices is fed directly into it. The ‘Brain’ has ten thousand cross-circuits of categorization. Therefore, the punch card it eventually releases on each individual subject is the result of a truly infinite number of possible combinations. Its calculations are so complex as to be well beyond the scope of the human mind. Therefore, when it reports similarities among subjects, we must accept such similarities as a pattern of human behavior. If twenty people‘ have identical physical or psychological reactions during the sex act, the mathematical odds are too enormously against it being mere coincidence for that to be a consideration. Do you follow, Mr. Victor? It’s not a question of twenty to one. Because of the infinite number of patterns the ‘Brain’ is capable of detecting, it is a matter of billions and billions to one. Such evidence must be accepted.”¹⁵

“I’m not questioning it. What I do question is the value of reducing human sexual behavior to the confines of a pigeonhole.”

“But isn’t that exactly what O. R. G. Y. does? The only difference, if you’ll pardon me, is that our methods are more efficient.”

“And a damn sight less fun,” I pointed out.

“Perhaps. But then you shall have the opportunity of determining that for yourself. If you have no objection, Mr. Victor, I shall ask you to participate in one of our experiments.”

“And if I have some objection? I’m sure it would be very interesting, but that isn’t what I came here for.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Victor. That’s exactly why I had you come here. Believe me, it will provide the assurance you seek regarding our impending transaction.”

I wouldn’t have believed Von Koerner if he’d been perched on the proverbial stack of Bibles. But I had no choice except to go along with what he wanted. It was his show, and he was calling the shots. I had to play his game if I wanted to find Cromwell. My only consolation was the fact that it wouldn’t be to his advantage to harm me. I was the in-between slated to make the payoff. Because of this, Von Koerner would have been willing to take out a Blue Shield policy on me if that might have kept me healthy. So I shrugged and agreed to go along with his cockamamie program.

“Good. Then I shall leave you now. I suggest that you prepare for bed. Help yourself to anything that appeals to you.” He gestured toward the wardrobe closet. “Just relax and enjoy yourself,” Von Koerner advised politely, and then he left.

Feeling like a guppie in a goldfish bowl, I strode over to the wardrobe. I selected some black silk pajamas; they were conservative compared to most of the other items available. I took off my clothes and donned them. Then I stretched out on the bed and tried to follow Von Koerner’s advice and relax.

A few moments later a girl entered. I recognized her immediately. It was five years since I’d last seen her, but Carrie Cromwell wasn’t the kind of female I’d forget.

She was wearing a starched white blouse and a demure black skirt which was very full and not at all tight. Her brown hair was still in bangs and tied at the back in the manner of an old-fashioned schoolgirl. A touch of subdued lipstick was the only makeup she wore. Also, she still had that air of untouchable virtue about her—an air made paradoxical by a figure which wouldn’t have been out of place coming down the runway at Minsky’s¹⁶ .

“Hello, Mr. Victor.” She greeted me calmly. “How nice to see you again.”

“How nice that you remember me,” I replied.

“And you me,” she ping-pongecl back.

“You’re much more memorable than I am.” I cleared the net. “But perhaps this isn’t the time and place to talk over old times. We have more immediate matters to discuss.”

“Yes. But first I have to prepare myself for the experiment. You’re ahead of me.” Her lips curved in appreciation of the pajamas I’d selected. “Won’t you help me decide?” She nodded toward the wardrobe closet.

“If you like.”

“This one?” She took out an apricot-colored nightgown of rippling silk and held it up in front of her. “Or perhaps this?” She held up some light blue Baby Dolls. “Or do you think this might be more exciting?” She showed me a sheer black organdy, low-cut and ending just above the knee.

“They all look great to me. I guess I could never pick among them,” I confessed. “You’d better decide yourself.”

“All right.” She took out a dark green number and lay it over the back of a chair. Then she stood up very straight and stretched. Her large breasts strained against the starched white blouse and two clear outlines marked the material over their tips.

Now Carrie lowered her arms. One of her hands went to the nape of her neck and released the clasp holding her hair in place there. She tossed her head and the copper-brown curls shimmered over her shoulders and formed a cloud framing her heart-shaped face. Her deep brown eyes, serious and intent, stared at me as she started to unbutton the blouse.

When the buttons were undone, she pulled the blouse free of the skirt and let it fall to the floor. She was wearing a full white slip with no bra under it. Her large breasts rippled against the silk, the full mounds of the upper portion of her bosom revealed above the top of the slip, a dark, intriguing shadow of deep cleavage separating them, the outline of the extended nipples and the deep red of their roseates barely discernible under the white silk.

I’d been so intent on her bosom that I hadn’t noticed Carrie’s hand undoing the zipper at her hip. The black skirt fell away in a wide swirl and settled to the floor. Her hands slid slowly and insinuatingly down her hips, calling my attention to the rest of her body.

It deserved all the attention I gave it. There was a subdued light coming from behind her and it made the lower part of the white slip semi-transparent. I had a sort of ‘now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t’ view of her legs, which were long and shapely and just a little fleshy at the thighs, a touch of voluptuousness which was appealing because it seemed a subtle confirmation of her desire.

The slip hung straight from her hips, so that I could make out their shape clearly. They were wide without being bony, and their flesh trembled a little under my glance. Carrie met that glance, giggled just a bit nervously, and pirouetted once. I caught a quick flash of rosiness as the light bounced off her white silk-covered derriere. It was high and round and plump—everything that portion of a woman ought to be.

Now Carrie was facing me again. The light from behind her revealed just the barest suggestion of the brown triangle under her flat belly. I sensed more than saw the prickling of the soft down there.

Carrie picked up the green nightie and held it in front of her as a sort of teasing shield. She pulled it over her head and held it at her shoulders without letting it fall. She moved one of her shoulders in a voluptuous gesture and the slip strap fell away from it. She repeated the movement and the second strap was released. I caught a quick glimpse of quivering maroon nipples as the green garment replaced the white slip falling to her waist. I also caught the merest blink of that pulsating triangle as the slip fell to the floor and the green nightie descended to just above Carrie’s knees.

She stood before me in the nightgown now. It was quite a garment that she had selected. Made of nylon, it had wide straps which reached from her shoulders to her waist. The straps slanted inward and almost met where they ended. They had been cut away at the sides so that all but the tips of her breasts could be clearly seen. Below the waist, the center part had been cut away on either side so that the skirt was a sort of narrow triangle of cloth which revealed most of her belly—although not the navel -—and left her thighs naked. In the back the straps descended even farther, to a midway point on her buttocks, so that their plumpness shimmered above the green material. Then the straps also merged to form a single triangular piece of material dangling enticingly between the backs of her thighs.

She undulated over to the bed and I grabbed for her. Hell, I’m human! But Carrie quickly danced out of reach with a little laugh. “We have to wait,” she informed me.

“Wait? What for?”

“You’ll see.”

So I waited. It was only a few moments, but I took advantage of them to ask Carrie a few questions. My first question wasn’t exactly original.

“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” I asked.

“That’s too long a story to go into now,” she replied. “Let’s just say I’m here in the interests of science—and of keeping my husband alive.”

“Then Von Koerner does have your husband?”

“Yes. He said it was all right for me to speak frankly with you. He is holding Anthony prisoner.”

“Where? Here?”

“I don’t know that. I doubt if he’s here. That would be too risky for Von Koerner.”

“Look, Carrie, I want to help you. Anthony, too. Do you believe that? ”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then tell me everything that happened. From the beginning. Go as far as you can before they interrupt us.”

“All right. Anthony invented a mousetrap. We came to Washington so that he could patent it.”

“I know about the mousetrap. The question is, how did Von Koerner find out about it?”

“I don’t know that.”

“All right. Go on. How did you get involved with Von Koerner?”

“That was really Anthony’s doing. You know he’s always been on a sort of personal crusade of his own against vice.”

“I remember.”

“Yes. Well, he happened to pick up this fantastic little newspaper off a newsstand. It made him see red. The whole thing was devoted to sex. Anyway, the thing that got him more than anything was the personal ads in the paper. The way he saw it, they provided a sort of carte blanche communication system for members of the sex underground. He thought there might be a chance of cracking down on them because they were using the U. S. mails. But he needed proof of their activities. That’s where I came in.”

“Why didn’t he go after it himself? ”

“He was too busy chasing around with that invention of his. Besides, he had no idea of what I was going to do. I didn’t tell him. I just acted on my own. All I intended to do was a little snooping so I could give him the proof he wanted. I-t would have made him so happy. It’s hard to explain, but Anthony’s sort of a dedicated individual. He’s never so happy as when he can combat the evil inside people.”

“Well, that’s one way to get your kicks,” I observed. “But go on,” I said hastily, noticing that my remark had made Carrie angry. “What exactly did you do?”

“I answered one of the ads in the paper without telling Anthony. The next thing I knew, a few days later, I got a phone call from Velvet, the bookstore proprietor. He made the arrangements for me to meet this man Barry. This Barry was—-”

“I know him. Never mind that. Where did Barry take you?”

“To a party at the home of some people named George and Helen. I thought they might mind because they knew his wife and she was away. Boy, was I ever wrong! It wasn’t that kind of party. Now, I’d only intended to get some evidence for Anthony. I never meant to really do anything. Honestly, up until that night, I’d never been unfaithful to Anthony.” She hung her head.

“But you got carried away.” I helped her out.

“Yes. But also I learned that there was much more to this sex underground than even Anthony suspected. You have to try to understand this. I felt so guilty over having been disloyal to Anthony that when Barry asked me to another sort of sex party I accepted because I really wanted to give Anthony some worthwhile evidence to sort of make it up to him. I mean, even if he didn’t know--”

“It’s okay. I understand. You don’t have to give me any explanations.” Hell, if she’d managed to rationalize it all to herself, who was I to pull the rug from under her?

“So I went with him to this spank-party, and that’s where I met Von Koerner. At first he didn’t seem to show any unusual interest in me, but then something must have happened. Somehow, he must have gotten wind of Anthony’s invention. Anyway, he called me up at my hotel —he must have gotten the number from Velvet-—and insisted I come to another party and that this time I bring my husband. I told him that was impossible and hung up. About a half-hour after that, Anthony came in. He was very upset because he'd thrown his mousetrap in the lake. Just after he came in, there was a knock at the door. It was a messenger with a package for him. As soon as I opened it, I knew it was from Von Koerner. There was a pair of leather panties in it, the same pair I’d worn at the spank-party Barry took me to. The note with them said Anthony should ask his wife their significance. Well, he did. So I told him what I’d been up to, only I lied about participating. I showed him the ad I answered and told him how Von Koerner wanted us to come to another party that evening. He wanted to go. To tell the truth, I guess I wanted him to go, too. I love Anthony, but he’s so bottled up inside himself. I guess I had some sort of crazy idea that this might help him get rid of some of his repressions.”

“And that’s where Von Koerner grabbed him?” I speeded her along because there were people entering the chamber in which we were talking.

“Yes. He kidnapped him. And ever since he’s been blackmailing me into doing whatever he wants by threatening to kill Anthony if I don’t. He’s had me participating here with a couple of other men who were interested in Anthony. A Chinese and -”

“What other men? Tell me—” It was too late. The four white-coated attendants, two men and two women, were upon us.

The two men took charge of me. They were most efficient. The spread was whisked off the bed and I was stretched out. Moistened rubber electrodes were attached to the soles of my feet. Another set was connected to my temples. A third was slipped inside my pajama pants and fastened to the area of my groin. Then I was neatly flipped over on my stomach. I hadn’t been aware of it, but there was a small hole in the seat of my pajamas. A thermometer was neatly inserted via the aperture. There was a wire leading from it, as there was from each of the electrodes.

The pair of female attendants had wired Carrie in similar fashion. Now the four of them turned to the instrument panels lining the walls and made a series of adjustments. As they marched out the lights dimmed in the “bedroom” and starlight and moonlight trickled through the “window.” Somewhere a stereo softly played the love music form Tristan and Isolde. A gentle but aphrodisiac perfume wafted past my nostrils.

“They don’t miss a trick, do they?” I remarked.

“Everything has been prepared scientifically to provide the utmost stimulation,” Carrie murmured.

“Well, you don’t have to go through with this,” I assured her. “There’s no reason—-”

“Oh, but I must! I owe it to Anthony!”

“I’m sure Von Koerner won’t harm Anthony if you don’t. He doesn’t care if -”

“I know my duty,” Carrie said fervently. “I’m here to be violated, and that’s that. And you’re supposed toviolate me.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Am I that unappealing?”

“No, but—”

“Then don’t say another word.” She sealed my lips with a kiss. It was quite a kiss. It left no doubt about the volcano of desire seething inside her.

Like I said before, I’m human. With her body hot and quivering against mine, who was I to re-write the script? To tell the truth, it never entered my mind. I reacted purely by instinct. I reached into the convenient slit of the nightie and caressed her bare breast.

Carrie’s skin was warm, and velvet to the touch My fingers sought out the sensitive area of her breast. I traced my finger over it and squeezed gently. It was as resilient as foam rubber with a hard center of passion. “How beautiful,” I murmured.

“That,” Carrie informed me, “is the electrode. It’s made of rubber with a metal center.”

Well, I wasn’t the first man to get my sex stimuli confused. Such is the age in which we live. Many a foam rubber bra has fooled a man to the point of arousal. I moved my hand, and encountered something that felt like the real thing. Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. “Is that it?” I asked Carrie.

“That,” she sighed, “is most definitely it!”

It swelled between my fingers as if to confirm what she said. Her hips moved in response to the touch. Her hand slid up my inner thigh, the fingers trailing excitingly up the back of my leg to my haunches. She squeezed them gently.

“Ouch!” I jumped.

“What’s the matter?”

“That damn thermometer.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Carrie’s hand relaxed its pressure.

We kissed again. The tip of her breasts was burning between my fingers now. Her hand, caressing my thighs intimately, was also hot and a trifle moist

“What do we need these clothes for?” Her voice was husky, her lips tingling at my ear.

We took them off carefully—very carefully! It was a project, doing it so as to avoid snarling the wires. Finally we were naked, and I took Carrie in my arms again. Our lips met. Her hands turned into a fist and grasped my manhood. There was the sudden jarring note of a bell ringing.

“What: was that?” My head shot up from the pillow.

“What?”

“That bell. Didn’t you hear it?”

“Oh, that.” Carrie shrugged and pulled me to her once again. “That always happens. Don’t let it bother you. You’ll get used to it.”

“That I doubt.” I slid my hand down her belly. It was soft and warm and then, as my fingers slid lower, it was furry. They slid still lower and a bright amber light blinked from one of the machines and momentarily blinded me. “I suppose that always happens, too,” I commented.

“Yes. Forget about it. You’re too tense. Concentrate on me, on what you’re doing.”

“It’s like making love in the Gilbert Hall of Science.”

Carrie giggled. “Or in Frankenstein’s laboratory. But forget it. just make your mind a blank and let yourself go.”

It was good advice, and I took it. I gave myself up completely to sensation. I felt her quivering response as I located the fulcrum of her womanhood, and I responded back. Both her fists circled me now, and she was moaning low in her throat. Her body began to thrash about with desire, and I found myself moving with an ageless rhythm as my own passion mounted to match hers.

Her nails raked my back, urging me over her. I raised myself up and then plunged down hard. She rose up to meet my thrust.

“Ahh!” Carrie held me prisoner for a moment. Then, slowly, she began to move—little circular movements, not wild, but intense and controlled.

I followed her motions, moving slowly, horizontally, holding myself back to enjoy the exquisite tactile sensation as she both rotated and squeezed at the same time. Shudders began to sweep over her body. I leaned forward, increasing the inner pressure. That did it. She gave a little cry, and then she was heaving and bouncing beneath me like a maddened volcano about to erupt.

It was a struggle now, a wild, angry struggle. Our bodies hammered at one another like frenzied animals in a battle to the death. She screamed, and I cursed.

“Now!” Carrie screamed again. “Now! Now! Now! Rape me, you lover! Now! Rape me! Now! Give it to me now! Now! Now! Now!” Her teeth tore at my shoulder.

I grabbed her by the ears and slammed home in one final surge of berserk passion. She rose to meet it. Together we crashed through the void and split the universe apart!

A sudden sharp crackling of electricity brought us down out of that void. We’d gotten our wires crossed—- literally. In our frenzied passion, we’d broken connections and tangled them. And now there were sparks shooting from our groins and the sputtering of live wires around our pubic hair.

“Don’t move!” The voice boomed out from a loudspeaker somewhere in the room. “If you do, you may electrocute yourselves! Don’t move! The slightest shift of position could mean the end of your lives!”

Yeah! But what a way to go!

chapter TEN

“Wow!” Carrie hadn't quite come down out of the clouds yet. “That was the--” She caught up with our electrifying predicament. “Eek!”

“Don’t move! ” I cautioned her, echoing the loudspeaker, which she obviously hadn’t heard.

She didn’t move. Neither did I. We waited. It seemed like an eternity, but in reality, I suppose it was only a couple of minutes. Then Von Koerner appeared at the head of a phalanx of white-coated technicians. They began yanking levers and pulling wires, and finally the electrical crackling at the juncture of our bodies subsided. Gingerly, Carrie and I pulled away from each other.

Von Koerner was all apologies. I could believe his sincerity. I was the goose on the verge of laying one hundred thousand golden eggs for him and it didn’t figure that he was trying to kill me. When he got through begging my pardon, he delicately broached the subject.

“Do you believe now that I have the item you wish to purchase?” Von Koerner asked.

“It seems reasonable to assume that you do.”

“And you will have the money agreed upon for me tonight?”

“Yes. Providing you can assure delivery.”

“I can.”

I pulled on the last of my clothes. “Say, Von Koerner, will you tell me one thing?” I asked curiously.

“Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?”

“Why this whole elaborate sex bit with Mrs. Cromwell? Surely you could have just produced her, had her tell me you had her husband, and let it go at that.”

“Two reasons.” Von Koerner looked positively coy. “First of all, since you are the man from O. R. G. Y., I could not resist showing off our operation to you. Secondly, the lady demanded it. She remembers you from some past meeting, it seems. She positively refused to cooperate under any other circumstances. As a matter of fact, she was positively callous about her husband’s fate.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” I stared at Carrie Cromwell.

She blushed. “I just had to-—just once.”

“No apologies necessary,” I assured her.

I gave her a quick kiss, and we parted. Von Koerner had me escorted out of the Institute. Still vibrating a bit from the high-voltage scare I’d had, I hopped along back to my hotel.

There were the usual messages from Hortense. I was just flushing them down the toilet when the phone rang. I picked it up and said “Hello, Hortense” into the mouthpiece.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Elementary. You haven’t had time to go through today’s roll of dimes yet.”

“What? Oh, never mind. What I called you about, Steve, was the--”

“Wedding. " I finished the sentence for her.

“Oh, then it’s been on your mind, too.”

“Constantly.”

“I’m so glad.” Hortense missed my sarcasm. “Because we have this problem. I’ve inquired all over Washington, and I haven’t been able to find a Zoroastran minister anywhere. How do you think your mother would feel about a Zen Buddhist?”

“Perplexed.”

“Umm. I was afraid of that. I met this Zen disciple and he tried to convince me there was a similarity, but I had my doubts. You see, he was a lay person.”

“Is that how you met him?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“All right. Anyway, Steve, I’m at my wits’ end. Do you think maybe your Mom might consider a Yoga?”

“I don’t think so. Generally speaking, she’s prejudiced against anything chiropractic.”

“Well then, what are we going to do about her?”

“Let’s not ask her.”

“Not ask her?” Hortense was shocked. “To her own son’s wedding?”

“She never liked me much, anyway.”

“Really? You never, told me you had Oedipal difficulties.”

“I don’t like to talk about it. It makes me feel guilty.”

“You mean you—! ” Now Hortense was really shocked.

“Constantly.”

“With your own mother!”

“We were very close.”

“I can imagine! But—”

“No buts. It was over a long time ago. I never think of it any more—except maybe on Mother’s Day.”

“What about Father’s Day?”

“I spend that in a Zoroastran temple—repenting.”

“Well, it’s your family,” Hortense said philosophically. “If you don’t want your own mother at the wedding—-”

“I don’t even want her along on the honeymoon,” I assured her.

“Okay. But there's something else, Steve. The business of the maid of honor. I thought of asking Trixie.”

“Who’s Trixie?”

“One of the girls I used to work with. But if you have any objections-—-”

“None at all. Ask Trixie. As a matter of fact, why not ask the whole gang to be bridesmaids?”

“Gee, they’d love that. If you really wouldn’t mind—”

“Not in the least.”

“Thanks, Steve. Gosh, there are a lot of other things I have to discuss with you about the wedding.”

“Why not let it go until tonight? We can talk about them then.”

“How can we? We’ll be with Barry and Elsa. And they already think we’re married. Remember?”

“That’s right. Well then, after we split from Barry and Elsa.”

“We’ll be at that spank-party then.”

“After the party. I really don’t have time now to—”

“All right. I guess it can wait if you’re busy.” Hortense sounded only a little bit miffed. “But I did want to ask you about the party. Do I have to go to it?”

“Sure. Don’t you want to?”

“Not really. I mean, that sort of thing, now that I’m almost a married lady—it doesn’t seem right.”

“Well, this’ll probably be the last time,” I consoled her.

“Even so, it makes me feel so unfaithful -- to you.”

“I’m not the jealous type. Anyway, you’re doing it for me.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later.” I hung up.

I had time to shower and get dressed before the messenger from Putnam arrived. He brought the money at seven o’clock, right on schedule. It was all in small bills, as Von Koerner had requested. I opened the package and riffled the banknotes. Money has a soothing effect on me, and this was more money than I’d ever had in my hands in my life. I sighed, re-tied the package, took it down to the lobby, put it in the hotel safe, and Went out to dinner.

It was about eight-thirty when I picked it up again and left the hotel for the evening. An hour later I was on my way to Von Koerner’s spank-party with Hortense, Barry and Elsa. We were in Barry’s car.

“Only a few more days,” Hortense whispered in my ear, squeezing my hand intimately.

Elsa saved me from having to whisper an answer. “W hat have you got in that package, Steve?” she asked. Her voice was pleasant, polite, friendly; it was as if she’d never come to my hotel room the night before.

“A little present for our host,” I told her.

“Really? I hope it’s something utilitarian. Like a new cat o’ nine tails, or some pincers suitable for red-hotting."

“Oh, it’s utilitarian all right,” I assured her. “It’s about the most utilitarian thing there is.”

“Well, here we are,” Barry interrupted, pulling the car up beside a veranda running alongside a large parking lot.

We got out, and an attendant took the car. A second attendant ushered us from the veranda to the entrance of the large mansion from which it extended. Here a third attendant took over and led us inside.

This third one was something to behold. He was dressed in purple livery and wore a powdered wig. Still, I guess he fit right in with the decor of the place.

It was massive. Oiled walnut and elaborate—if somewhat murky—tapestries predominated. I took a closer look at one of the tapestries. The scene woven into it harked back to the Spanish Inquisition and showed a man being drawn and quartered in detail.

We passed a huge circular staircase leading to the upper portion of the mansion, and then the footman-—if that’s what he was—held aside a curtain so that we might enter the main room. Big? You could have lost the Ringling Bros. circus there and still had enough space left over for the Mets to play the Dodgers. Von Koerner spotted us, detached himself from a small group of people, and came downfield to greet us. We shook hands at about second base.

“I am so glad that you could come.” He included all four of us in his greeting. “Have you brought me a gift, Mr. Victor?” He eyed the package tucked securely under my arm. “How nice.” He held out his hand.

“Later.” I smiled at him. “I want you to have it at just the right moment. I wouldn’t want to spoil things by being premature.”

“And when will the right moment be?”

“When all the special guests I’m sure you’ve asked are present,” I told him.

“What the devil are you two talking about?” Barry asked.

“Just a little secret between Mr. Victor and myself,” Von Koerner told him smoothly. “Don’t trouble yourself about it. Why don’t you all make yourselves comfortable on this divan here? The entertainment will begin in a moment or two. When it’s over,” he added pointedly, speaking directly to me, “We can have a chat about just the proper circumstances for opening my gift.”

Von Koerner moved off, and the four of us sat down as Von Koerner had suggested. A minute later the lights Went out, and a spotlight sprang up from the ceiling to illuminate an area like a center arena. A loud scream focused our attention on the center of the area.

Gretchen was lying there on her back, Wearing a simple black wool dress with buttons down the front. Large as she was, she looked even larger stretched out that way. Under the black wool, her breasts reached for the ceiling like twin outsize missiles ready to be launched. It took a moment before I appreciated the cause of her scream.

Then I saw it. One of her bare feet was locked in a metal “boot,” one of the oldest of torture weapons. The screw of the boot had just been tightened by a shapely brunette wearing a skimpy bikini made of leather and a domino mask.

There were three other brunettes, similarly attired, spaced farther away from Gretchen, as if to mark three of the four corners of a square. Now the brunette dropped the “boot” and fell back to the fourth corner. Gretchen continued to moan.

There were various paraphernalia at each of the corners, beside each of the brunettes. Now, in ritual fashion, each of them picked up a small metal bucket in one hand and a scoop in the other. With perfect timing, they simultaneously scooped burning coals from the bucket and tossed them at Gretchen. The shower of sizzling yellow-red nuggets with their black centers resulted in four geometrically perfect arcs. Gretchen screamed again, then writhed frantically to brush them off herself.

I was beginning to appreciate that Von Koerner was getting his revenge for Gretchen’s attempt to double cross him with me. I also suspected that there was a reason for having me witness her punishment. It was Von Koerner’s none-too-subtle way of telling me I’d better not cross him.

Of course, I had to keep in mind that he really enjoyed this sort of thing. I doubted that Gretchen did. She might have dug a little mild sadism, but I judged that her pain was too intense to leave room for any erotic appreciation of it.

The four brunettes had each struck a large kitchen match now. They advanced on her in the same routinized way, half-covered buttocks bouncing in cadence, breasts swaying to some unheard rhythm. Gretchen’s eyes were very wide as she watched them coming.

The first bent over and unbuttoned one button at the center of Gretchen’s dress, pulling back the material to bare the navel. Then she took the flaming match and stubbed it out there. The other three followed suit. Then all four wheeled and returned to their respective corners, their tongues licking their lips in unison.

Beside me a hand squeezed my thigh. I glanced to the side and saw Elsa’s eyes glittering as she stared at Gretchen. “Isn’t it exciting?” she chirped. “Ooh! I can just imagine how she feels!”

“A little like a shish-ka-bob,” I muttered.

“What?” Elsa’s hand moved higher up my thigh.

“Skip it.” I turned my attention back to the show, and so did she.

The first brunette had advanced from her corner and was removing the “boot” from Gretchen’s foot now. As she returned, the Amazonian blonde sat up and massaged the red and swollen member. But her respite was brief.

All four of the masked torturers advanced on her again. Each of them had a sort of metal reel with a wire loop extending from each one. The loops were placed around Gretchen’s wrists and ankles. ‘They were drawn tight. The two tethering her wrists snagged the material of her dress. All four girls returned to their corners with the reels, letting out the metal wire as they went.

The reels were set down on the tile floor. In each corner, the tile had been removed so that the reels were embedded firmly. In concert, the brunettes began drawing the wires tighter. They stopped for just a moment when Gretchen was completely spread-eagled.

I realized I was watching a modern version of the ancient torture of drawing and quartering. Gretchen tossed her long blonde curls wildly as each of her tormentors tautened the wires another notch. Then another . . . And another . . .

She seemed beyond screaming. Her eyes bulged, her mouth strained, but no sound came out. Another notch, and the sleeves of her dress stretched so that the buttons down the front of it popped. Her breasts sprang free, the rigid nipples seeming but an additional proof of the tension pulling at her limbs. They were mammoth and trembling, like outsize balloons wafted by a gentle breeze.

Another half-notch, and now her legs seemed almost at right angles to her body. The skirt of the dress was up over her thighs. Her thigh muscles bulged as if they were at the snapping point. She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. That was obvious now. Another notch, and there was the evidence that she was a natural blonde. Parting this evidence was the flesh of her womanhood drawn so tightly back that the treasure-cave it flanked was almost completely revealed.

One more tightening of the reels. The material of the dress tore away from her body. She was naked now. A rivulet of perspiration ran down the deep cleft between her breasts, collected in her blistered navel, then overflowed to moisten the blonde triangle. Another notch, and that did it. Gretchen fainted.

Von Koerner strode to the center of the arena. He held an ice bucket in his hands. He poised directly over her and overturned the bucket. Shaved ice cascaded onto her face.

It did the trick. She whimpered and opened her eyes. She was conscious again.

Von Koerner held up a hand to signal the four brunettes not to carry the torture any further. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “the time has come to take your pleasure. One at a time, if you please.”

A short, fat man in a tuxedo came forward. He removed his pants and shorts. He fell on Gretchen, wheezing and grunting his lust.

Immediately the four masked girls went into ritualized action. Whips in their hands, they advanced on the pair and lashed out in cadence. Two of them drew blood from the fat posterior of the eager man. The other two concentrated on Gretchen’s breasts.

Finally the fat man was finished. He scampered off, and the four furies stood back. A younger man, a Charles Atlas¹⁷ type, advanced. His naked legs and haunches bulged with muscles. He went at Gretchen brutally. Once again the four whips cracked out.

Another man, and another. Each time the same ritualized beating repeated. By the time Barry advanced to take his turn, Gretchen’s breasts were bleeding.

“Ooh! Isn’t Barry wonderful? " Elsa’s nails dug into my crotch.

I was too disgusted to answer. I pulled away and watched silently. Beside me Hortense was covering her eyes.

“Aren’t you going to take a turn, Steve?” Barry asked when he returned.

“No,” I told him shortly.

He looked at me curiously and shrugged. I realized that for a supposed discipline advocate I must seem to him to be lacking in enthusiasm. The hell with it! Let him think whatever he wanted to think.

Finally it was over. Gretchen, only half-conscious, was carried out by her four tormentors. The spotlight went out, and the room lights went back on. Von Koerner came straight to me and guided me toward an alcove where we could talk privately.

“Did you enjoy the exhibition, Mr. Victor?” he asked as we crossed the room.

“No!” I told him shortly.

“I’m so sorry. And I planned it so carefully. I wanted something extra-special because this is, after all, a farewell celebration. However, even if you didn’t enjoy it, I’m sure the others did. And Gretchen, I would say, will not forget me after I am gone.”

“I’m sure she won’t.” It came out a snarl. I controlled my feelings. “Let’s get down to business,” I told him. “Where’s Cromwell?”

“The amount agreed upon is in that package?”

“Yes.”

“Then give it to me and I will direct you to Cromwell.”

“Nothing doing. You don’t get your hands on this money until I have Cromwell in person.”

“I was afraid you would take that attitude. Very well, then. Much as your distrust pains me, we’ll do it your way. I will take you to Cromwell.”

Von Koerner started to lead me from the room. Just as we reached the door, Hortense intercepted us. “Where are you going?" she wanted to know.

“Your husband and I are merely stepping out for a little while,” Von Koerner told her.

“Can’t I come?”

“No.” I didn’t know what I might be getting into. I didn’t want to have to worry about Hortense as well as Cromwell and myself.

“I don’t want to stay here alone,” she pouted. “I told you how I felt.”

I looked at Von Koerner questioningly.

“Let her come,” he said. “It makes no difference.”

We went out the front way. Von Koerner had a servant bring his car around. It was quite a car—a new Dodge Charger, black, and equipped to the teeth. With Von Koerner at the wheel, it purred off like a pussycat. I sat in front with him, floating in the bucket seat. Hortense sat in back.

Von Koerner guided the car back along the route we’d taken with Barry before. He threw the stick shift into overdrive and we hummed along at sixty. It was a soft ride despite the sure road feel of the car under me.

We slowed down as we passed through the center of Washington. The Lincoln Memorial, the White House, the Washington Monument—-we glided past them all. Then we were approaching rock Creek Park. For a crazy minute it occurred to me that Von Koeruer might have Cromwell stashed away at the very hotel from which he’d vanished—my hotel.

But we passed it, and soon we were out on the open road again. We veered northwest and crossed over into Maryland, somewhere between Silver Spring and Chevy Chase. The landscape was sprinkled with upper-class houses on both sides of us, but the particular road Von Koerner was wheeling the Charger down was fairly deserted. He pulled off it onto a dirt road, rounded a grove of trees, and touched the control of the four-wheel disc brakes so that the Charger slid to a smooth stop beside a deserted looking shack.

We got out. “He’s in there,” Von Koerner told me. He held out his hand for the package with the money in it.

“Let’s see him.” I kept a firm grip on the package.

“You are too suspicious, Mr. Victor. I assure you that I am acting in good faith.” He reached in his pocket, took out a gun, pointed it at me, and smiled. “I could shoot you right now and take the money,” he pointed out.

“You wouldn’t get very far,” I assured him. “You’d bring the whole U. S. government down on you.”

“Exactly. I don’t want that. I am prepared to go through with the transaction exactly as planned. To prove it, I will leave my weapon out here--providing that you do the same.”

“All right.” I took my gun from my shoulder holster and handed it to Hortense. “Take this and wait in the car,” I told her. “If our friend here is trying to pull a fast one and comes out without me, shoot to kill. And don’t miss.”

“Steve, I don’t know what this is all about, but-—”

“There’s no time to explain now. Just do as I say.”

“All right.” Hortense got into the car.

I followed Von Koerner to the shack, still holding onto the money. He produced a key, opened a large padlock, and removed the chain which had ringed the door. He also had to remove an iron bar before the door could swing open.

It was pitch black inside. I motioned to Von Koerner to go first. He reached inside the door and groped. I guessed there must have been some sort of shelf there. Finally he came up with a flashlight. He turned it on and aimed the beam low at the far side of the shack. Standing at his elbow, I made out a cot there. There was a figure lying on it. As I followed Von Koerner inside the shack, I saw that the figure was tied to the cot. My eyes traveled upward to the face. There was adhesive tape over the mouth. Even so, and despite the years since I’d last seen him, I had no difficulty recognizing Anthony Bowdler Cromwell.

“The money, please,” Von Koerner said.

It occurred to me that there wasn’t one damn reason why I should give it to him at this point. The flashlight beam flicked to my face, and he must have read what I was thinking there. He took a step away from me and aimed the beam at Cromwell again. His other hand hovered over Cromwell’s throat. There was an ice-pick in it. The flashlight wasn’t the only thing Von Koerner had taken from the shelf.

So now I had the reason to pay him. I handed him the money. Still holding the icepick, he moved to the door. “You can untie him now.” Von Koerner motioned towards Cromwell. “I'll wait here and you can go out first. I wouldn’t want the young lady to leap to any wrong conclusions and get trigger-happy. Then you can take my car. I’ve made other arrangements.”

The adhesive tape over Cromwell’s mouth was virtually embedded in his flesh. I had to pick at it a little at a time to get it off. His eyes told me the process was painful. Also, the knots of the ropes binding him had been soaked in water and it was going to be a painstaking business working them loose. That icepick Von Koerner had would have come in handy, but I knew he wouldn’t give it to me.

As I worked over Cromwell, I tossed a few questions at Von Koerner. He wasn’t at all reticent about answering them. I guess he figured he had nothing to lose. He’d gotten what he wanted and was all set to remove himself from the action. It didn’t matter what he told me now. Also, Von Koerner was naturally a braggart. He enjoyed crowing about his scheme and how well he’d executed It.

As he talked, while I worked over Cromwell, the pieces of the puzzle, the missing pieces Von Koerner now provided, fell neatly into place. One piece of luck, a coincidence, had placed von Koerner in the position he was now so thoroughly enjoying, the position which had netted him the hundred grand he now clutched in his hot little hand. This coincidence was personified by Carrie Cromwell.

But the scheme itself had begun not with her, but with Knute Hajstrom. Von Koerner had known Hajstrom many years ago in Europe. After the war, Von Koerner had “found it necessary” to “emigrate” to Stockholm from his native Germany. By this I guessed that he had probably been on some list of wanted Nazi scientists and had managed to get out one jump ahead of the War Crimes Commission¹⁸ . In any case, since he had no license to practice medicine in Sweden, he had been forced to do so illicitly. He practised a peculiar form of gynecology in Stockholm’s nether world of sex. The Swedes have a very permissive attitude toward sex¹⁹ . Abortion, for instance, is legal. But they do draw the line at groups which go in for certain specialized perversions. It was to these groups that Von Koerner catered. He performed operations to sensitize the sex organs, operations which left the patient in the perpetual state of one who takes aphrodisiacs regularly. He also devised and sold various gadgets to heighten the sex experience. And he patched up occasional victims of discipline club parties which had gotten out of hand.

That’s where Hajstrom came into the picture. He was an ardent follower of the De Sade theory of combining sex with pain. He brought a very young girl to Von Koerner one night. The girl had been brutally beaten by him. She was unconscious and bleeding internally. Despite Von Koerner’s ministrations, she died. Von Koerner disposed of the body for Hajstrom.

Even in those days Hajstrom was a prominent engineer. Learning this, Von Koerner started blackmailing him. Hajstrom came from a very wealthy family. Shortly after the incident with the girl, his father died and he came into a great deal of money. Von Koerner relieved him of a substantial portion of it and came to the United States.

Here Von Koerner played it straight for a short while. He served his internship, took his medical boards, and was licensed to practice as a gynecologist. Then, using what was left of the money he had extorted from Hajstrom, he had founded the Research Institute of Advanced Gynecology. Once it was established, he had found it easy to get wealthy individuals and foundations to invest in it. Recently he had pulled out his original investment, sold his interest at a profit, and made arrangements to disassociate himself from the Institute and its research program.

He had begun to make these arrangements when he learned that Hajstrom was in Washington, on loan from the University of Stockholm to the U. S. government as an expert in alloys with much valuable knowledge pertaining to our outer space program. He had started blackmailing Hajstrom again. But the well had almost run dry, and he recognized that he could only get so much before he drove the Swede to suicide. This was how things stood when Cromwell came into the picture.

One look at Cromwell’s mousetrap and Hajstrom had recognized the value of the alloy used in its creation immediately. He must have thought he saw the glimmering of a way to get Von Koerner off his back. In any case, he called Von Koerner before he went to the Pentagon and told them of Cromwell’s discovery.

“It was I who decided he should alert the Pentagon,” Von Koerner told me smugly.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Because I knew I would have Cromwell in my possession before they could get to him. And I thought they would pay handsomely to get him back. As it turns out, they have. But if they hadn’t, there were other governments who were interested.”

The reason Von Koerner had been so sure of himself was Carrie Cromwell. Originally she’d been brought to one of his spank-parties by Barry. But she’d gotten to Barry through Velvet, and Von Koerner was the power behind Velvet. The bookseller was a front, as was the bookshop, for another of Von Koerner’s schemes. He had compiled information about all the people who had dealt with Velvet and been steered into underground sex activities. His purpose was blackmail.

Thus Von Koerner had made it his business to know all about Carrie Cromwell and her husband. With Anthony Bowdler Cromwell such a bluenose, he had thought he might eventually blackmail Carrie, or perhaps even Cromwell himself. Then had come the call from Hajstrom about Cromwell’s discovery, and Von Koerner had seen the opportunity for some really big money.

He had called Carrie and insisted she bring her husband to the spank-party that evening. When she balked, he sent the note with the leather panties to Cromwell. That did it. Cromwell. fell into his hands like a ripe plum.

After that he had put out feelers to the various governments, letting Hajstrom’s contact with the Pentagon serve as the contact for the U. S. government. Then he had played a waiting game, figuring that would push the price up. But when Hajstrom had been killed, he’d decided to wait no longer.

“Your killing Hajstrom made me nervous,” he admitted. “Was that your purpose?” '

I didn’t answer him. I guessed that my Russian double had killed Hajstrom because Hajstrom was the competition. Also he must have known I’d be blamed for it, and that would not only make trouble for me with the police, but would also make Von Koerner suspicious, which it had. But his greed was greater than his suspicion, and so here we were.

I had Cromwell untied now. He got to his feet. He was pretty wobbly. I gave him a minute to get hold of himself. That minute proved costly.

Von Koerner was standing to one side of the door, his back to it. The beam from his flashlight was in my eyes. He had the packet of money under his arm, the ice pick still in his hand.

Then, suddenly, he stiffened, his face crumpled with agony, and he pitched forward to the floor. The flashlight went spinning crazily out of his grasp. Something hard hit me on the side of the head. It didn’t knock me unconscious, but it dazed me for a moment. I was still dazed as I stumbled to the door and tripped over Von Koerner’s body.

As if through a fog, I saw Cromwell shoved into the rear seat of the Charger. The door was slammed behind him, and I saw the face of the man who’d been shoving him. My mind struggled with the perception that it was Stevkovsky, my double.

“Von Koerner tried to pull a fast one,” I heard him say to Hortense as he ran around to the driver's side of the car. “He’ll be after us, so let's go. I'll drive.”

“Hey, wait a-—” I tried to shout as the car pulled away. It came out a weak whisper.

I got up and saw the knife sticking out of Von Koerner’s back. It shocked me back into awareness. My mind raced with the import of what had happened. Stevkovsky must have been tailing us. He’d probably parked his car down the dirt road and sneaked up to the cabin on foot. It was dark out, and he’d probably moved fast, so Hortense hadn’t seen him. Now she thought that he was me again. I couldn’t guess what Cromwell might be thinking. He’d been pretty dazed himself. Chances are that with everything happening so quickly, he probably thought Stevkovsky was me, too.

I relieved the corpse of the packet of money. I was recovered now and I started moving fast. I’d probably waited too long, but still I had to try to catch the Charger. I darted down the dirt road until I spotted the car Stevkovsky had left there. It was a Porsche roadster with a convertible top. I was still holding the knife I’d taken out of Von Koerner’s back. I slashed the top of the Porsche, reached inside, and opened it. It was the work of less than a minute to cross the wires under the ignition and start it up.

I bounced down the rutty dirt road with all the speed I could milk out of the Porsche. Where it met the highway I stopped and found the tire tracks of the Charger veering left just before they vanished on the pavement. Stevkovsky was heading away from Washington.

I turned left, shifted the gears fast, went into overdrive, and did my best to push the pedal through the floorboard. Luck was with me. Five minutes later I saw lanterns marking a construction detour coming up in the distance. Just as I saw them, the Charger came around a bend heading in the opposite direction.

Stevkovsky had goofed. He didn’t know the area. He’d made a wrong guess when he turned. Now he was retracing his route.

The Porsche tires skidded as I made a high-speed U turn and took off after him. He must have spotted me in the rear-view mirror. He really poured on the gas, and the Charger leaped ahead. I was pushing the Porsche as fast as it would go again, but it wasn’t fast enough. It was all I could do to keep the tail-lights of the Charger in sight as it whipped around the curves.

Fortunately, the Charger ran into traffic as it pulled onto one of the main roads leading back from Maryland into Washington. It weaved in and out, sure as a mountain goat, but I managed to keep it in sight. Then we were out of the traffic again, heading up into the hills on the north side of Rock Creek Park.

The Charger took the hairpin turns as if it was on rails. I followed in the Porsche, my tires squealing under me, glad of its sure balance, but wishing it had a little more oomph. If we hit a straightaway, the Charger could lose me easily.

But it wasn’t a straightaway that undid me. It was a sudden steep grade. A mountain—or maybe only a large hill—rising up on my right, the sharp drop of a ravine on my left, I milked the downhill stretch for all the speed I could get in an effort to close the distance with the Charger. At the bottom of the grade, it made a sharp right turn and vanished from sight.

As I hit the bottom, I too swung into a right-hand turn. Too late, I saw that the road immediately cut back left again. I oversteered. There was the sound of crunching wood as the Porsche hit the fence separating the road from the ravine head-on. The little sports car soared into the air, and then plunged downwards toward the black pit yawning below.

chapter ELEVEN

THE PORSCHE landed on an outcropping of rocks and burst into flames. I landed on my rear end and kept going at a high speed that ripped the seat of my pants completely away. Fortunately, the car and I had parted company before either of us landed.

At the moment that the Porsche hit the railing, I had hit the door and jumped free. I was no longer in it as it soared toward the abyss. I’d slid to a halt and was grabbing to see if my rump was still there by the time the resulting fire lit up the sky. I was still gingerly trying to investigate the damage to my fundament when I spotted headlights coming back up the road from the direction in which I’d been headed. Just on a hunch, I got behind some bushes at the side of the road.

It was a good thing I did. It was the Charger, all right. I guests Stevkovsky was checking to see if he was finally rid of me. It slowed as it passed me, without completely stopping.

“He must have been killed,” I heard Hortense say.

“Poor Dr. Von Koerner.”

“He tried to kill me,” Stevkovsky reminded her, lying. “But I guess he’s dead, all right.” From the smug tone of his voice, I knew that I was the one he thought had perished in the Porsche.

The Charger picked up speed and purred away. I came out from behind the bushes and started walking. There was nothing else to do.

It must have been two hours before I found my way out of the Rock Creek area. I spotted a bar on a side street and went into it to use the telephone. As I walked the length of the place to the back where the phone booths were, a drunk swiveled around on his barstool and eyed my protruding posterior.

“Jush wha’ kinda joint is this?” He demanded of the bartender. “I thought ya din serve queers.”

“He didn’t ask to be served.” The bartender shrugged it off.

“Ain’t it kinna breezhy goin’ aroun’ like that?” the drunk called after me.

“Kiss my ass!” I told him.

“Shee!” he exclaimed to the bartender. “I gotta six sense. I alwaysh know a fairy when I see one!” He got off his stool and followed me to the back.

He reached the phone booth just as I was dialing Putnam's number. He made a “shame-shame” gesture and shook his head at me. I stuck my tongue out at him, and he turned even redder than he was.

“Hello?” Putnam answered the phone.

“Steve Victor here,” I identified myself.

“Again? What do you want now? I just got off the phone with you.”

“If you got off the phone with somebody, it wasn’t me.”

“Didn’t you just get through telling me how Von Koerner outwitted you and almost escaped with the money and with Cromwell. Didn’t you just tell me how Von Koerner and Cromwell and the money all went up in flames when the car they were in crashed?”

“I didn’t call you,” I said firmly. “That must have been Stevkovsky.”

“Wait a minute! How do I know you’re not Stevkovsky?”

“American original.”

“Okay. Okay, Steve. Now you’d better tell me exactly what did happen.”

I told him. Just as I was finishing, the drunk tapped on the glass of the phone booth. I opened the door a crack. “Come on out and fight, ya dirty queer!” He held up a fist threateningly.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I informed him.

“What? What did you say?” Putnam was confused.

“Never mind. What do you suppose Stevkovsky’s next move will be?”

“As I see it, he figures you’re dead and intends to go on impersonating you for a while. He’s staying at your room. And he’s evidently planning to go ahead and marry your fiancee. He asked me not to give him any more assignments for a while so they could go on their honeymoon.”

“I’ll be damned! What do you suppose his angle is?”

“I just don’t know,” Putnam admitted.

“What about Hortense? And Cromwell? What did he do with them? ”

“I don’t know that, either. But I’ll put some men on it. You’d better get back to me later, Steve. After I see what we can find out.”

“Okay.” I hung up and opened the door to the phone booth. The drunk was waiting for me. '

“Come out of there and fight like a man, you pansy!”

He held up both fists and weaved, snorting loudly.

“I’m not a pansy.” I stayed seated in the phone booth. I was just too damn tired to fight.

“Then how come you’re advertising that way with your bare rear end hanging out?”

“I’m really a vice cop,” I told him in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I’m out to lure fruits so we can nail them.”

“No kidding.” He was impressed. “Anything I can do to help?” He stood back and all but bowed me out of the phone booth.

“No,” I told him as I started back down the bar. “But thanks for the offer, anyway.”

“Gee,” he bounced along at my side. “You guys are terrific. You sure could have fooled me.”

“It’s dear of you to say so, sweetie.” I patted his cheek, gave it a little pinch, and pushed through the swinging doors.

I went down the street to the first cheap hotel in sight. After I checked in, I sent the bellhop out to buy me a pair of pants. Then I filled the tub with hot water and soaked my mistreated bottom for a good hour. Finally I crawled out of the tub, patted it dry, and hit the sack. Uncomfortable as it was sleeping on my stomach, I still slept deeply.

The first thing I did after I woke the next afternoon was call Putnam. “American original.” I gave him the password so he’d know I was the one-and-only, bona-fide, dyedin-the-wool Steve Victor.

“Here’s what we’ve managed to piece together,” he told me. “After the accident, he drove Hortense back to her hotel and dropped her off. We don’t know where he went after that, but wherever it was, that must be where he’s hiding Cromwell. Now he’s at your hotel, posing as you. We’ve been tapping his wire. Most of his calls are from Hortense. He’s going right ahead with the wedding plans. He’s even made arrangements to rent a yacht for the honeymoon.”

“A yacht?”

“Yes. The idea is that he and Hortense are going to sail up the Potomac."

“That must be how he plans to get Cromwell out of Washington,” I deduced.

“It seems likely. He’s a pretty shrewd customer. Calling me last night was really a stroke of genius. It tied up all the loose ends. If he’d been right in thinking you were dead, I would have bought his story about Cromwell dying and marked the case closed. And I would have gone to the wedding none the wiser.”

“You mean you’ve been invited to the wedding? ”

“Well, why not?” Putnam sounded a little hurt that I’d even raised the question. “After all, we have been rather closely associated for quite a while. You certainly meant to ask me, I hope. I mean, I wouldn’t want to take advantage of the situation. If I’m not wanted--”

“Of course I meant to ask you,” I told him soothingly.

“Wouldn’t think of getting married without you. I’m just surprised Stevkovsky thought of it.”

“Well, even the Russians aren’t all bad. They have some consideration for people’s feelings even if some other people don’t.”

“When is the wedding?” I interrupted his brooding.

“Day after tomorrow.” He mentioned the hour.

“Where?”

“In the Vedic Temple. Our wire-tap picked up a lot of talk about that. It was the closest Hortense could come to Zoroaster.”

The Vedic Temple! “Okay,” I told Putnam. “I’ll see you in church.”

There was nothing else to do for the next two days except relax and wait. I caught up on my sleep, read a lot, and only left my hotel room for quickie meals. I didn’t want to take even the slightest chance of Stevkovsky or one of his cohorts spotting me. My biggest asset was for him to go on thinking I was dead.

Finally the big day arrived. For a bridegroom, I wasn’t at all nervous. But then why should I have been? I Was only being married by proxy, after all.

I’d checked out the details with Putnam. It was to be a formal affair. It hadn’t been hard for him to find out what Stevkovsky was wearing, down to the last detail. I duplicated it—-white tie, tails, ruffled shirt--right down to the last ruffle. Then, over the outfit, I donned a long raincoat, buttoned it up to the collar, and topped it off with a slouch hat and dark glasses.

At some point after the ceremony, during the reception, Stevkovsky would have to leave Hortense’s side to make arrangements to have Cromwell transferred to the yacht. When that happened, I intended to shed my outer garments, make my appearance, and temporarily replace him. I hoped to be able to grab Hortense for a little while and pump her as to their honeymoon plans. Putnam had been unable to find out where they were boarding the yacht, or what their eventual destination was to be. If I was lucky, I’d be able to get that information in time to intercept them and rescue Cromwell once again. My final preparation for that moment was to slip a midget revolver into the raincoat pocket.

Putnam provided a closed car to transport me to the Vedic Temple. The driver pulled up around the back. His instructions were to wait there with the motor running. I waited inside the car until the noises from the front entrance of the place announced that the bride had arrived. Then I took advantage of the commotion to slip in through the back entrance.

Putnam was there waiting for me. He guided me to a small side room. “You’ll be safe in here,” he assured me. “It’s only used for storage. And you can see both the chapel and the main room where the reception is to be held from here. All you have to do is stand on this chair and look over the transom.”

“Check.” I mounted the chair and verified the range offered my vision.

“I’ll see you later.” When I’d climbed down, he moved the chair back so he could leave the room. “Oh, and congratulations,” he added. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

Sarcastic so-and-so! I replaced the chair, climbed up again and studied the crowd. Hortense certainly had a lot of important friends. I spotted half a dozen well-known congressmen, three senators, and one Supreme Court judge. The judge’s smile may have been a little stiff, but he was doing his best to be courteous to a young lady with henna-dyed hair and a low-cut gown that was just a bit too revealing for the occasion. I guessed Hortense had really gone all out in exerting some gentle pressure to tone up the proceedings.

Some of the nabobs had even brought their wives. Looking at them and contrasting them with the other ladies present-—friends of Hortense, probably co-workers, I guessed—I could see why some of the men must have had reason to stray into Hortense’s pasture. Alas, the wives were a dowdy lot; middle-aged spread had caught up with them, and they lacked the excitement generated by the other girls. I was reminded of Perle Mesta’s remark²⁰ that Washington is a town populated by the most interesting, brilliant, distinguished, influential men in the world—and the women they married when they were very young!

Finally the crowd was seated in the chapel and the wedding started. Organ music sprang up, and after a moment I watched myself—anyway, that’s what it felt like marching down the aisle to a fate worse than death -- which was also what it felt like. And I’ll be damned if my best man wasn’t Charles Putnam!

They halted before the altar. The organ switched over to Here Comes the Bride, and Hortense made her appearance on the arm of a United States Senator. She looked as if she’d stepped right out of a bride’s book. Her gown was white satin, her veil white tulle, and she carried a large bouquet of forget-me-nots. She might have been a casual bride to half the Washington legislators once, but right now she was every inch a real, legitimate bride, and her face bore a look of exaltation that testified of her revirginization.

The Vedic priest began the ceremony. It was long and involved incense and candles and a lot of mumbo-jumbo in a language that was strange to me. But he switched over to English for the last part. Cold fear clutched my vitals as I heard myself saying “I do” and then watched myself kissing the bride.

Back up the aisle, bride and groom arm in arm, and then the reception began. The bride took her position and the men lined up to kiss her. Some of them came back for seconds. Then the bride vanished, gone to change to traveling clothes, I guessed. The groom was still trapped in a crowd of well-wishers.

Suddenly I saw Putnam approaching my hiding place. I got the chair out of the way so he could slip inside. “He's still being cagey,” he told me. “Several people have asked him where they’re going on the honeymoon, but he just laughs and plays it like a groom trying to avoid honeymoon jokers. I’ve been staying within earshot, but I haven’t been able to learn a thing.”

“All we can do is stay with it,” I replied.

Putnam slipped out again, and I once again climbed up to the transom. Hortense was back mingling with the guests. She had changed into a lightweight traveling suit and looked very demure. Stevkovsky was at her elbow.

An hour went by before he left her. Then he bent, whispered something in her ear, and was gone from the scene. I moved fast to replace him, knowing that he might be back at any moment.

“So fast?” Hortense raised an eyebrow when I appeared beside her.

“I couldn’t bear to be away from you for a moment, my darling.”

“Oh, you are so sweet. But after all, when nature calls —I mean, I’m not that possessive!”

“It can wait,” I assured her. “Besides, there’s something else bothering me. You’re going to think I’m an awful birdbrain, sweetheart. But the truth is that with everything that’s been happening, I seem to have our plans all mixed up in my head. I know it’s silly, but I wonder if you’d go over them with me.” I drew her to one side so we could talk confidentially.

“Well, we’re due at the yacht at four,” she told me, her eyes shining. “And--”

“Where is the yacht picking us up, again? I’m so confused.”

She told me. “And then we’re going to spend our wedding night on the Potomac. And tomorrow morning we’ll be off on our honeymoon.”

“Ahh yes. Where are we going again?”

“I can’t help you there, my darling. That’s your surprise. Remember, you wouldn’t tell me because you wanted to see my eyes shine when we arrive? But don’t worry about it. You’re just a nervous bridegroom, poor boy. You won’t be so mixed up when we get to the yacht. Everything will come back to you.”

“I’m sure it will. And now I really have to go.” I’d just spotted Putnam signaling frantically to me that Stevkovsky was returning.

“Don’t be long, my darling.”

I darted back to my hiding place. Looking through the transom again, I watched as Stevkovsky went up to Hortense. She really looked puzzled at what must have seemed to her to be such a quick reappearance.

Putnam waited a few minutes and then rejoined me. I told him what I had learned. “Don’t descend on the dock where the yacht is picking them up with a bunch of men,” I warned him. “My guess is Cromwell isn’t aboard yet, and if whoever’s bringing him spots anything funny, he may slip through our fingers. I’m going to head out there now and try to get aboard before the wedding couple arrives. That way I’ll be ready to help Cromwell.”

“All right,” Putnam agreed.

I slipped out the back door of the Vedic Temple by the same route I’d used in entering. My driver was waiting with the car, the motor running. I gave him our destination, and we started out.

About twenty minutes later I had him drop me off some distance from where the yacht was moored. I didn’t want to be spotted boarding it. But luck was against me.

I got down on the dock easily enough. Here I stayed out of sight behind some packing cases until there was nobody on deck. Then I made a dash up the gangplank, across the deck, and down the stairway to where I presumed the cabins would be. I took a guess and opened one of the doors. I’d guessed right. Flowers, champagne, an ice bucket—these things identified it as the cabin being held in readiness for the wedding couple. But the cabin wasn’t empty!

“Why, hello, sir. We hadn’t expected you until later.” The gold braid on the cap worn by the middle-aged man speaking identified him as the Captain. “I was just checking to see that everything was in order for your arrival.”

“Yes, yes. Very good,” I stammered.

“May extend heartiest congratulations for myself and the crew, sir?”

“Of course.” I shook his hand. “Thank you."

“I’d like to congratulate the bride too, sir.” The Captain peered behind me. “Is she on deck?”

“No. No, she hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Hasn’t arrived yet? ” he exclaimed.

“Yes,”’, I improvised desperately. “We came by separate cars.

“Separate cars?” The Captain was bewildered. “That’s a bit unusual for a wedding couple, isn’t it, sir?”

“It’s because I’m a Zoroastran,“ I babbled. “My creed prohibits the bride and groom riding in the same vehicle.”

“A Zoroastran, eh? What a coincidence,” the Captain said. “My first wife was a Zoroastran.”

“Was she, now?” I boomed it out heartily to cover my confusion. “That is a coincidence. There aren’t too many of us Zoroastrans around.”

“No, there aren’t. But after our wedding, we traveled in the same car.” His voice was openly skeptical.

“Did you, now? But then I’ll bet you weren’t married in a Vedic Temple. That makes all the difference, you know.”

“As a matter of fact, we were.”

“You were?”

“Yes.”

“Heh-heh. Well, now, that really is a coincidence.”

“And it didn’t make any difference,” the Captain said firmly. “About riding in the same car, I mean.”

“It didn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“It’s all right, sir.” The Captain’s face lit up with sudden logic. He thought he’d figured it all out. “Had a little spat, didn’t you? It happens. But don’t worry about it. She’ll be along.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened,” I admitted, leaping at the welcome out he’d provided. “But you’re right. She should be here soon.”

“Then I'll be leaving, sir. You'll want to be alone with her.” He nudged me in the ribs. “Two’s company, and three’s a crowd. Especially on a honeymoon, eh, sir?” He chortled.

“You’re a man of the world, Captain,” I assured him as I saw him to the door and closed it behind him.

As soon as he was gone, I cased the cabin for a place to hide. There were two closets, but I decided against both of them. The nuptial couple might decide to hang up their clothes, and I’d be discovered immediately. A third door led to the bathroom. I decided against that, too. The odds were that one of them might use it.

That left only one possibility. Under the bed. It was a little French bedroom farce-y, but I had no other choice. I stationed myself at the porthole, which provided a clear view of the dock, and stood poised to dart under the bed when they arrived.

It wasn’t too long a wait. A limousine pulled up and Stevkovsky and Gretchen got out of it. As they stood there brushing the rice from their clothes, a small delivery truck pulled up from the other direction. With Stevkovsky overseeing their labor, two men got out of the truck and unloaded a large packing crate from the rear.

Stevkovsky guided them up the gangplank with it. Then he left Hortense on deck alone for a few moments while he showed them where to store it. He returned and they started for the stairway. I dived under the bed.

The door to the cabin opened, and they entered. Stevkovsky was carrying Hortense across the threshold. He set her down, and they kissed.

“Oh, darling, it’s so wonderful to be alone at last,” Hortense murmured when the kiss was over. “I’m sure everything will come back to you now.”

“Huh?”

“All the details you forgot about our honeymoon. Now that the hectic part is over, I’m sure you’ll remember them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, my poor darling, you really are under a strain. Don’t you remember how worried you were about not recalling—” Hortense was interrupted by a discreet tapping at the door. “Who can that be?"

“Probably the Captain,” Stevkovsky told her.

“Oh, darn it. Look, I’ll just go into the bathroom and slip into something comfortable,” she whispered insinuatingly. “You get rid of him quickly, will you, darling?"

“All right.” Stevkovsky waited until she was gone and then opened the door.

“Pardon, sir. I was wondering about that crate you had in the hold,” the Captain said apologetically. “One of the crew said he heard some strange noises coming from it."

“Tell the crew to keep away from that crate. That’s an order, Captain.”

“Very well, sir. Is it all right if we lift anchor now?”

“Yes. Let’s get under way.”

The Captain started out, then paused in the doorway. “I saw you drive up, sir,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “Went to fetch her yourself, did you? Well, that’s the ticket. Have to cater to them at least until the honeymoon’s over, eh?” He nudged Stevkovsky in the ribs and left.

As he closed the door behind him, the look of puzzlement was still on Stevkovsky’s face. He stood there a moment, scratching his head. His expression seemed to say that nobody was making any sense today.

Watching him, I decided to make my move. Cromwell was undoubtedly inside that crate. It would be best to rescue him before the yacht started down the river. There was no point in adding the possibility of a swim to the other dangers involved.

Pistol first, I pulled myself out from under the bed. I got to my feet fast, while Stevkovsky was still stunned by my sudden appearance. As he recognized me, he went as white as if he’d seen a ghost. From his point of view, I suppose that’s what I was.

“Is the Captain gone, darling?” Hortense’s voice called from the bathroom.

I shoved the gun against Stevkovsky’s belly and indicated that he should remain silent “Not yet,” I called back. “Take me to Cromwell.” I pushed the gun harder against his gut.

“Don’t be silly. Cromwell is dead,” he bluffed.

“I know better. Remember? Now take me to wherever you stored that crate.”

“What about her?” He jerked his thumb towards the bathroom door.

“I have to see to some things with the Captain, darling,” I called out. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, hurry!” Hortense sounded annoyed.

I nudged Stevkovsky with the gun, and he preceded me out of the cabin. We went up the stairway and across the deck without seeing anyone. Finally we were down in the hold.

Spotting a crowbar, I picked it up and handed it to Stevkovsky. “Get to work,” I told him, motioning toward the packing case. ‘

He got to work prying off the boards in which the case itself was encased. I could hear movements inside it as he worked. Taking a closer look, I saw that air holes had been drilled in it.

At last Stevkovsky was finished. He stood back and lifted the cover of the case. When I saw the way Cromwell had been crammed into it, I was really shocked and angry. “You bastard!” I cursed my double. “You could have given him more room. You didn’t have to torture him.” I reached out my hand and grabbed Cromwell under one arm to help him sit up.

It was a mistake. I’d taken my eyes off Stevkovsky for just a brief instant. He was still holding the crowbar. I sensed rather than saw him swing it straight for my skull!

Flinging myself sideways, I managed to catch the blow on my shoulder. The bone snapped under the impact. Luckily, it was my left shoulder. I still had the gun in my right hand, The pain was excruciating, but I aimed it by reflex and pulled the trigger.

My face—the face of my double—-contorted with shock. A hole appeared in the forehead and blood spurted from it. Stevkovsky pitched to the floor. He was dead.

I helped Cromwell out of the packing case. He was so weak his knees kept buckling under him. My shoulder hurt like hell, but I supported him with my other arm and helped him up to the deck.

All I wanted to do now was get him off the boat. There was always the chance that Stevkovsky had accomplices among the crew. I was reasonably sure that the captain was clean, but as for the other crew members, there was no telling who might be a Russian agent.

We made it down the gangplank with no trouble. I got Cromwell behind some packing cases alongside the ship and we rested there a moment. From this vantage point, I had an up-from-under angle view of the deck as Hortense appeared.

She’d thrown a coat over the nightgown she’d donned. “Steve,” she called.

I couldn't see the Captain, but I heard him answering. “If you’re looking for your husband, I caught a glimpse of him going down to the hold with another gentleman,” he told her.

“Oh. Thank you. The hold—where is that?”

“Over there.” He must have pointed.

Silence as she vanished from view. Then a scream— loud, shocked, grief-stricken. Footsteps on the deck above. Commotion. Then the Captain supporting Hortense as she stumbled blindly back up the deck.

“Dead,” she sobbed. “I can’t believe it. On our wedding day. We didn’t even—- We had no chance to-—” She collapsed into tears.

When the commotion died down, I hustled Cromwell out of the vicinity. I didn’t know where to take him, and my shoulder hurt like hell, so I found a taxi stationed beyond the yacht basin and gave the driver the address of the cheap hotel where I’d been holing up for the past few days. The first thing I did when we were safely in my room was call Putnam and tell him to get up there with a doctor right away. The second thing I did was pour two stiff drinks for myself and Cromwell.

“Thank you, no. I never imbibe,” he told me stiffly.

“It’s for medicinal purposes,” I assured him. “Go ahead. Drink it down.”

“All right.” He drank it and made a face. I hope my wife Carrie doesn’t find out about this,” he said. “She's very active in temperance work.”

I thought back to the last time I’d seen Carrie. She’d been lying stretched out naked on the bed at the Institute, the picture of the well-satisfied woman. There sure hadn’t been anything temperate about her.

“Don’t worry. I won’t snitch,” I promised Cromwell.

"In that case -- " He held out his glass and I refilled it. “It’s just that Carrie’s such a prude,” he said apologetically as he downed it.

“I know just what you mean,” I assured him soothingly.

“Wonderful wife, though. Takes an interest in my work. Takes an interest in my hobbies. My inventions. My campaigns to eradicate vice.”

“Well, you and she will be back together again soon. Then you can go through life wiping out vice to your heart’s content.”

“Oh, I don’t know. To tell the truth, it’s too time-consuming. And sometimes Carrie can be too helpful. I mean, I wouldn’t have gotten into this whole mess if she hadn’t tried to help me by doing some investigating on her own.”

“Well, maybe this cured her. Maybe—”

There was a knock at the door. Putnam entered. He had a small crowd with him. He took charge right away. Cromwell was hustled off by two of the men. They were taking him to the Pentagon where his “better mousetrap” alloy would be turned into a formula for a metal that would greatly expedite our space program. After they’d left, Putnam had the doctor set my shoulder.

“This man should go to the hospital,” the doctor told him when he was finished.

“Not unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Putnam said. “He’s needed here.”

I looked at him in surprise, but I kept my mouth shut until after the doctor had left. Then I asked the question I’d been biting my tongue to hold back. “Why am I needed here?” I asked. “You’ve got Cromwell. The case is closed.”

“Mr. Victor — Steve,” he said, his tone becoming suspiciously friendly, “you are in an espionage position that offers the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“What do you mean?”

“All you have to do is stay dead. On the way over here I received word over my car telephone that even now your ‘widow’ is making arrangements for your funeral. It’s perfect. We even have a corpse. A corpse with your face. We won’t even have to close the casket. We can bury Stevkovsky in your place, and you can take his place. What an opportunity. We can crack the entire Soviet espionage network with you in a position like that. What do you say?”

What could I say? I was hooked again. but I did insist on one privilege. “I want to go to the funeral,” I told Putnam.

“What! But why?”

“It’s the chance of a lifetime. How’ many men get to go to their own funerals? I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

“But you’re liable to be recognized.”

“You can have your experts disguise me. And I’ll stay at the back.”

In the end, I got my way. But I was almost a little sorry I did. The crowd at the funeral chapel was disappointingly small. Still, Hortense looked so appealing in her widow’s weeds, and she sobbed so loudly, that she almost made up for it.

Halfway through the ceremony Putnam nudged me and pointed to a bouquet of flowers. “I sent those,” he whispered.

“That’s a pretty small bunch,” I griped.

“Well, you wouldn’t have wanted me to be ostentatious, would you?”

“Cheapskate!”

After the chapel ceremony, we rode out to the graveyard. As the casket was lowered, Hortense tried to throw herself into the grave. She was saved by a United States senator who made a quick grab and latched onto her left breast.

“You must try to be brave, my dear,” he said, showing no sign of relinquishing his hold.

“But I’m too young to be a widow.” Hortense wailed.

“Oh, my poor, darling Steve! It was bad enough for the wedding. but do you know I couldn’t even find a Zoroastrian minister to preside at the funeral! Do you think he’d mind?”

I was all choked up. I wanted to tell her I didn’t mind. But of course I couldn’t. All I could do was watch myself being buried. After everybody else had left the side of the grave, I went up there all by myself, I wanted a moment alone with my grief. I dropped a handful of dirt onto the coffin.

“Good night, Sweet prince,” I murmured softly to myself. “Rest in peace, Steve Victor. Now, Man from O. R. G. Y., you belong to the ages.”

I turned away from the grave and went back to Put-nam. What’s the inscription on the headstone going to be?” I asked.

“How about ‘My only regret is that I have but one life to give for my country’,” he suggested,

“How wrong you are! ” I told him. “How very wrong!”

And I proved it the next morning by starting out on my second double—-double life, that is!

Notes

[←1 ]

Sir Charles Aubrey Smith, CBE (21 July 1863 – 20 December 1948) was an England Test cricketer who became a stage and film actor, acquiring a niche as the officer-and-gentleman type, as in the first sound version of The Prisoner of Zenda (1937).

[←2 ]

The Student Prince is an operetta in four acts with music by Sigmund Romberg and book and lyrics by Dorothy Donnelly. It is based on Wilhelm Meyer-Förster's play Old Heidelberg. It was made into a musical Cinemascope movie in 1954, The Student Prince directed by Richard Thorpe.

[←3 ]

The Bay of Pigs Invasion was a failed military invasion of Cuba undertaken by the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)-sponsored paramilitary group Brigade 2506 on 17 April 1961. A counter-revolutionary military group (made up of mostly Cuban exiles who traveled to the United States after Castro's takeover, but also some US military personnel), trained and funded by the CIA, Brigade 2506 fronted the armed wing of the Democratic Revolutionary Front (DRF) and intended to overthrow the increasingly communist government of Fidel Castro. Launched from Guatemala and Nicaragua, the invading force was defeated within three days by the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces, under the direct command of Castro.

[←4 ]

The 1960 U-2 incident occurred during the Cold War on 1 May 1960, during the presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower and the premiership of Nikita Khrushchev, when a United States U-2 spy plane was shot down while in Soviet airspace. The aircraft, flown by pilot Francis Gary Powers, was performing photographic aerial reconnaissance when it was hit by a surface-to-air missile and crashed near Sverdlovsk. Powers parachuted safely and was captured.

[←5 ]

See “My Son, the Double Agent”.

[←6 ]

Robert Gene Baker (November 12, 1928 – November 12, 2017) was an American political adviser to president Lyndon B. Johnson, and an organizer for the Democratic Party. In 1962, he and a friend, Fred Black, established the Serv-U Corporation which was designed to provide vending machines for companies working for programs established under federal grants. During the following year, an investigation was begun by the Democratic-controlled Senate into Baker's business and political activities. The investigation included allegations of bribery and arranging sexual favors in exchange for Congressional votes and government contracts. Baker resigned from his position in October 1963. The investigation of Lyndon Johnson as part of the Baker investigation was later dropped.

[←7 ]

That would be almost 800 $ in 2018.

[←8 ]

Approximately 240.000 $ in 2018

[←9 ]

320000 to 360000 $ in 2018

[←10 ]

Author of the aforementioned God and Man at Yale and Up from Liberalism.

[←11 ]

References to several swashbuckling movies and actors. Douglas Fairbanks sr. (May 23, 1883 – December 12, 1939) was an American actor, screenwriter, director, and producer. He was best known for his swashbuckling roles in silent films. -- Douglas Elton Fairbanks Jr. (December 9, 1909 – May 7, 2000) was an American actor, son of Douglas Fairbanks sr. -- Louis Charles Hayward (19 March 1909 – 21 February 1985) was a Johannesburg-born, British-American actor. Producer Edward Small started building Hayward into a star, casting him in a dual role in The Man in the Iron Mask (1939, very loosely adapted from the novel Le Vicomte de Bragelonne by Alexandre Dumas père) under the direction of James Whale. -- Ronald Charles Colman (9 February 1891 – 19 May 1958) was an English-born actor, starting his career in theatre and silent film in his native country, before emigrating to the USA, and having a successful Hollywood film career. Colman starred in several classic films, including A Tale of Two Cities (1935), Lost Horizon (1937) and The Prisoner of Zenda (1937). -- Archer Winsten was a leading American film critic from the late 1930s through the early 1980s. He was a graduate of Princeton University and a judge for many years of the International Ski Film Festival when it was held annually in New York City. He wrote for the New York Post.

[←12 ]

Charles Rudolf Friml (December 7, 1879 – November 12, 1972) was a Czech-born composer of operettas, musicals, songs and piano pieces, as well as a pianist. Friml moved to the United States, where he became a composer. His best-known works are Rose-Marie and The Vagabond King, each of which enjoyed success on Broadway and in London and were adapted for film. He also composed The Three Musketeers in 1928, with lyrics by P. G. Wodehouse and Clifford Grey.

[←13 ]

Graustark is a fictional country in Eastern Europe used as a setting for several novels by George Barr McCutcheon (July 26, 1866 – October 23, 1928). The Graustark novels are stories of court intrigue, royal disguise, and romance similar to Anthony Hope's 1894 novel, The Prisoner of Zenda, and its sequels. They were popular best-sellers at the time they were published and gave their name to a fictional genre called either Ruritanian romance based on The Prisoner of Zenda, or Graustarkian romance.

[←14 ]

Milady de Winter, often referred to as simply Milady, is a fictional character in the novel The Three Musketeers (1844) by Alexandre Dumas, père,

[←15 ]

This whole section is based on the work of Masters & Johnson, which had its hayday in the late sixties. The Masters and Johnson research team, composed of William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson, pioneered research into the nature of human sexual response and the diagnosis and treatment of sexual disorders and dysfunctions from 1957 until the 1990s. Initially, participants used in their experiments were prostitutes. Masters and Johnson explained that they were a socially isolated group of people, they were knowledgeable about sex, and that they were willing to cooperate with the study. Of the 145 prostitutes that participated, only a select few were further evaluated for their genital anatomy and their physiological responses. In later studies, however, Masters and Johnson recruited 382 women and 312 men from the community. The vast majority of participants were white, they had higher education levels, and most participants were married couples. In the initial phase of Masters and Johnson's studies, from 1957 until 1965, they recorded some of the first laboratory data on the anatomy and physiology of human sexual response based on direct observation of 382 women and 312 men in what they conservatively estimated to be "10,000 complete cycles of sexual response". Their findings, particularly on the nature of female sexual arousal (for example, describing the mechanisms of vaginal lubrication and debunking the earlier widely held notion that vaginal lubrication originated from the cervix) and orgasm (showing that the physiology of orgasmic response was identical whether stimulation was clitoral or vaginal, and proving that some women were capable of being multiorgasmic), dispelled many long-standing misconceptions. As well as recording some of the first physiological data from the human body and sex organs during sexual excitation, they also framed their findings and conclusions in language that espoused sex as a healthy and natural activity that could be enjoyed as a source of pleasure and intimacy. The era in which their research was conducted permitted the use of methods that had not been attempted before, and that have not been attempted since: "[M]en and women were designated as 'assigned partners' and arbitrarily paired with each other to create 'assigned couples'

[←16 ]

Minsky's Burlesque refers to the brand of American burlesque presented by four sons of Louis and Ethel Minsky: Abraham 'Abe' Bennett Minsky (1880–1949), Michael William 'Billy' Minsky (1887–1932), Herbert Kay Minsky (1891-1959), and Morton Minsky (1902–1987). They started in 1912 and ended in 1937 in New York City. Although the shows were declared obscene and outlawed, they were rather tame by modern standards.

[←17 ]

Charles Atlas (born Angelo Siciliano; October 30, 1892 – December 24, 1972)^[ was an Italian-American bodybuilder best remembered as the developer of a bodybuilding method and its associated exercise program which spawned a landmark advertising campaign featuring his name and likeness.

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The United Nations War Crimes Commission was a commission of the United Nations that investigated allegations of war crimes committed by Nazi Germany and the other Axis powers in World War II. The Commission began its work at the behest of the British government and the other Allied nations in 1943, prior to the formal establishment of the United Nations itself, in October, 1945. One of the Commission's tasks was to carefully collect evidence of war crimes for the arrest and fair trial of alleged Axis war criminals. However, the Commission had no power to prosecute criminals by itself. It merely reported back to the government members of the UN. These governments then could convene tribunals, such as the Nuremberg International Military Tribunal.

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Throughout the 1960s and 1970s Sweden was seen as an international leader in what is now referred to as the "sexual revolution", with gender equality having particularly been promoted. This led to the intriguing situation that in bars daily-life women could propose to men, leading to “one night stands”, a role that was then still deemed exclusively masculine throughout the Western world. The early Swedish film I Am Curious (Yellow) (1967) reflected a liberal view of sexuality, including scenes of love making that caught international attention, and introduced the metaphor of the "Swedish sin" that had been introduced earlier in the US with Ingmar Bergman's Summer with Monika.(1953). The image of "hot love and cold people" emerged. Sexual liberalism was seen as part of modernisation process that by breaking down traditional borders would lead to the emancipation of natural forces and desires.

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Perle Reid Mesta (October 12, 1889 – March 16, 1975) was an American socialite, political hostess, and United States Ambassador to Luxembourg. Mesta was known as the "hostess with the mostest" for her lavish parties featuring the brightest stars of Washington, D.C., society, including artists, entertainers and many top-level national political figures. She was the inspiration for Irving Berlin's musical Call Me Madam, which starred Ethel Merman as the character based on Mesta.

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