The girls from O.R.G.Y

D’Angelo left the office and started up the street. He stopped short as a car pulled up alongside him. “Where the hell have you been?” he greeted the driver. “You’re some great lawyer, showing up after the fat’s in the fire.”

“What’s happened?” the lawyer asked him.

D’Angelo told him.

“You kill the girl?” the lawyer asked.

“No. But that Reuben spreads my prints around, I’m in a lot of trouble. There’s more than one job they might match up with. What am I gonna do?”

“Run,” the lawyer advised, “And keep running.” He started the car and pulled away from the curb. “And don’t stop running,” he called over his shoulder.

D’Angelo walked on up the street, his brain pounding with fear. He didn’t even notice Jed, the deputy, passing him with Rafe Proctor in tow.

Jed led Proctor into the sheriff’s office and pushed him into a chair. “Look what I found out in the woods near the Morton Motor Lodge,” he told the sheriff, jerking his thumb at Rafe.

“Good work. How ’bout D’Angelo’s prints? You. get them?”

“Quite a few clear as a bell. You wanna see ’em?”

“Yep.” The sheriff took them from Jed and compared them with those on the card on his desk. “No luck,” he admitted gloomily. “Make up some sets of these,” he instructed Jed, an’ send ’em to the New Orleans police an’ the FBI. I’m gonna teach that D’Angelo not to go ’round callin’ lawmen rubes.” The sheriff turned to Rafe. “Well so Jed found you up near Morton’s, hey? How come you up there, Rafe?”

“I don’t rightly know, sheriff.”

“You don’t rightly know, hey? Now that’s mighty strange. How long you up in that neighborhood, Rafe?”

“I don’t know that neither, sheriff.”

“Do tell? Well, was you up there las’ night, Rafe?”

“What time las’ night, sheriff?”

“Oh, say anytime from ten or so till daybreak.”

“I wasn’t there before midnight. After that, I don’ know. See, I got crocked down to Andy’s Bar an’ I’member noticin’ it were midnight when I left. But then I kinda blacked out an’ I dunno where I went. You know how it is, sheriff .”

“I sure do, Rafe. I know how your temper gets when you been drinkin’, too, boy. Right murderous, that’s how. You like to kill someone when you tie one on.”’

“What you drivin’ at, sheriff?”

“They’s been a murder up to Morton’s. An’ you was there. An’ now you says like you don’t remember nothin’, That’s what I’m gettin.’ at, boy!”

“Murder? Who got murdered?”

“Wilma Malden.”

“Is that right?” Rafe grinned. “Is that right?” he repeated,

“Don’t get all broke up ’bout it,” the sheriff told him dryly.

“Hell no! She’s one broad had it comin’!”

“Is ’at why you killed her?”

“I didn’t kill her. I sure ain’t sorry somebody did, though.”

“I thought you two was kinda lovey-dovey. You workin’ for her pa and datin’ her a few times. Word was you had the inside track. How come you so sour on her now?”

“She jus’ a double-crossin’ bitch, that’s all!”

“How so?”

“That’s private, sheriff. ’Tween me an’ her. Got nothin’ to do with her bein’ murdered.”

“Hell, seems to me I heard that before! From jus’ about everybody in this damn case. All right, Rafe. Let’s not waste time. I’m gonna take your fingerprints.”

“Sure, sheriff.” Rafe held out his hand docilely.

A few moments later the sheriff was cursing to himself again. The prints didn’t match. “You can go,” he told Rafe disgustedly. As the door shut behind Rafe, the sheriff went into the back room where his deputy was busy making up copies of D’Angelo’s fingerprints. “I’m goin’ over to see Beau Barker,” he told Jed.

“You want me to go bring him in?”

“Hell no. In this town you don’t fetch Mr. Beauregard Barker to the jailhouse. If you be smart, you jus’ call on him nice an’ polite like. That is if you wanna stay sheriff, you do. I’ll be up to his house if you wanna reach me for anythin’.”

The maid let the sheriff in and led him into the living room. Mrs, Barker was seated there in an armchair. “Beauregard will be right down,” she told the sheriff. As though in response to the statement, Beau Barker entered immediately, hand outstretched to greet the sheriff.

“Have you gotten anywhere with the Malden murder?” Barker asked when they were both seated.

“No, sir. Not really, I ain’t. That little get-together you had here the other night kinda confused things.”

“How so?”

“Left me with more suspects than I rightly know what to do with.”

“I’m sure that none of the people who were here had anything to do with it, sheriff. They’re all law-abiding. They’d never commit murder.”

“I ain’t so sure, Mr. Barker. You got ’em mighty riled up ag’in’ those two girls. What I hear, they was talk a doin’ ’em violence right here in this room.”

“Are you implying that I am-in some way responsible for the Malden girl’s death, sheriff? Because if you are, I think you’re exceeding your authority. You have no right to come into my home and make such accusations.”

“Now hold on, Mr. Barker,” the sheriff said hastily. “I ain’t accusin’ you of nothin’. All l’m sayin’ is that if you was gonna have a meetin’ like that, you shoulda let me in on it.” '

“Perhaps you’re right, sheriff.” Barker conceded smoothly. “I just didn’t think of it. Please accept my apologies for having neglected to inform you of the meeting.” .

“Forget it, Mr. Barker. That’s all water under the bridge now. Only thing is those who was at the meetin’ mighta had reason to kill Wilma Maiden. I gotta check ’em all out. You can see that, Mr. Barker, can’t you?”

“Yes. I can see that.”

“An” I guess you can see as how that puts me in a right embarrassin’ position.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I think what the sheriff is saying, dear,” Mrs. Barker interjected with calculated innocence, “is that you also are one of the suspects.”

“Is that what you mean?” Barker stared at the sheriff indignantly.

“Not really, Mr. Barker. I know a man like you couldn’t a had nothin’ to do with it. All the same though, it would clear things up if you told me where you spent last night.”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Barker said sweetly, “where were you last night? I’ve been wondering that myself.”

Beau shot her a murderous look and the sheriff intercepted it. “Ma’am,” he said, “I wonder if you’d mind leavin’ me an’ Mr. Barker here alone. For my sake, that is. You see, I ain’t used to askin’ questions with a third party present. It sorta embarrasses me.”

“Of course, sheriff.” Mrs. Barker stood up. “I can understand how it might be embarassing for -- you.” She shot Beau a piercing look on the last word and quickly left the room.

“All right, Mr. Barker, where were you?” the sheriff asked after she had gone.

Behind the French doors in the next room, Mrs. Barker strained to hear her husband’s answer.

“I was with Miss Alice York, last night,” Beau admitted.

“The secretary down to the bank?”

“That’s right.”

“Where at?”

“Her place. Over on Smith Street.”

“For how long?”

“All night. From nine until” almost dawn.”

“Will she vouch for that?”

“She will if she has to. I hope you won’t make it necessary.”

“I’l1 try not to, Mr. Barker,” the sheriff said. “I won’t do it unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

So that was it! Mrs. Barker stood gritting her teeth behind the French doors. Oh, Beau would pay for this! She’d make him pay! She’d make him pay through the nose! The building fire of her anger was temporarily quenched by the ringing of the telephone. She answered it.

A moment later she knocked at the living room door and entered. “Mr. Dawes is on the phone for you.” she told the sheriff.

The sheriff picked up the extension. “Yep, Mr. Dawes?” he said into the mouthpiece.

“Sheriff, a farmboy just came to my office and delivered a packet of papers from Ben Maiden. I looked them over and decided to call you immediately.”

“What’s in ’em, Mr. Dawes?”

“First of all, a bill of sale for his place made out to Continental. It’s signed by him and witnessed by two names I don’t know and a notary. The price is filled in to coincide with the last offer we made him. But that isn’t all.”

“I’m listenin’, Mr. Dawes.”

“There’s a very peculiar letter in with the bill of sale. There’s also a copy of the mortgage held by the Glenville bank on the Malden farm. And there’s what looks like a will, too.”

“A will?” the sheriff asked, puzzled.

“Yes. But let me tell you about the letter first. It asks me to dispose of his livestock and personal possessions for him. And it talks about a passage he’s underlined in the mortgage.”

“What sorta passage?”

“It’s one of those old riders that banks used to attach to mortgages around the turn of the century to protect themselves. It says that in the event of sale the bank is to receive the total amount paid to the owner. In his letter, Malden is very concerned about this. He asks me to see to it that—and I’m quoting him now, you understand -- that I do my best to see that ‘lousy thief-bastard Beau Barker doesn’t get away with it.’ He requests me to fight the bank in the courts if necessary and authorizes me to dissipate all the assets of his estate rather than to let Barker get them.”

“Can it be done‘? I mean, if it’s in the mortgage paper—”

“I shouldn’t think it would be too difficult to break this mortgage, sheriff. My firm employs some of the best legal talent in the country. I don’t believe the clause will ever hold up in court.”

“What’s in the will?”

“He names me as his executor and leaves everything to the township of Glenville with a recommendation that the money be used to build a new hospital.”

“The letter say anythin’ else?”

“Yes. It apologized to me for the heartaches his daughter had caused myself and my daughter. It—it sounded sad: sheriff. It sounded final. I think he’s going to kill himself.

“I’ll get right out there, Mr. Dawes.” The sheriff hung up and started for the door.

Ben Malden wasn’t waiting for him. He’d expected that his letter to Dawes would bring some such action. He had no intention of letting it stop him. He hefted the straight edge razor in his hand and lay down on his bed. The scrap of paper with the few words he’d scrawled on it was pinned neatly to the pillow beneath his head. Ben stared at the razor for a long time, thinking, remembering. . . .

She’d come into the room with blood on her clothes. He didn’t know from what. Just that it wasn’t hers, from the way she ignored it. She gave off an aroma of sweat mixed with desire-basic, sexy. She made straight for his bed, hands tearing at her clothes, eyes glazed over with lust.

She threw back the covers and the weight of her naked body was on top of him. Now her fingers were tearing at his pajamas, freeing his long erection and clutching at it. Her legs separated and he could feel the tendrils of red hair covering her groin dampening with desire as she pressed against his knee. Then, like some wild thing, she straddled him, nails digging into his shoulders and drawing blood, haunches grinding down against his thighs with the joy of impaling herself.

She moved like an animal gone berserk then, twisting and turning and bouncing, but never losing her passionate perch. She sighed and she moaned and she screamed aloud. She exploded with his explosion and still it wasn’t enough. She kept moving over him in a grasping, sucking rhythm until he was aroused once again and then she let herself go with a mad releasing of lust that went on and on and on. Finally, his lust also exploded a second time and it was over.

She left as silently and quickly as she’d entered. Ben was alone then. Alone with the knowledge that this wasn’t like the first time. Then he’d been able to tell himself she had sinned unknowingly, like an innocent child. He’d even been able to half-forgive himself on the grounds of having been drunk and asleep and not knowing what he was doing. But not this time.

This time he’d been awake when she came in. This time she was a grown woman and knew exactly what she was doing. This time he’d looked at her like a man looks at a woman; he’d seen her breasts thrusting toward him in the darkness with the long, red nipples quivering, and he’d been aroused. He’d felt her body heat sweep over him and he’d made himself forget that this was his daughter. He’d made no protest, put up no fight. He’d taken what she offered with a lust as uncontrollable as her own. And that made him a monster, just as she was a monster. A monster born of his loins; a monster his loins couldn’t resist. . . .

And then, Ben remembered now as he stared at the gleaming blade of the straightedge razor, had come the visit from Mr. Dawes. His daughter was a lesbian, Dawes had told him, and Ben had believed him. He’d confronted Wilma with it and she’d as much as admitted it was true. He was consumed with horror all that night and the following day. When Wilma had left the next night, he’d followed her. He’d followed her straight to the Morton Motor Lodge.

Yes, Ben remembered as he stared at the razor. He’d followed and watched as she and Glory went through their unspeakable perversions. And he’d waited until she went into the bathroom alone.

Then he’d gone to the bathroom window, taken the ice pick from his jacket pocket and jimmied the window open. The sound of the shower running was loud and Wilma hadn’t seen him until he was upon her. There had been a split second then when recognition had shone from her green eyes. And then Ben had plunged the ice pick home. Her scream as he climbed back out the window and ran still echoed in his ears. . . .

That’s how it was. The end for Wilma. Evil wiped off the earth. And the end for him.

Ben unbuttoned his belt and pushed his pants and underwear down. He must die in a way bespeaking payment for the sin by which he’d lived. He put his hand on his limp manhood and stretched it out before him. With his other hand he hacked at it and at the sac beneath it.

Blood spurted. The pain was intense. Ben grimly sliced away his shame and his life. . . .

“Oh, my God!”

‘The sheriff stood in the doorway and fought to keep himself from vomiting at the sight of the blood-soaked abomination on the bed. He forced himself to move closer to the body to make sure Ben Malden was dead. He was. Then the sheriff noticed the note pinned to the pillow. He tore it off and read it, still not believing what he saw.

“I killed my daughter Wilma. Nobody else.” It was signed, “Ben Malden”.

Notes

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The People's Party, also known as the Populist Party or the Populists, was an agrarian-populist political party in the United States. For a few years, from 1892 to 1896, it played a major role as a left-wing force in American politics. It was merged into the Democratic Party in 1896; a small independent remnant survived until 1908. It drew support from angry farmers in the West and South. It was highly critical of banks and railroads

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William Jennings Bryan (March 19, 1860 – July 26, 1925) was an American orator and politician from Nebraska. Beginning in 1896, he emerged as a dominant force in the Democratic Party, standing three times as the party's nominee for President of the United States. He advocated for the enactment of Prohibition and he opposed Darwinism on religious and humanitarian grounds, most famously at the Scopes Trial in 1925 in Tennessee (an American legal case in July 1925 in which a substitute high school teacher, John T. Scopes, was accused of violating Tennessee's Butler Act, which had made it unlawful to teach human evolution in any state-funded school.). Bryan brought the Populists into the Democratic Party.

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BVD was a brand of men's underwear, which are commonly referred to as "BVDs." The brand was founded in 1876 and named after the three founders of the New York City firm Bradley, Voorhees & Day (thus "B.V.D.").The term came to be used, however incorrectly, for any underwear in the style popularized by BVD.

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Kewpie is a brand of dolls and figurines that were conceived as comic strip characters by cartoonist Rose O'Neill. The illustrated cartoons, appearing as baby cupid characters, began to gain popularity after the publication of O'Neill's comic strips in 1909, and O'Neill began to illustrate and sell paper doll versions of the Kewpies. The characters were first produced as bisque dolls (dolls made partially or wholly out of bisque porcelain, characterized by their realistic, skin-like matte finish) in Germany, beginning in 1912, and became extremely popular in the early 20th century.

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