The real gone girls

THREE HEADS WERE BETTER THAN ONE

Steve Victor, The Man From O.R.G.Y. had a million-dollar puzzle on his hands – with three vital pieces missing. One piece was blond. One was red-headed. The third was brunette. Stripping off their cunning disguises was the kind of undercover action that the Man From O.R.G.Y? Was superbly equipped for – until he found that the secret that each concealed was far more than throat deep and there was just one dangerous way to get to the bottom of it…

THE ULTIMATE TANGLE IN PARIS!

Who was the real Françoise Laval?

Steve Victor examined the three fantastic looking creatures in his Paris hotel room. They all were cooperating with his investigation, having eagerly stripped without his even asking.

All three fitted the description. Blond hair (it was definitely genuine!). Opulent breasts that jutted out in need of a bra. Curvaceous legs and inviting thighs. Even the same pouting mouths, with their tongues flicking over their lips.

Fortunately the Man from O.R.G.Y. knew of a test that would tell the truth. Steeling himself to administer it, Steve started unbuttoning his shirt and unzipping his pants. it was going to be a fight to the climax-and may the best woman emerge victorious!

THE REAL GONE GIRLS

Ted Mark

1966

(Dell printing 1973)

CHAPTER ONE

WHAT WOULD you do if you were the wor1d’s first pregnant man? I mean, morality and all that jazz aside, what would you do? And you're not married, either; remember that! So what would you do?

Exactly!

Abortion!

What else?

And that’s how, having little faith in darning needles, I decided to go to Geneva, Switzerland. If you’re a suburban type and you get caught, you go to Puerto Rico for a combination operation and vacation. If you’re a victim of a tranquilizer foul-up, you book passage to Scandinavia and then call the newspaper to explain why you won’t be eligible to become Mother-of-the-Year this year. But if you’re a male bachelor and enceinte, discretion dictates Switzerland.

There’s sound precedent for unwed mothers of either sex choosing this Alpine map-dot as the spot to be rendered unpregnant. Traditionally, the best girls from the best families have been shipped off to Swiss “finishing schools” under such circumstances. For generations the haut monde of many nations have considered mountain climbing the ideal cure for a fall from grace and many a blushing debutante has been re-virginized the Swiss way—and usually in plenty of time for her coming-out party.

Not that I was planning any such spree. I’d already come out. I’d been out for some time now. Way out. Far out. Too far out! Which is how I got pregnant in the first place.

But that’s another story. And I’ve already told it in The 9-Month Caper. Fifty cents at any newsstand, and I can use the royalties. Swiss abortions don’t come cheap, so go ahead and treat yourself to a copy. Maybe you can write it off your income tax as a contribution to O.R.G.Y.

O.R.G.Y.? Officially, it’s the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth. Actually, it‘s a setup to Obtain Research Grants for Yours-truly, Steve Victor.

That’s me. Steve Victor. The guy who turned down the chance to become history’s first male unwed mother. Steve Victor, the man from O.R.G.Y.

However, don’t get the wrong idea. Despite the fact that it’s a one-man operation, O.R.G.Y. isn’t a hoax. It‘s true that I’ve siphoned off some juicy grants from various foundations, but it’s also true that I’ve delivered the research for which O.R.G.Y. has been so generously endowed. And just because this research is in the field of sex and I revel in my work is no reason to fault O.R.G.Y., is it?

Anyway, while I was recovering from my illicit operation at a Swiss chalet right out of Heidi, I was also hunt-and-pecking out some correspondence designed to put O.R.G.Y. to work to pay the tab for the trip back home. If these letters got results, it would be quite a journey. What I was proposing was an O.R.G.Y. survey of European brothels designed to produce a statistical comparison à la Kinsey of the difference between such establishments in various countries.

It never occurred to me that the financing I needed would come from a completely unexpected source having nothing to do with the applications I sent out. And of course I had no way of knowing that the survey would center around a trio of million-dollar doxies and damn near turn me into worm-food before it was over. But I'm getting ahead of my story.

The action really started right after my—ahh—illicit operation. It’s interesting to note that such an experience no more incapacitates the male for further sexual activity than it does the female. I can vouch for that—and I’m the only man who can.

But there is one difference between the male and female in such circumstances. Psychologically, the male is ready to resume his sex life much sooner. While recuperating at the “clinic” in Geneva, I was forced to accept the frustrating realization that my fellow patients-—all female -- were much slower than I to overcome their disillusionment at having been trapped by sex. This was brought home to me one night in particular when, in comradely fashion, I tried to crawl into bed with one of these fallen angels.

She was an American girl. I could tell because she didn't move in the slightest when I reached up under her nightgown to make sure her stitches¹ were out. However, she did speak.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a bored voice.

“Bringing you succor,” I told her. “I am reaching out to you with the sympathy and understanding of one who has suffered the penalties of seduction to another who has similarly suffered. I offer you the sweet knowledge that life still has its moments of joy to provide. And just such a moment may be ours right now if we but have the courage to—”

I had made the mistake of punctuating my remarks with certain intimate caresses. One of these evoked the response she had failed to display before. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, interrupting me. Still no doubt a bit tender from her ordeal, I thought to myself. It was the last thing I thought for the moment. Having regained her virginity, she had absolutely no intention of risking it again so soon. She hit me over the head, with all her strength and a bedpan.

A full bedpan, no doubt. That was the first thing I thought about upon regaining consciousness and sniffing. The aroma was the last straw. It decided that this clinic was no place to convalesce. Not if I wanted a woman, it wasn’t. And, more than anything else, that was just what I needed after what I’d been through.

The very next day I made arrangements to finish my recuperation at a chalet in the Alps.

It was a small place catering to mountain climbers and skiers. Females who go for this sort of activity—-my researches for O.R.G.Y. have convinced me—fall into a category all their own. They are usually big, healthy girls with large lungs well inflated by the mountain air. Also, they are thrill-seekers who get their kicks pitting their flesh against the elements. And when the elements have aroused them enough, they often display a delightful willingness to pit their flesh against flesh. That, believe it or not, is frequently the true source of those joy-filled yodels echoing around the mountainsides.

So, with a few days of my arrival, I had tuned up my vocal chords and hit the Alpine trail. The sport I had in mind was the slalom seduction of a buxom Bavarian Fraulein named Greta. From my first look at her I had understood why skiing -- in any language—is pronounced “she-ing.”

Greta was a large girl, a Wagnerian blonde with long, shapely legs. She had hips like twin pillows, shaped for hand-holds, and operating on well-greased ball bearings. The matched mounds of her bosom stood out as a veritable Everest among female chests. I was no mountain climber, but even I felt the challenge of scaling them-—just because they were there, so to speak.

As for her face, it was pretty enough, and had about as much expression as a slope packed smooth with fresh snow. Her eyes were Aryan blue and naked of any disconcerting thought-—or any thought at all, for that matter. After having conversation with her a few nights running, I decided they were an accurate mirror of her mind, which was likewise a blank. Her cheeks were rosy, with the broad bones of the peasant, and her full, moist lips were arranged in a perpetual simper.

In short, she had the mind of a born follower and the body of a born roundheels. She also had a broken pelvis which was encased in a plaster cast. This was the result of a skiing accident some months before and was almost, but not quite, healed by the time I met Greta.

With all our fellow guests abominating like snowmen over the frosty countryside during the day, Greta’s condition and my own convalescence threw us together with the quick rapport of the mutually excluded. As shut-ins, we were drawn together by our mutual boredom—among other things. And before long, we were attempting to devise ways of relieving that boredom.

Came the night when the groundwork had been laid, and I judged Greta ready for the same. It was past midnight, all the fresh-air buffs were catching their forty so that they might he up bright and early to chase their chilblains, and the chalet was as quiet as a snowed-in graveyard. So, a bottle of Scotch in one hand and a container of ice cubes in the other, I came to the door of Greta’s room and softly tapped.

“Come in," she called in a whisper.

I entered and shut the door behind me.

“Ahh, Steve. And with schnapps!” She clapped her hands delightedly.

“It looked like a long, cold night,” I said, “so I thought perhaps—-”

“It was a lovely thought. There are glasses on the bureau.” She pointed.

I clunked in some ice cubes, half filled the glasses and handed her one.

“Prosit,” she said. She held the glass to her lips, inhaled deeply and the Scotch did a disappearing act. “Encore.” She held out the tumbler for a refill.

I poured generously and dropped in another ice cube ‘for appearances’ sake. As I handed it to her she patted the side of the bed, and I perched beside her.

“What are you staring at?” she giggled after a moment.

It was a rhetorical question. I was obviously staring at her fine Germanic breastworks playing a bobbling game of hide-and-seek with the gauzy nightgown she was wearing. But I answered it anyway. “Swiss cheesecake,” I told her.

“You say such quaint things, Steve.” She whinnied again. “I really don’t understand them, but I like the way they sound. Still, I am never sure whether you are complimenting me, or making fun of me.”

“A little of both,” I told her. I bent over and kissed her soundly on the lips.

“Very nice,” she said a little breathlessly. “But what was that for?”

“Just cementing German-American relations,” I told her.

“But are such relations really possible?” Her blue eyes looked at me with helpless candor as her red-laquered fingernails drummed a tattoo on her plaster cast.

“The Berlin Wall must come down!” I told her firmly.

“But, alas, not for another two days,” she sighed.

“Then American ingenuity will overcome all obstacles,” I promised. “After all, didn't we perfect the technique of the airlift?”

“I don’t see what--"

“I was only speaking metaphorically,” I explained. “What I mean is that where there is a will, there’s a way. Now, I take it for granted that there must have been an arrangement made for certain necessary apertures . . .”

“But of course." She blushed prettily.

“Then we’ll manage to cope with any obstacles when we get to them. But first—” I kissed her soundly again.

Her breath was warm with Scotch, her lips soft and willing. As I felt her tongue hopscotching for cavities, I slid my hand lightly down the front of her nightgown. She gasped, inhaling deeply, and her breast burned against my palm The tip quivered, straining at my touch.

I slipped the nightgown from her shoulders. Her breasts were milk-white globes in the lamplight. In the center of each was a roseate of blushing Bavarian pink shading into the red-brown of hungrily distended buttons. I kissed each of these in turn, and her whole body shuddered in response. She kicked off the blankets, and her legs moved passionately until the nightgown had ridden up over her eager thighs.

I caressed the inner surface of those thighs, and Greta began to thrash about more wildly. She flung herself over, and the plump cheeks of her naked derriere were exposed. They trembled like some Germanic Jell-o, large, smooth dumplings begging to be mashed. I took a long look and then flipped her over on her back again.

My hand dropped to the plaster cast. It was as ill-designed for our purpose as a chastity belt. But there was an indentation, denoting a tiny tunnel permitting of at least one natural function. Like a sex-mad spelunker, I set about widening this pathway with my fingernail. It was a rather long process of excavation, and we caressed each other wildly to maintain the pitch of our passion while it was going on. Finally, there was a little mound of plaster crumbs on the sheet and my finger had reached its goal.

Greta went berserk. She lowed like a lust-starved soprano as I widened the aperture still more. Finally I knelt and blew out the dust of my digging. “Whee-ee!" she screeched, and her hips thrust up so suddenly from the bed that I feared she might fracture the area all over again. “Hurry!” she panted. “Now!”

“That Hecate County fellow had nothing on me,” I murmured as I flung my body lightly over her.“ Her nails dug into my back and I thrust home. It was only then that I began to appreciate the complications—nay, the impossibility—of what I was attempting.

“Am I there?” I panted.

“Nein! Not yet! Not yet!” She clutched at me more tightly drawing blood in her frustrated eagerness.

I tried! Lord knows I tried! But the friction of invading that plaster was just too excruciatingly painful for me. After all, I was attempting it with the most sensitive part of my anatomy. And I realized after a moment or two that it might damn well be whittled down—or permanently blunted—-before the plaster was abraded. With this realization, I decided to give up. But—

But that too posed a problem. You see, I had gone too far. And in so doing, a certain excitement had swelled the implement with which I was excavating. Now I found that I couldn't remove it. Neither here nor there, I was stuck!

“What is it?” Greta asked.

“I’m stuck,” I told her.

“Stuck? You mean -”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, dear! What do we do now?”

“Well, the first thing is for you to stop moving around like that. It’s too suggestive!”

“Suggestive!” She was indignant. “Under the circumstances, that seems one hell of a thing to complain about!”

“I know. But you see, it excites me. And as long as I‘m excited, I'm not going to be able to tear loose.”

“I see.” She kept writhing, a cunning look on her face. “On the other hand, with the little more effort, Herr Victor, you might reach your goal. And after that, extrication should be no problem.”

“I don’t think so,” I said patiently. “You see, the logistics of the situation are such-—-”

“Logistics?”

“What I mean is that my intended grasp exceeds my actual reach. And you’ll simply have to take my word for it that this reach has attained its limit.”

“Oh.” Greta was disappointed, and she made no effort to hide it. “Then the Berlin Wall stays up,” she said philosophically, after a moment of thought.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then I suppose you may as well cease your assault upon it.”

“That is exactly what I would like to do. But what I’m trying to explain is that this is impossible in my present state.”

“Ahh. Now I really do see. That is quite a problem, Herr Victor. But we must solve it. After all, we can’t go through life like this.”

“I agree. But I don’t seem to be able to relax; I got a little panicky at this point. “We may have to break the cast,” I told her.

"Absolutely not! Do you want to injure me permanently? That cast comes off when my doctor takes it ff, and not before!”

“And when will that be?”

“The day after tomorrow."

“I see. Then would you mind turning on your side?” In gentlemanly fashion, I’d been resting my weight on my elbows, and they were killing me.

“Of course." She did as I asked and now we were face to face, still joined at the fulcrum like a pair of obscene Siamese twins. “But you really must relax, Herr Victor. This is ridicuIous!” The situation had made her cast off any furthcr thought of sex. “What can I do to take your mind off it?“ she asked.

“Umm. Well, perhaps if you pulled the blanket over your—” I gestured and my hand grazed her breasts, with the immediate result that I became lodged more securely than ever. "

She did as I asked. After a moment, she made another suggestion. “Perhaps if you drank enough Scotch—I mean, liquor does make some men less able—”

“Not me.” I told her truthfully. “It may increase the desire and decrease the ability of some guys, but not me.”

“I see. Then let us talk about something else. Perhaps by distracting your mind—”

“I’m game. What’ll we talk about?”

“I know!” She clapped her hands, inadvertently catching my nose between them. “Sorry!” she apologized.

“It’s all right.” I brushed away the tears the sudden pain had brought to my eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. Don’t worry. The bleeding will stop in a minute.”

“Perhaps if you threw your head back-—”

I did as she suggested, with the result that the lower half of my body lunged forward.

“Whee-ee!” Greta exclaimed. “You almost--”

“But not quite!” I moved my head forward again, and the intolerable pressure below was relaxed. “It’s impossible, I tell you!”

“Sorry. Just for a minute there, I hoped—”

“Well, don’t. Don’t hope. Let’s just concentrate on getting untangled. You had an idea before?”

“Oh. Yes. I remember reading somewhere that one cannot sustain passion and laugh at the same time. Perhaps if I told you some jokes-—”

“It’s an idea. Go ahead. Try it."

“Well, there was this farmer’s daughter taking a swim in the nude one day when a traveling salesman came along, and--”

“Ouch!” I interrupted as the vise-like pressure increased. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that kind of joke is going to serve our purpose. You see, I can’t help visualizing, and-”

“I see. But that's the only sort of joke I know," Greta confessed. She thought a moment. “Maybe if I tickle you—?"

“I'm not ticklish."

“Let’s see.” Her fingers danced under one of my arms.

“Stop it! Stop it!" I begged. “It only makes me feel more aroused.”

She stopped. We were both silent for a long time. Then a look of sheer cruelty filled her customarily vacant face. “I am the victim of your lust as much as you are, Herr Victor,” she snarled through clenched teeth. “But I will suffer this no longer. From now on, all the suffering is yours!"

“What are you—?” I was alarmed by her sudden viciousness.

“Just this!” She had been reaching behind her back to grope on the night table. Now her hand emerged clutching a pair of scissors. There was a savage sound as she snapped them shut once in the empty air. “I shall cut us loose!” she announced, opening the scissors again and lowering them.

“No-o-o!” I howled with sudden panic. The very idea filled me with Freudian terror. For an instant, I went limp with fear!

Limp all over. Yes, there too. Greta pulled backwards and I was suddenly free. She put the scissors back on the night table and started giggling. “I thought that would do it." she told me. “Fear is the most overwhelming of all the emotions. No man's lust can stand up to it.”

“Phew!” I heaved a mighty sigh of relief. “You sure had me scared. I actually believed you were serious.”

“And are you sure now that I wasn’t?”

“Well, were you?” I edged back a little as she considered the answer.

“I don’t know,” she said. “After all, it was a drastic predicament. So it called for a drastic solution.”

“Not that drastic!" I was miffed. “Good evening, Frau-lein." I picked up what was left of my bottle of Scotch and stalked out of her room.

“Nein. Not a very good evening.” Her sigh wafted after me as I closed the door.

My pique had worn off by the time Greta’s cast was removed a few days later. So when she asked me to go bob-sledding with her. I figured that if she was willing to let bygones be bygones, so was I. “I have been cooped up so long that I just can’t wait to get out on the slopes in the open air," she told me.

“Are you sure you aren’t rushing things?” I asked.

“Not at all. The doctor says I am as good as new. He said my body knits remarkably well—or that it is remarkably well-knit—-something like that.”

“Well, if it’s good enough for him, it’s good enough for me. Lead the way to the Flexible Flyers.”

Greta was experienced with bobsleds, which I wasn't, and so she decided to steer. “Now you sit here behind me,” she instructed, “and wrap your legs around me. That’s it. Hug my hips with your knees.”

“Isn’t the sled kind of superfluous?” I murmured.

She ignored it. “Now, reach under my arms and get a good grip. That’s it, -hold on tightly.”

“Aren’t you cold?" I asked as I appreciated that there was nothing between my eager hands and her warm breasts save the loose-knit sweater she was wearing.

“Not at all. The exhilaration of the sport keeps me warm.”

“Yeah. I see what you mean. Me, too. Still, don’t you think you should be wearing a bra? As a precaution, I mean?”

“A precaution against what?”

“Well, this thing goes at a pretty high speed, doesn’t it?"

“We should do better than a hundred miles an hour,” she told me.

“Well aren’t you afraid one of your--you know—might fly off?”

Greta giggled and shot me a coy look over her shoulder. “That’s why you have to hold on very tight,” she explained demurely.

“Like this?” I squeezed suggestively.

"Ja!" And she released the brake suddenly. Before I knew it, we were hurtling down the slope like a bullet with a lemming complex.

Automatically, my hands clutched her breasts against the thrust of the bobsled. “Ahh, that feels very nice, Steve."

She turned around to wink at me.

“Look out!” I screamed in mortal terror as the side of the mountain rushed toward us.

She leaned solidly against my right hand and the sled straightened out. “Do not be nervous, Steve,” she told me. “I am an expert at this.”

“Experts get killed every day.” I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

"Ja. The mortality rate is most unfortunate. But that is because of reckless ones who do stupid things like this.” She stuck her leg out, and it propelled us away from the mountainside and toward the edge of the sled-run.

I opened my eyes to see what had happened to my stomach. But all I saw was the empty space of the abyss we were rocketing toward. Then she lifted her leg and somehow we were back on the run again.

It went like that for the next hundred years or so until we finally hit bottom. By that time we'd slowed down to only about a thousand mph or so, I suppose. “Stick out your legs and dig in with your heels,” Greta said.

"What?" I opened my eyes. The snowy landscape was still spinning past like a bad dream.

“That's how we stop,” she explained. “It’s the only way. You have to use your feet for brakes.”

I did as she said. The next thing I knew I was zooming down that slope with no sled underneath me. And I had two handsful of frosty air instead of German bosom. I plowed into a snowbank and pulled the hole I’d made in after me.

One of those Swiss guides pulled me out. “Bravo!” he said, dusting the snow off me.

Then Greta came running up. “Wasn’t that great sport?” she exulted.

“More fun than a free-fall parachute jump without a 'chute,” I told her.

“What’s the matter with your voice?” she asked.

"I must have lost it back there with my stomach,” I squeaked back. I gulped a few lungfuls of air just to let the rest of me know the old lungs had been only temporarily out of order. “It's okay now,” I told Greta in something closer to my more normal tone.

“Gut,” she bubbled. “Then come on. We can just make the ski-lift."

“Wait a minute! Can’t we talk this—?” It was too late. I was in the clutches of an irresistible force.

Still, the ski-lift was almost a relief after the bobsled. All it was was a sort of wire cage which ran on a cable looped across pulleys turned by an electric motor. It ran across a deep gorge to the top of a mountain across from the foot of the bobsled run. It wasn’t so bad if you didn’t look over the side of it. If you did, you found yourself looking down at a glacier so far below it was barely visible through the thick fog of cold air.

I only looked once. After that I huddled in the cage and clutched at Greta for warmth. She was warm, all right. My hands defrosted nicely once I had them under her sweater. And those formidable ski pants she had pasted on proved as easy to remove as duck soup once I discovered where the zipper was hidden.

“We really shouldn’t,” Greta murmured. “Not here.”

But I paid her no mind. After all, I had to do something to keep my mind off that abyss over which we were dangling. “Your pelvis has really healed quite nicely,” I crooned as I caressed her.

“Yes. Hasn’t it? And I am so glad to see that our misadventure the other night left no lasting effects on you.”

“Just a bit chafed,” I said.

“Then perhaps I shouldn’t be doing this?”

“That’s all right. Don’t stop. It helps the circulation in this cold climate.”

“Now that you mention it, the air is chilly. I was forgetting all about that.”

“Quite understandable,” I told her. “Do you know that people in blizzards often do this just to keep warm?”

“Only this?”

“No-o-o. They go on to this . . . and this . . . and then . . .”

“But that can’t be so!” she interrupted. “If it were, the Alps would be impossibly overpopulated.”

Feminine logic! “This is no time to split hairs,” I told her.

“Nor to pull them!” she said. “Please be careful.”

“Sorry.”

“Anyway, we have to stop now.”

“Not now,” I insisted, feeling my rear end ice up as I shifted position to crawl over her.

“Yes, now!" She pushed me away. “Look! Another few feet and we’ll be there.” She hastily rearranged her clothing.

I had no choice but to do the same.

“Did you enjoy the ride?” the guide asked us as he helped us out of the cage.

“Very much!” Greta shot me an insinuating smile.

“It was much too fast,” I grumbled. “In the interests of safety, you should really slow this contraption down.”

"In the interests of safety,” Greta pointed out, “the speed was just right.”

“Too fast!” I insisted stubbornly.

“Forget it.” She pulled me by the hand. “Come on. We have to get our skis on.”

A few moments later I was tottering out to the edge of the slope where Greta was impatiently awaiting me. “This feels pretty awkward," I said, leaning heavily on the guide beside me for support.

“Haven't you ever been skiing before?” Greta asked me. “Only once. Back in my college days.”

“Only once? What happened? Why didn’t you go again?”

“I broke my collarbone.”

“Uh. Well, then, whatever made you decide on a ski resort for a vacation? Why did you come to Switzerland?”

“It's a long story,” I told her. “And you’d never in a million years believe it.”

“Forget it, then. Are you ready?"

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Now remember,” the guide told me, “when you want to stop, just cross one ski in front of the other.”

“I‘ll remember,” I promised.

“Then good luck!” He gave me a shove and I went flailing down the hill, somehow managing to stay erect on the skis.

A moment later Greta shot past me looking confident and graceful. She waved. I waved back and one of my ski poles went flying. I held onto the other one with both hands, using it for balance like a tightrope walker. It wasn’t long after that the trail curved. I didn’t. I made a neat three-point landing, the tips of both skis and my head all firmly embedded in a snowdrift. “Help!” I started to yell. But there was no sound, because by opening my mouth I had managed to swallow a large chunk of Alpine snow.

“Whatever are you doing there?” Hands tugged at my shoulders, and my head came loose. My ears popped just in time to hear Greta speak the words.

“Playing ostrich,” I told her. “What do you think? Want to play?”

“No, thank you.” She stood back and giggled. “Isn’t the blood rushing to your head in that position?” she asked.

“Now that you mention it, it is. But I don’t seem able to—”

“Try turning on your side,” she suggested.

I tried. My body twisted, but the skis were stuck fast. I snapped back to my original position. “Maybe if I raise up on my arms,” I said. I tried that too, and promptly plunged shoulder-deep into the snow.

“I shall have to unbuckle your skis,” Greta said.

“I'd appreciate that. At the rate my rear end’s freezing, if you don’t hurry it may end up as a landmark.”

“Here we are.” She pulled my feet loose, and I was able to get up on them. “I think you’d better walk for a while," she suggested.

I walked. Greta glided around me on her skis, an agile snow-nymph. Even without my own skis, I felt foolish and clumsy trudging through the snow.

“Oh, look!” she called after a while. “A cave.”

I watched as she triggered herself with her ski-pole and whooshed away. She went about a hundred yards and pulled up short at an ice-coated crevice in the side of the mountain. “Come on!" she called. “Let’s have a look at it.” She slipped out of her skis, leaned them against the cave entrance, and vanished from sight.

A few moments later I reached the spot where she had disappeared. I poked my head inside the cave. It was dark in there. “Hey!” I called. No answer. “Hey!” It was still quiet.

I lit a match. Before it went out, I could see that the ice-cavern widened on the inside. I went inside and across the cavern until I came up against the opposite wall. “Greta?” My voice echoed back at me. That was all.

I fumbled for another match and lit it. A few feet from me there was a break in the wall marking a natural passageway leading deeper into the interior of the mountainside. I poked my head inside it. “Greta?”

There was a tinkling giggle by way of answer. I followed the sound down the passageway. About thirty feet farther on it branched off into two separate passageways. I lit a third match. The sweater Greta had been wearing marked the entrance to the right-hand passage. As I started down it there was another giggle.

It was my kind of game. Still all het up from our necking session in the ski-lift, I was intrigued—just as Greta had doubtless intended I should be-—at the prospect of tracking down her bare bosom. I quickened my pace, stumbling a little in my eagerness.

“Where are you?” I called. Another giggle. And then the passage widened into still another chamber. A fourth match showed me Greta’s ski-pants lying at the far end of it. They pointed the way to yet another passageway. I ran down it and was just in time to see a naked figure sprinting around a turn and away from me. I chased it and came out in still another chamber.

It was dark, and I’d run out of matches. “I am waiting, Herr Victor.” Her voice was low and throaty and not more than a few feet away. My fingers fumbled at my ski-pants us I started toward it, thoroughly aroused by now. There was the soft pad of footsteps and I lunged toward the sound, determined not to let her get away again.

But the body I grabbed was still clothed. “What the—-" I started to say.

“Let go of me, Mr. Victor.” Unmistakably, it was a male voice. The man to whom it belonged struck a match. The flare of light made the pistol in his hand glint ominously. “Let go of me!” he repeated. “Relax. And zip up your fly, Mr. Victor!”

I zipped up my fly.

CHAPTER TWO

“THAT’S BETTER.” He lit a candle, dripped some wax on a rock and stuck it there. Then he squatted against the wall, still holding the gun casually in one hand.

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded. “And where’s Greta? What the devil’s going on here, anyway?”

“All in good time, Mr. Victor. Your questions will be answered. Believe me, there’s no cause for alarm.”

“It would be a lot easier to believe you if you’d stop wagging that gun,” I told him.

“My apologies, Mr. Victor. The gun isn't intended to threaten you. No indeed. It‘s merely a necessary precaution against any outside interruptions. The little talk you and I are going to have demands absolute privacy. Ahh, here’s Greta.”

My blonde Lorelei came bouncing back in boots and nothing else. “The coast is clear ahead,” she told the man.

“Then perhaps you will be good enough to keep a look-out back the way you came while I talk to Mr. Victor,” he instructed her.

“All right,” she agreed. “And may I get dressed now?”

“Of course. Your striptease has served its purpose. Mr. Victor is here. My congratulations.”

“And mine, too,” I said. “I don’t know what's behind all this, but I must admit that I fell for your lure—hook, line and sinker.”

“Don’t be afraid, darling.” Greta chucked me under the chin. “Herr Tarleton will explain everything.”

“And will I see you later?” I asked, unable to keep from ogling her lush nudity despite the peculiar circumstances.

“Alas, I’m afraid not,” she sighed. “I have delivered you to Herr Tarleton, and now my part in this little adventure is over.”

“And just what is this ‘little adventure’?” I asked.

“I don’t really know.” Greta shrugged. “I was paid only to arrange this meeting.”

“Nice arranging,” I told her. “But it would have been even nicer if you'd managed things so that we could have finished what we began.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Herr Victor!” she said indignantly. “What do you take me for?"

“But I thought—- That is you gave me every reason to believe-—-”

“I can't help it if your nasty mind made you jump to conclusions, Herr Victor! But believe me, I am not that kind of girl.”

“But that night in your room—"

“I knew I was safe. That's what the plaster cast was for!”

“Then you never really broke your pelvis at all?"

“Of course not! My pelvis is intact. In every sense.”

“I'll be damned!” I sighed. “Well, you better go put your clothes on. I wouldn't want you to catch cold. You’re already getting goose-bumps all over.”

“Yes. Well, good-bye, Herr Victor.”

“Good-bye.” I watched her goose-bumps wriggle out of sight. Then I turned to the man with the gun. “You certainly went to a lot of trouble to arrange this meeting, Mr. Tarleton—or whatever your name is,” I told him.

“Tarleton is correct, Mr. Victor. Albert Smythe Tarleton, to be precise.”

“You’re English?”

“Right again. I imagine it shows, eh?”

It showed. Albert Smythe Tarleton was the compact picture of upper-class John Bull. He was a small man, just over five feet, with a wiry build and the slightly bowlegged stance of a man who enjoys riding to the hounds. He had the receding hairline which announces the premature baldness of the British intellectual. His features were Anglicized and aristocratic with the sharp nose and flaring nostrils of the Saxon gentry. It was a supercilious nose, and its curve ignored the clipped moustache bristling beneath-it. All in all, Tarleton wouldn’t have been out of place as either the headmaster of one of those exclusive English boys’ schools, or sipping gin and bitters on the verandah of an officers’ club along the “Ind-ja" frontier. Yes, he was English and it showed.

“Now, suppose I get down to cases, Mr. Victor.”

“It’s about time.” I didn’t bother to hide my annoyance. It had been a rough day, and I was in no mood to mince words. “This is one hell of a nerve if you ask me!" I growled.

"Quite. Again let me apologize. But the deception involving Greta was necessary. You see, it was impossible for me to arrive here before today, and I had to be sure that your interest was sustained so that you wouldn’t leave betore this contact was arranged.”

“My interest was sustained,” I admitted. “Greta did her job admirably."

“Yes. Well, that’s what she was paid to do."

“Including luring me to this God-forsaken hole?”

“Oh, yes. You see, I have reason to fear that I may be followed. In view of the proposition I have to offer you, it is of the utmost importance that you and I should not be seen together. You see, if you accept, keeping your conpection with me a secret will be a decided advantage to you. Indeed, it wouldn’t be putting it too strongly to describe it as a life-and-death advantage.”

“Accept what? Will you please explain what this is all about!”

“Yes. Now, Mr. Victor, have you ever heard of Dombey of Dover?”

“No. What is it?”

“It is a firm of solicitors. Over three hundred years old. Very respectable. Very conservative. A pillar in its field.”

“And what is its field?"

“The handling of inheritances, Mr. Victor. They are retained by legal firms, or banks, or even sometimes the courts of England, to see to the correct disbursal of the estates of deceased persons. And they are the world’s leading experts in this type of endeavor.”

“You mean they track down missing heirs?”

“Precisely.” Tarleton beamed at me as if he was a Latin instructor and I was a bright student who had just correctly conjugated a difficult verb. “You have a way of getting right to the meat of things, Mr. Victor. And your phraseology is most succinct. Dombey of Dover does indeed track down missing heirs. And I am their chief investigator.”

“Congratulations. But I still don’t see What all this has to do with me.”

“I'm coming to that, Mr. Victor. Be patient. In order to explain, you shall have to bear with me while I tell you a little story. A true story.”

“Go ahead. But make it snappy, will you? This igloo doesn’t have any central heating.”

“Very well. The story begins in Nevada, in the United States of America, about eighteen years ago, just after the war. At that time a man of Swedish extraction named Gunnar Borgman came to Nevada from Minnesota to prospect for gold. Three years later he struck pit rich. A vein of nearly pure gold was discovered by him on a claim he had staked out in the mountains. Overnight, Gunnar Borgman became a very wealthy man. He named his mine ‘The Gopher Hole.’ Quaint, what?”

“Quaint,” I agreed. “Go on.”

“Righto. Now, Gunnar Borgman was a very simple man. I believe you Americans might describe him as a ‘patsy.’ A ‘patsy’ waiting to be plucked.”

“You’re snarling your similes, or mucking up your metaphors, or something,” I observed.

“I beg you pardon?”

“Never mind. Sorry I interrupted. Get back to the story.”

“All rght.” Tarleton shrugged and resumed his tale. “Now, Borgman went to Las Vegas for a spree to celebrate his good fortune. He went on a real bender. Uh— bender? Is that all right?”

“Very graphic.”

“Good. I shouldn’t want the idiom to offend.”

“I’m not offended. But I am getting icicles on my cuticles. Will you please get to the point?”

“I am getting to the point.” Tarleton’s tone said he found my manners lacking. “In any case, Borgman imbibed too much one evening and awoke in the morning to find himself married. His bride was one Brigitte Kelly, a girl fresh from Dublin who had taken employment in the hotel where Borgman was staying. Now, this Brigitte Kelly was no better than she should have been--"

“To coin a phrase,” I couldn’t help murmuring.

Tarleton ignored me and continued. “From what we have been able to learn about her, she was a prostitute in Dublin and had wangled her way to the United States as the mistress of a visiting tourist. She left him—or perhaps it was the other way around—when the boat docked in New York, and hopped from one bed to another until she reached Las Vegas. Here it was all in a night‘s work for her to sleep with Borgman. However, when she learned that he had struck it rich, she took advantage of the opportunity and got him to marry her when he was too drunk to know What he was doing.”

“The evils of drink.” I punctuated the sarcasm with a yawn, hoping that might hurry him up.

But Tarleton was the methodical kind of bloke who refuses to be hurried. He simply kept going at the same measured pace. “Now, the peculiar thing was that once he’d married Brigitte, Borgman proceeded to actually fall in love with her. He built her a house not far from the Gopher Hole, ordered clothes for her from Paris, jewels from Cartier, everything her larcenous little heart might desire. He never gave the expense involved a second thought until one day, about a year after they were married, the Gopher Hole ran dry. The vein of gold just plain ran out. And Brigitte ran out on Borgman just as suddenly.”

“The course of true love . . .” I sighed mockingly.

“Exactly. With the creditors closing in on Borgman, Brigitte packed up her jewels and furs, wrote out a check for what was in their joint bank account, gathered up what spare cash there was around the house, and left without even bothering to say good-bye. As far as Borgrnan was concerned, his bride might as well have been swallowed up by the earth. But he probably didn’t have too much time to dwell on her perfidy. By the time his creditors got through with him, all he had left was the deed to the Gopher Hole, which was then worthless. What with one thing and another, it took him less than five years to drinks himself to death. But what does one man’s death mean, Mr. Victor? Life, after all, goes on. And life is a series of ironies.”

“Spare me the philosophy,” I shivered.

“If you insist. But the irony is inescapable. Some two years ago a surveying team for the United States government took soil samples from the Gopher Hole and had them assayed. No, there was no gold. But there was uranium! The Gopher Hole was rich in uranium. And it made of Gunnar Borgman a far wealthier man dead than he had ever been alive.”

“And I suppose Brigitte Kelly is his heir,” I prompted him.

“His sole heir,” Tarleton amended. “Borgman died intestate. Do you know what that means, Mr. Victor?”

“Without leaving a will.”

“Exactly. And Bergman had no family. Plus the fact that neither he nor Brigitte had ever bothered about a divorce. So she was still his legal wife at the time of his death, and his sole heir. Now, the management of the Borgman estate was turned over to a Nevada bank. This bank hired a detective agency to trace down Brigitte Kelly. They learned that after leaving Borgman she had come for a time to New York. After that, she had gone to London. She settled there. And with the proceeds of her marriage to Borgman, she opened one of the fanciest bordellos which Piccadilly has ever seen.”

“Well, call her Madam,” I interjected.

“Quite accurate. Well, at this point, the American detective agency hired Dombey of Dover to contact Brigitte Kelly. But that was not so easily done.”

“Why not?” Patiently, I played straight man for him.

“Because she was dead. Approximately one year ago she was murdered under what may best be described as very mysterious circumstances.”

“You certainly have a way with words, Albert,” I told him.

“Thank you.” It went over his head. “Now, things really get complicated. But first, you should appreciate the fact that Dombey of Dover has a wealth of background and experience and is quite astute when it comes to coping with the most complicated estates. Thus it was only natural that we should make an arrangement with the deceased Miss-— or Madame, if you prefer—Kelly’s solicitors to handle her bequests."

“Without telling those solicitors anything about the fact that she owned a uranium mine,” I guessed.

“That’s right.” Tarleton smiled smugly. “It would have been vulgar for a firm of our stature to discuss the matter in terms of monetary amounts. Therefore an arrangement was made on a percentage basis.”

“And just what percentage did you agree to take?" I asked.

“The customary thirty-three and a third."

“And how much did you say the Gopher Hole was worth?”

“I didn’t say,” Tarleton reminded me.

“Well, I hate to be vulgar, but suppose you do say?”

He thought about it a moment. “Very well. If you are going to work with us, I suppose you shall have to know. The approximate worth of the estate is four and a half million dollars."

“Wow!” I whistled. “And that means your cut is about a million and a half.”

“More or less. Providing we are successful in locating the legitimate heirs, that is. And that’s where you come in.”

"Not just yet I don’t.” I held up a hand. “Let’s go slow here for a minute. Whatever it is that you want me to do, just how much of this million and a half is Dombey of Dover willing to part with for my services?”

“I told you, Mr. Victor. We never discuss amounts of money. Our arrangements are only in percentages.”

“All right. Then what percentage?"

“Two percent of our fee.”

I did some rapid calculating. That came to $30,000!

“Plus expenses, of course,” Tarleton added. “Are you interested, Mr. Victor?"

It was an effort not to lick my lips. I made the effort. “Yes. I’m interested,” I told him as coolly as I could manage.

“I thought you might be. Now, let us get back to Brigitte Kelly. As I said. she was murdered under very mysterious circumstances. Her nude body was found in the bedroom of her bordello. The only door to the room was locked from the inside. So was the room’s only window. She had been stabbed to death with a dagger.”

“Shades of Agatha Christie,” I mused. “What about suicide?" I added as an afterthought.

“Not likely,” Tarleton told me tartly. “The dagger wound was in the middle of her back.”

“Oh.” I was deflated.

“However, Brigitte Kelly’s death is not really our concern. Let Scotland Yard puzzle it out. Not that they’re having much luck with it. What concerns Dombey of Dover is locating her heirs.”

“Heirs? There’s more than one, then?”

“There are three, Mr. Victor. Unlike her husband. Brigitte Kelly had made out a will before she died. All of her earthly belongings were to be divided equally among three girls who worked for her. Of course, when this testament was drawn up, she had no knowledge that her estate might inherit a uranium mine worth a fortune.”

“A trio of million-dollar doxies,” I mused. “I’ll bet not one of them ever expected to turn a trick like this.”

“You are probably right again, Mr. Victor. You see, when Brigitte Kelly’s estate was settled after her untimely death, each of the three received about five thousand dollars. And each of the three immediately disappeared."

“I wonder why she left even that amount to three hookers.”

“Well, she hated her family. Perhaps she looked on these three as her friends.”

“There must have been more to it than that,” I said positively. My O.R.G.Y. background has convinced me that madams don’t as a rule become quite that fond of the girls who work for them.

“You may be right, Mr. Victor. But that needn't concern us for the moment. The point is that Dombey of Dover has reached an impasse in its efforts to track down each of the three. And that is why we have decided to enlist your help."

“Why me?”

“Because of your connection with O.R.G.Y. You recently sent out certain letters in an effort to obtain a grant for the purpose of conducting a survey of various European establishments of pleasure. Operating under this guise, you will have entry to many places which Dombey of Dover dare not visit. Our reputation, you know. Plus the fact that we would have no reason other than the real one to become involved with such establishments. You, on the other hand, have a legitimate-sounding cover story. And as long as it is not known that you are connected with us, this is a great asset.”

“Why is all this cloak-and-dagger jazz necessary?”

“Because Brigitte Kelly’s will is being contested by certain members of her family. Somehow, they learned of the Gopher Hole bequest. A leak from her original solicitors, I imagine. And now they are doing everything in their power to hinder us in our efforts to locate the three heiresses.”

“But what can they do?”

“With four and a half million at stake, much more than you would dream, Mr. Victor. Perhaps you will appreciate just how dangerous they may be if I tell you that the Mafia is working with them.”

“The Mafia? How are they involved in all this?”

“Brigitte Kelly’s grandmother on her mother’s side came from Sicily. Her son, Brigitte’s uncle, is connected with the Mafia in Dublin. It is his branch of the family which will get the inheritance if the will is broken. Twice already during the course of this investigation, there have been attempts made on my life. One of these attempts was by a known Mafia killer. And now you know why I am holding this gun at the ready. I don‘t think I was followed here, but with the Mafia, one can never be sure.”

“Nice playmates you want to involve me with,” I remarked.

“The decision is yours, Mr. Victor. If the fee tempts you sufficiently-”

“It does,” I said. “I only hope I’m alive to spend it.”

“I hope so too, Mr. Victor. And I speak for Dombey of Dover when I say that.”

“Hear. hear!” Hell, why not get into the spirit of the thing? “Now suppose you tell me about these three million-dollar doxies? Who are they?”

“ Françoise Laval, Gina Moretti and Barbara Thomas. The first is French, the second Italian, and the third a countrywoman of yours.”

“Sounds like Brigitte Kelly was operating a sort of House of All Nations,” I observed.

“She was. The international variety of her establishment was one of the reasons for its popularity.”

“And just where do I start looking for these three trollops?” I wanted to know.

“I am coming to that. After they received the bequest, the three girls went to Rome together. Here they evidently had some sort of falling-out, and they split up. Françoise Laval and Barbara Thomas dropped completely from sight. Gina Moretti changed her name-—-we have been unable to find out what she changed it to—-and went to the Riviera. Here, we have been able to learn, she took up with a prominent Swiss industrialist named Gunther Friedriksenn. She may still be with him, or she may not. We're not sure.”

“And where is this Friedriksenn?”

“He’s at a private chalet about thirty miles from here at the present time. With him are his wife and his secretary. Also, although not officially with his party, his mistress. All three of these women are Italian. Prior to their connections with Friedriksenn, none dating back more than a year, the backgrounds of all three are quite obscure. Any one of them might be Gina Moretti.”

“Or might not be,” I pointed out.

“Or might not be,” Tarleton agreed.

“I don’t suppose you have a picture of her?"

“Unfortunately, there are no pictures available of any of the three women we seek. The description we have managed to put together of Gina is of a brunette—of course, she may have changed her hair color—about five-five, 120 pounds, thirty-six or thirty seven-inch bust, small waist, generous hips, in general a good figure and a face which has been described as pretty with regular features.”

“That could be any one of a million Italian girls. Any scars or distinguishing marks?” I asked him.

“Just one. There is a crescent-shaped scar about three-quarters of an inch long on the left cheek of her derriére. It’s the result of a brawl in the bordello. She was shoved against a man holding a broken bottle.”

“Well that simplifies everything,” I said sarcastically. “All I have to do is run around pulling up skirts. Providing none of these signorinas wear panties, of course.”

“You might also pull down the panties,” Tarleton suggested.

“And you an Englishman,” I tut-tutted. “The very idea."

I mulled things over for a moment. “By the way, how old is this Gina Moretti?” I asked finally.

“Her age is indeterminate. Some place between twenty and thirty.”

“That’s a big help, too.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Victor.”

“You said this Friedriksenn party is at a private chalet,” I remembered. “Just how do I go about wangling my way in there?”

“That shouldn’t be difficult, Mr. Victor. Your connection with O.R.G.Y. should provide you with entry. It is one of the reasons we decided to approach you about this matter. You see, Friedriksenn is a connoisseur of offbeat sex. Sadism, orgies, pornographic movies - things like that are his hobby. As a dedicated amateur, he will doubtless be delighted to encounter a professional like yourself. You will register at an inn near his lodge. Word of who you are and of your connection with O.R.G.Y. will be leaked to him by the management of the inn. We are gambling that he will be intrigued enough to contact you then.”

“I see. And suppose I do manage to make a positive identification of Gina Moretti, what then? How do I track down the other two?”

“It is our hope that she will be able to give you a lead to their whereabouts.”

“The whole thing sounds pretty iffy to me,” I told him, expressing what I honestly felt.

“It is. That’s why the rewards will be so high if you succeed.”

“Okay.” I took a healthy bite out of the carrot he was dangling in front of my nose. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Fine. Then there is nothing else to say, Mr. Victor. Good-bye for now. If you should wish to contact me, just call or write to the London office of Dombey of Dover. Now, if you will leave first, I will wait a while so that just in case one of us is observed, there will be no obvious connection between us.”

“Cheerio, old chap.” I started back through the cave, jiggling my rump like a stripper with St. Vitus dance to get back the feeling I’d lost perching on a cake of ice during our long conversation. By the time I was out in the fresh air again, there were a million pins and needles defrosting it.

Greta was nowhere in sight. And when I got back to the chalet, I learned that she’d checked out. I sighed for what might have been and turned in early, sleeping like a log. The next morning I checked out myself. By noon I had arrived at the inn Tarleton had mentioned.

I signed in as “Steve Victor, O.R.G.Y., U.S.A.” and when the desk clerk raised an eyebrow I made a point of becoming boastfully garrulous. I told him all about O.R.G.Y. and embellished my own importance until I came out smelling like the reincarnation of old Doc Kinsey himself. And I was loud enough so the bellhops and the guests hanging around the lobby couldn’t help hearing.

It worked. A little before dinnertime, the phone rang in my room. A female voice, liquidly Italian, identified herself as Maria Trendasia, secretary to Herr Gunther Friedriksenn. The industrialist, it seemed, had learned of my arrival and wished to extend his hospitality for a small dinner party that evening.

I told Signorina Trendasia that I would be honored to accept, and she replied that Herr Friedriksenn would send a car to pick me up at seven-thirty. I thanked her and hung up. Then I dusted oil my soup-and-fish, showered and shaved, and napped a bit until it was time to get dressed.

The call from the lobby that Herr Friedriksenn’s limousine was waiting came right on the dot of seven-thirty. I went straight down, and the chauffeur opened the door for me with military precision. A delicate perfume wafted to me from the interior of the Rolls as I stooped to enter it.

I had company—the sort of interior decor no Rolls Royce should be without. The lady was young, and beautiful, and expensive-looking. Her evening gown was simple, black velvet, strapless, and undoubtedly a Paris original. I would have bet that the necklace she wore was real diamonds. Her hair was long, black, and piled high on her head. She wore a minimum of make-up, and it wasn’t meant to conceal her olive complexion. Her face was an oval with high cheekbones, full lips, and a perfectly straight Roman nose. Her figure, from what I could see of it, was very good.

“How do you do, Mr. Victor?” She greeted me in English with just the hint of an Italian accent. “I am Anna Del Vecchio. I too am staying at the inn. And since we are both to be the guests of Herr Friedriksenn, he did not think that you would mind sharing a ride with me.”

“I’m honored,” I told her. Nor was it just the usual automatic Continental malarkey. I couldn’t conceive of any man minding sharing the back seat of a Rolls Royce with a Latin lovely like Anna Del Vecchio.

I guessed that she was the mistress Tarleton had mentioned. From our casual chit-chat during the ride, I gathered that she was a frequent guest at Friedriksenn’s lodge. She described herself as “a dear friend of the family.” It all seemed to fit in with the familiar European pattern of ménage à trois—With a nearby hotel room provided for her for the sake of appearances.

When we arrived we were greeted by Maria Trendasia, the secretary who had called me before. She apologized for Friedriksenn and his wife and told us they would be down shortly.

Maria was approximately the same height and build as Anna Del Vecchio. Aside from that, they didn’t look at all alike. Not that there was anything wrong with Maria’s looks; indeed, they went well with the intriguing voice I’d heard over the telephone.

Her hair, while as black as Anna Del Vecchio’s, was not worn as stylishly. It was cut quite short and worn straight back. Her eyes were a serious brown in contrast to the flashing black eyes of the other woman. Her dress was severe, in keeping with her general air of seriousness, a chocolate-brown color with a full skirt and a high neck. However, it couldn’t hide the fullness of Maria’s bosom, or the curve of her hips. The horn-rimmed glasses she wore completed the picture of the efficient secretary who conscientiously plays down her femininity.

Maria had just made us martinis when another guest arrived. We heard him before we saw him. The roar of a sports car followed by the squeal of brakes on snow announced his coming. A moment later he bounced into the drawing room, removing goggles, cap, and car coat and tossing them to a servant as he came. These disposed of, he was impeccable in white tie and tails.

Maria introduced him as Luigi Tortorizzi. I took an instant dislike to him as we shook hands. His hand was too soft, too limp, and he was too anxious to retrieve it. There was something too precious, too delicate about the rest of him too, although he was neither particularly small nor slender. Maybe it was his condescending air with me, or the foppish way he had of gesturing and bowing with the ladies. Whatever it was, Luigi wasn't my dish of ravioli.

He was telling a long, involved, boastful tale of his adventures as a gentleman auto racer when our host and hostess entered. Herr Friedriksenn cut him short smoothly, and I appreciated that. Luigi had lost me around the first hairpin turn, anyway.

Friedriksenn was much older than his wife. He was a large man, barrel-chested and wide-shouldered, and not built for the dinner jacket he was wearing, although he looked completely at ease in it. His hair was completely gray, but his vitality was such that there was no feeling of age about him. His face was weatherbeaten, as if much of his life had been spent out of doors. Yet, rough and leathery as his features were, there was nothing of the diamond-in-the-rough about his manners. They were impeccable, and he put his guests at their ease with little effort.

His wife’s name was Carmella. She seemed more nervous than he, less accustomed to the atmosphere of the haut monde. Indeed, compared to Anna Del Vecchio, she was almost gauche-—which is a hell of a word for a bozo like me to judge a girl by, still, when in Rome . . .

I drew Carmella as a dinner partner. Maria, on my left, was devoting herself to patiently listening to Luigi Tortorizzi and his auto racing jabber. Friedriksenn’s attention was taken up by Anna Del Vecchio and I couldn’t help noticing that their rapport seemed almost intimate.

Carmella was conscientiously drawing me out as to my impressions of Europe. As I answered her questions, I sized her up. She was in her mid-twenties, I judged, and her accent was definitely Sicilian. Mostly I noticed a certain carelessness about her appearance. A few wisps of ebony hair had escaped her elaborately teased coiffure. Her rouge was a bit uneven, and she had applied it to her cheeks a little too generously. The low-cut green silk evening gown she wore had slipped from her bodice, and half of one plump, round breast which was exposed had a stray bit of lettuce perched atop it. As decolletage it was interesting, but not quite up to the flawless taste of her surroundings. Also, she kept refilling her wine glass and swallowing the stuff as if it were water throughout the meal.

But with it all, Carmella Friedriksenn was an attractive woman. There was an intensity to her green eyes, a sort of suppressed sexiness, which matched the sultry promise of her face and ripely lush body. I appreciated this even more when, just after we were served our coffee, her hand fell to my thigh with a pressure that was anything but casual. There was no doubt about it; my host’s wife was making a pass at me.

But the pass went no further just then. She removed the hand when her husband leaned across the dinner table to engage me in conversation. “Your occupation fascinates me, Mr. Victor,” he said frankly. “Won’t you tell us something about it?”

“What would you like to know?” I replied.

“Well—” He thought a moment. “Tell me this,” he said finally. “I have read the Kinsey Reports and always they leave me with one nagging question. How can an interviewer dealing with such a delicate matter as sex be sure that the subject is telling him the truth?”

“By cross-checking the answers to a variety of questions. Ot course, nothing is a hundred percent sure, but I do believe that the technique developed by O.R.G.Y, allows us to attain a high degree of accuracy. Plus the fact that truth is relative. There may be more truth to a subject’s fantasies than to his real life experience.”

“Ahh, then you do concern yourself with the fantasy world of sex." Friedriksenn nodded approvingly.

“Of course.”

‘Then I have something which should prove most interesting to you. Some films. Most difficult to obtain. Really items for the connoisseur. Would you like to view them?”

“Very much.”

So it was that after dinner we all traipsed into the library. The blinds were drawn and a large white screen lowered. It covered almost all of one wall. Friedriksenn inserted a reel of film into a sound projector and the lights were doused. A moment later the screen came to life—in Technicolor, yet!

The film started out slowly enough. It took a good five or ten minutes before it worked up to the beginning of the orgy. llut when it did, I saw what Friedriksenn had meant about its being an “item for the connoisseur.”

The setting was Oriental. The cast was mixed—-all races and colors, all manner of sexual persuasion. The action was uninhibited-—-to say the least. Here a blonde girl reached inside her blouse and withdrew a large breast. She held it in her hand while a man tickled the tip with a feather. There was a close-up of the nipple as it distended to an imposing length.

There one girl knelt before another and pushed up her skirt. Another close-up as her lips skip-kissed between pink, quivering thighs and her tongue darted out to flick at the scarlet target.

The camera moved on. Three men being serviced by a Japanese dancing girl at one time. A bosomy redhead impaling herself on a candlestick. A young man being brought to a peak of passion by a whipping which left his buttocks bleeding. A couple making love standing up in a shower.

I’d seen pornographic films before, but never so lavishly produced. And never with such good-looking people -- male and female. There was even a well-rounded plot to give impetus to the action. And the action seemed to overlook no possible sex act.

Being human, I found it arousing. I wasn’t the only one. About halfway through the film I felt a hand groping in my lap. It was dark and I couldn’t tell to whom it might belong. But that didn’t make it any the less effective as it opened my pants and groped under my BVD’s.

It found what it sought and freed it. A moment later a leg was thrown over my lap. The leg was bare and I felt the bunched-up skirt of an evening gown against my belly. There was nothing under the evening gown. Then there was hot breath in my ear as I was straddled and the figure facing me began bouncing gently up and down.

I didn't know what the hell to do. I was filled with lust, but afraid to move. The body locked to mine belonged to Carmella Friedriksenn. And her husband was only a few feet behind us, running the movie projector.

Suppose he heard us? Suppose he saw what we were doing? Suppose he was the violent type?

That’s what I was thinking as I moved surreptitiously with a rhythm matching Carmella’s. But even as I was thinking it, I was appreciating the fact that she was adding a new dimension to movie-going. Yes, as far as I was concerned, movies really were better than ever!

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS a kaleidoscope of sex, a fast-moving panorama of erotic possibilities. Straddling my lap, Carmella held me in al pulsing grip of liquid fire. On the screen there was a close-up of a naked Tahitian girl writhing ecstatically under the deep-piercing, intimately darting tongue of a Norseman.

Still nervous about Friedriksenn, I swiveled my head to glance at him. In the light-splash from the back of the projector, his face was a staring mask, sweating slightly, eyes riveted to the screen. My glance dropped and I could just make out the black velvet gown curled up on the floor beside him. I couldn’t see Anna Del Vecchio’s face. It was huried in his lap and her long hair was fanned out over his widely parted knees.

I stopped worrying about Friedriksenn‘s noticing what his wife and I were doing. He was obviously too well occupied to pay us any mind. I followed his gaze back to the screen.

The camera was now lingering on a long shot of four nude people—two men and two women. They formed an interesting pattern. Not geometric, but trigonometric— three-dimensional. One woman was kneeling on her hands and knees. A man was standing behind her, his hips moving like a pile-driver as he assailed her plump buttocks. His head was turned to one side, his mouth fastened to the breast of the second woman. She was seated on the couch, her muscles tensing her long legs so that they formed a question mark. The second man knelt before her, his face lost in her clenching thighs. The lips of the first woman kept gripping and losing him from behind.

Carmella moaned in my ear, distracting me from the screen. She was bouncing up and down more insistently now, and I had to reach under the bunched-up evening gown for a firm grip on her burning buttocks to keep from losing her. The shift in position brought Maria Trendasia and Luigi Tortorizzi into my range of vision.

The secretary still wore her glasses. She was staring straight ahead, at the screen, and her face was as expresionless as if she’d been watching a slightly boring documentary on canal irrigation or the problems of the wheat farmer. Her hand, busy in Luigi’s lap, seemed to be moving mechanically, as if it were a thing apart, as if it were an office machine performing a task assigned by the effficient Signorina. Nevertheless, Luigi was reacting energetically.

So, by now, was I. My face was buried in the deep cleft between Carmella’s breasts. She had pushed down her gown so that one of them was free and the long, distended tip was tickling my cheek and ear as she bounced. Then she stopped bouncing and began a slow, grinding, circular motion that quickly brought both of us to the verge of satisfaction.

“Now!” Her voice was hoarse and wildly insistent in my ear.

I braced both hands on the sides of the chair-seat and thrust violently upward. Carmella gasped, and for a moment the room was spinning dizzily as, together, our rapture exploded. Finally I opened my eyes and came back to reality.

She didn’t move. “Again!” she whispered insistently.

“You’ll have to wait a minute,” I protested, whispering back.

“All right.” She relaxed a little, but stayed where she was without releasing her grip.

The interlude made me remember why I was there. And, pleasurable as it was, I wasn’t there just to make love to my host’s wife under his very nose. No, I was there to find Gina Moretti. Any one of the three women present might have been her. The only way to identify her for sure was to find that crescent-shaped scar which was supposed to be on Gina Moretti’s derriére. And this was as good a time to start as any. Maybe better, since I already had a hand-hold on one of the three rumps in question.

Using the pretext of caressing her further, I pushed Carmella’s gown still higher. My fingers investigated, but they couldn't really tell me anything. So I angled my head under her arm and bent low to peer at the area in question. I figured there was just enough light coming from the movie projector to get a look at her bared petard. Twisting my neck into an impossible position, I tried to bend still lower.

The tactic proved unfortunate. It threw us off balance. Carmella grabbed wildly for my shoulders and the two of us went sprawling loudly to the floor.

The projector was stopped. The lights went on just as I finished closing my trousers. The first thing I looked for was Carmella’s derriére, but she too had already managed to rearrange her clothing and it was covered. The opportunity had passed me by.

“I got up for a cigarette," Carmella was explaining to her husband, “and I tripped over Mr. Victor in the dark.”

“Of course, my dear.” Friedriksenn had to know she was lying, but his voice didn’t show it. In the lit room, his clothing was as impeccable as ever, and I guessed that he must have rearranged it before turning on the lights. Beside him, Anna Del Vecchio was curled up on the floor as innocently as a Campfire Girl toasting marshmallows. The smile on her face gave not a hint of the service she had been performing for her host.

Maria Trendasia was equally composed. Her hands were folded primly in her lap, her chair a sedate six inches away from the chair in which Luigi Tortorizzi was sitting. He had a sullen look on his face, like a child whose half eaten candy has been taken away from him, but he was making an effort to control it.

“The picture would have ended in a moment, anyway,” Friedriksenn was saying. “Tell me, Mr. Victor, as a professional, what did you think of it?”

“An excellent example of its genre,” I pontificated.

“Yes, isn’t it?” Friedriksenn beamed at me. “I knew that you would appreciate it. Well, shall we go inside for cocktails? I think we’ll all be more comfortable there.” He led the way into the parlor of the chalet.

Once we were there, the rest of the evening passed ordinarily enough. Polite small talk, excellent brandy, and a generally warm atmosphere of upper-class hospitality. Seeing me to the door at the close of the evening, Friedriksenn seemed quite genuine in urging me to come again. I told him I d be delighted to, and he promised he‘d have Maria ring me up to set a time.

And then I once again found myself in the back of the Rolls Royce with Anna Del Vecchio. The glass partition between us and the chauffeur was rolled up. As I settled myself, Anna reached forward and drew the curtain over the glass. I must have raised a questioning eyebrow, for when she spoke it was as if she was answering something I'd asked. “Yes, I found the film most arousing, Mr. Victor,” she said.

“So did I," I admitted honestly.

“And I am a lady who values her privacy," she added, as if explaining the drawn curtain.

“I understand.” I took her hand in mine.

She glanced down at our clasped fingers. Then she stared straight ahead a moment as if calculating something. The road moved swiftly and silently under the wheels of the Rolls. Outside the night was crisp and cold. But the rear of the car was pleasantly warm, and Anna had discarded her furs. The moon was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and her bare shoulders gleamed and vanished and gleamed again in the moonlight. Finally, she seemed to have come to a decision, and she turned to me.

“I must be able to trust your discretion, Mr. Victor,” she said.

“Of course you can,” I assured her.

“You understand that the driver is in the employ of Herr Friedriksenn and that if he should detect anything untoward he would report it.”

“I understand.”

“And you have perceived, I’m sure, that Herr Friedriksenn is—-ahh—quite attached to me.”

“Yes.”

“Then let me tell you also that he is an extremely jealous man. He is having me watched at the inn; I know that. At the villa he is beside me constantly. And even here in the car, I am sure the driver has been instructed to keep me under surveillance. And yet,” she repeated, “I did find the film most devilishly arousing.” Her free hand fluttered over one of her breasts as if to testify to what she was feeling. “Dare we-—?” Her deep, black eyes were hot with the answer to the question.

“We dare.” I agreed with the message in her eyes. Slowly, her hand reached behind her. There was the soft sound of a zipper in the hushed interior of the Rolls. A moment later the black velvet gown fell away from her breasts, and their blood-red tips quivered invitingly. She cupped them in her hands and looked down at them. “I do have a lovely bosom. Don't you think so, Mr. Victor?”

“Call me Steve.” My hands reached out greedily by way of confirming her self-judgment.

“Yes. Steve. Be careful, Steve. We must be very quiet and very cautious.” She raised her hips and her hands pushed the gown off altogether. The black velvet lay in a small pile at her feet. She was wearing black lace panties and a garter belt to hold up her stockings. Her legs were beautiful, long and slender and well-shaped, like a ballet dancer’s.

I took her in my arms, and her hand slid under the waistband of my trousers. A moment later she unzipped my pants, and her long hair cascaded over my lap. Her tongue was a madly teasing flame, her mouth greedy and thrilling. I stood it as long as I could and then ripped the lace panties from her body and started to fling myself over her.

“No!” she protested. “I don’t dare. I can’t take the risk of becoming pregnant. Fredriksenn would kill me!”

“Haven’t you ever heard of birth control pills?” I was irked at being stopped so abruptly.

“Of course. I used to take them. But he took them away from me. He thinks that without them I’m more likely to be faithful. And he’s right.”

“But what about with him?”

“He takes care of that.”

“That’s pretty old-fashioned,” I observed.

“He's an old-fashioned man.”

“But you’re not an old-fashioned girl, hey?”

“No. I am not," Anna murmured. Her head swept down and the O of her lips encircled me firmly once again. After a moment, she paused. “Stretch out on the seat,” she murmured. When I did as she asked, she scrambled over me and resumed what she’d been doing. The way she’d arranged things, the area of her body framed by the garter belt quivered invitingly just over my lips.

It was obvious that she didn’t want to dine alone. I took the hint and was immediately rewarded by a tremor which seized her whole body and found its passionate outlet in the eagerness of her mouth enveloping me. My mouth was equally occupied, but with it all my brain was still racing to take advantage of the situation.

In this position, her rhythmic responses kept presenting her derriere to my view. The only trouble was that the flaps of the garter belt kept obscuring the very area where the scar which would identify Gina Moretti might have been. As we approached the peak of our passion, I attempted to wrinkle my nose by way of pushing those flaps aside. But it was no use. My brain was carried along by the explosion of my lust before I could accomplish my objective.

I made one last attempt just after it was over. I grabbed for the garter-flap with a free hand. I miscalculated.

“Whoo-oo!” Anna jumped. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Sorry. Just being affectionate,” I murmured.

“Childish, you mean,” she said indignantly. “I don’t like that kind of familiarity. Don’t get fresh!”

“My apologies," I said, wondering why the hell, under the circumstances, I should be feeling as abashed as a subway masher. Morals, someone once said. are a matter of geography. And sometimes, I added to myself at this moment, a matter of feminine whim.

While this was passing through my mind, the opportunity was vanishing. Anna Del Vecchio was scrambling back into her clothing. By the time the limousine pulled up in front of the inn, her attire and poise were as impeccable as ever.

I bid her good night in the lobby and went up to bed. Two chances to look for the scar of Gina Moretti, and I’d goofed them both. That was my miffed thought to myself as I drifted off to sleep.

A third chance came the next day. I slept late, and it was almost noon when I went down to the dining room of the inn for some brunch. It was deserted except for a girl in ski-pants and jacket who was seated at the far end. I recognized Maria Trendasia.

“Hello.” I strode over and greeted her. “May I join you?”

“Please do.” The secretary smiled at me. Her hair was fluffed out, and she wasn’t wearing her glasses. She looked relaxed, not as prim and businesslike as she’d seemed the evening before.

I ordered coffee and a brioche. “Going skiing?” I asked Maria when it came.

“No. Mountain climbing. It’s my day off."

“I never would have guessed you were the athletic type,” I told her.

“Appearances are sometimes deceiving, Mr. Victor. I actually have many interests-—and pleasures -- aside from my work.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to pigeonhole you.” I munched on the brioche. “So you’re a mountain climber, eh?”

“Only an amateur. But I do enjoy it. Have you ever gone mountain climbing, Mr. Victor?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“But you should. It is one of the great joys of the Alps. Why don't you join me today?”

“I don't want to intrude—”

“You won’t be. I was going alone, anyway. I’d appreciate the company.”

“Won’t I slow you down?”

“That doesn’t matter. It will be fun to show you the ropes."

An hour or so later I was appreciating the fact that her choice of words wasn’t merely slang. By then we were about a hundred feet up a slope that would have given any mountain goat second thoughts. Maria Trendasia was ahead of me and above, happily whacking spikes—which she called “pitons"-—into the ice wall. She used these for hand or foot holds and I used the ropes attached to them to pull myself up alongside her.

Now, as I cautiously climbed toward her, I had a sudden inspiration. I was clumsy enough in actuality so that any mistakes I made would easily pass for more of the same. I saw my chance to look for the crescent-shaped scar which would identify Gina Moretti and I took it. I grabbed hold of Maria’s ski-pants by the seat and tugged suddenly and quickly downward.

“Mr. Victor!" she protested.

“Sorry.” The movement had caused some loose snow to tumble into my eyes, and by the time I brushed it out she’d pulled the pants back up. “It was an accident,” I told her as she took my hand and pulled me up alongside her with a grip which was stronger than I‘d expected of her.

“Was it really?” Her look said that she suspected I‘d been after something else. It also said that she might not mind.

I took the chance that I'd read her right. On the very next lap of our ascent I repeated the tactic. But this time she foiled my attempt to get a look at her rear by turning around so that her back was to the mountain. She balanced easily on the pitons and made no attempt to pull the pants back up. And she wasn’t wearing anything under them.

“You are very impetuous,” she told me as I climbed- up beside her.

It was obvious that she expected me to kiss her, and I did. What happened then nearly gave me an Alpine heart attack right on the spot. She wrapped her arms around me and shoved against the side of the mountain. The two of us went sailing off into space!

The ropes brought us up short. My head was spinning, but I had no time to think. Maria was really a thrill-crazy chick, and now she set about proving it. As we dangled there in mid-air, her ankles braced wide apart so she wouldn’t lose the ski-pants pushed down around them, her hands reached inside my trousers and caressed me in a way which left no doubt as to what she had in mind.

“We’ll fall!” I objected. I was sure that my face must be turning green with fear. I was equally sure that the fear would prevent me from performing as she wished.

“The ropes will hold us,” she assured me. And she set about proving how wrong I was on the second count.

I knew it was crazy. Maybe my very fear contributed to my arousal. Or maybe it was just that Maria’s kooky passion was contagious. In any case, it was only a few moments before we were locked together, her knees gripping my hips, my hands clutching the burning plumpness of her derriere, the two of us moving as violently as if there were a mattress under us, rather than nothing but thin air.

“YO-DAH-LAY-HEE-HO!” The scream which accompanied Maria’s exploding ecstasy echoed from Alpine mountain to Alpine dale.

Excelsior! I thought. And then I thought nothing as my lust caught up with hers and my body sent hers whirling through the air in a spasm of release.

The climax was damn near fatal. From above us there came a sudden sound of crumbling ice and snow. Our love-making had upset the delicate balance of this glacial mountain. High over our heads an avalanche was starting to gain momentum.

I was all set to cash in on my life insurance, but Maria knew her mountains. Expertly, she manipulated the ropes so that we swung over to a ledge parallel to where we’d been dangling. Pulling up her pants—once again she managed it before I’d had a look at her bottom—she clambered over the ledge and pulled me after her. She found a niche with some iced-over rock making an awning above it. and the two of us wedged ourselves into it. From here we watched as rocks and ice-balls sailed down the mountainside, just missing us.

It went on for about ten minutes and then it was over. Our pitons were gone, and so were our ropes. The avalanche was over, but the continuing drift of rubble from above us was a low, rumbling warning against trying to climb any higher. And below us, the way we’d come, the side of the mountain looked smooth as glass.

“What are we supposed to do now?” I asked Maria.

“Just stay put,” she replied calmly. “The guides know we’re up here. They’ll send a party up after us as quickly as they can.”

“Let’s just hope they do it before we freeze to death.”

“Oh, I'm sure we’ll manage to keep warm. And I don’t think we’ll be bored, either.”

Maria was right. Despite the fact that we had to move very cautiously on the precarious ledge-perch, we did manage to pick up where we’d left off in mid-air. Worried as I was about starting another avalanche, I nevertheless allowed her to persuade me that this was the best of all possible ways of combating the cold. Sex aside, that really was in Maria‘s mind too, for throughout our lovemaking she managed to keep her ski-pants too high up in back for me to get a look at her derriere. What could I do? When she said she didn’t want to take a chance on freezing off that particular choice portion of her anatomy, I could hardly argue, could I?

Our passion soon put it out of my mind, anyway. If an avalanche traps you on a mountain with a beautiful nymphomaniac, you might as well snuggle up and enjoy it, so that’s exactly what I did. An hour or so later I was enjoying it for the second—or, counting our rope-swinging adventure, the third—time when I happened to catch sight of the doggy voyeur out of the corner of my eye.

It was a St. Bernard, and he must have managed to navigate the narrow trail running around the mountain from the ledge. Maria and I had decided against trying it because it looked so risky. But that hadn‘t stopped this noble beast, and now here he was, keg of brandy around his neck and all.

He was staring impolitely. His furry face seemed to say that this was one hell of a scene to greet an intrepid rescuer. He decidedly conveyed the feeling of being torn between performing his function, which was to offer us the brandy, and reluctance to interrupt our intimacy.

Finally he decided. He shook his head slowly, sadly, shrugged his shoulders, turned around and trudged wearily back the way he had come. His whole attitude seemed a recrimination, as if to say that this younger generation of avalanche victims was far too fast and wild for him, as if to sigh for the good old days when Alpine rescue was unbesmirched by such sexual promiscuity.

“Hey!” I exclaimed. It had just belatedly occurred to me that if we were stuck here much longer we might regret passing up that brandy.

“Hush,” Maria sighed. “Hush and kiss me again.”

“I think we may have just missed our chance at being rescued,” I told her, going on to explain about seeing the dog.

“Oh, then don’t worry,” she said. “The rescue party won’t be far behind the animal. What a shame. And we were just getting on so well.” She sighed and fixed her clothing.

Maria was right. A few moments later the rescue party reached us. Inside the hour we were back at the inn. Here Maria gave me a quick kiss good-bye and left to return to her secretarial duties with Herr Friedriksenn.

I went up to my room to soak in a hot tub and reflect morosely on my lack of success in uncovering the scar which would identify Gina Moretti, the first of the trio of harlot heiresses. I’d been up at bat three times, pitched to by each of the three candidates, and I’d struck out three times. That should have meant the side was retired. In any case, it sure meant that I was tired, and so I retired early that night, hoping morning might bring some new inspiration.

What morning did bring was another invitation from Herr Friedriksenn. It was to spend the weekend as a house guest at his villa, and I accepted. When his car picked me up that evening I learned that there was to be another guest --Anna Del Vecchio. She was already in the back of the Rolls when I climbed inside. But her passions were more under control than they had been during our last ride together, and she showed no inclination to play “high school” in the back seat of the car this time.

When we arrived, Maria greeted us, just as she had the first time. Luigi Tortorizzi was with her. It seemed that he too was enjoying the Friedriksenns’ hospitality. Cozy, I thought to myself. The same sextet which had displayed such easy sexual rapport on the last visit. It promised to be a very interesting weekend.

Friedriksenn came down the stairs just as Maria was showing us to our rooms. He paused to apologize to us for the fact that the electricity was out and we would have to use candles. “There was an avalanche yesterday and it knocked down the lines,” he explained. “Really very unusual in these parts. I can’t imagine what started it."

My eyes met Maria’s, and in the flickering glare from the candle I saw that her secretarial composure was a wee bit shaken. She looked back at me and blushed. Then she lowered her eyes and continued up the stairs with Anna and me following behind.

I waited in the hallway as she showed Anna to her room, and then followed along as she led the way to mine. “There is a bathroom connecting,” Maria told me. She opened a door in one of the side walls to show it to me.

I noticed another door in the far wall of the bathroom. “Where does that go?” I asked Maria.

“To Signora Friedriksenn‘s bedroom. You share the bath with her.” The very fact that her voice was so carefully noncommittal seemed insinuating.

“I see," I said.

“Yes. The butler will call you for dinner, Mr. Victor,” she said, as coolly as if we’d never set off an avalanche together. And then she left me alone, closing the door behind her.

I washed up in the bathroom and then got into my dinner jacket. Just as I was re-tying my bow tie for the third time, I heard the latch click on the other side of the bathroom door. There was the sound of running water. I guessed that Carmella Friedriksenn must be having a bath before dinner.

Glancing at the door, I noticed that it had a keyhole. Here was my chance for a possible peek at at least one set of legacy-eligible buttocks. Surely Carmella would have to disrobe for her bath. As eager as any Peeping Tom, I knelt before the door and glued my eye to the keyhole.

She had set a candelabra on the washstand, so there was plenty of light. Carmella stood in front of the full-length mirror, sideways to my gaze, and undressed. She was wearing a sweater and skirt.

The sweater came off first. She stretched then, her magnificent breasts straining at the flimsy bra she wore until it seemed the cups must burst. Then she turned so that she was facing me and reached behind her to unclasp the bra. She put it on top of the sweater on the hamper. Then she plumped up her breasts and studied them admiringly in the mirror. Watching, my admiration surpassed her own. Carmella's gorgeous globes were a masterpiece of mammarian development. Now she was massaging them lightly to remove the traces left by the tight-fitting bra. She caught her breath as the nipples distended under her touch. A look of enjoyment came over her face as she stared at herself in the mirror while her fingers stroked the long, ruby breast-tips.

Then, hastily, she slipped out of her skirt. She paused, noticing that the bathtub was filled, and turned off the tap. Then she turned so that she was facing me as she wriggled out of her half-slip. She wasn‘t wearing any panties. I was beginning to appreciate the fact that she probably never did bother with such superfluous garb. In any case, the dark triangle of her womanhood was quivering with her self-arousal. Her fingers tiptoed through the curls until they found their mark. She closed her eyes and her breathing grew so hoarse that I could hear it now.

A moment later she gave a little cry of pleasure, and it was over. I knew she would have to turn around to climb into the bathtub, and so I switched eyes so as to have a fresh outlook when I should finally get a chance to view her bare bottom in the candlelight. But she thwarted me!

Carmella walked straight toward the door to my room, her hips still rolling with the aftermath of pleasure. And she hung the half-slip on the doorknob, covering the keyhole. My view was completely blocked just as she must have turned around to go back to the bathtub.

Cursing to myself, I quickly reached into the pocket of my dinner-jacket, and came up with a toothpick. I pushed it through the keyhole and poked at the half-slip until it fell from the doorknob. Just as it did, the voice spoke from behind me.

“Research, Mr. Victor?"

I spun around so fast that I lost my balance and sat down hard. It was Friedriksenn. Despite the fact that he looked amused rather than angry, I couldn't think of a thing to reply.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Mr. Victor. I am a man of the world. I find it flattering that you should think my wife worthy of observations.”

“I didn't hear you come in,” I said helplessly.

“I should have knocked. My apologies. I had no idea that you would be so preoccupied. I only wanted to ask you if you would like to join me for a cocktail before dinner. But I really don’t want to interrupt your research studies. Please feel free to resume them and join me at your convenience.” He bowed and left then.

Swiss hospitality! Mentally, I tipped my hat to it. And then I decided to take advantage of it. I bent to the keyhole again.

No luck. Carmella was already in the bathtub. All I could see of her was her face and one luscious breast floating lazily in the water. I decided it would be just too damn obvious to wait for her to get finished before joining Friedriksenn. So I got to my feet and went downstairs.

Friedriksenn's manners were much too impeccable for him to mention the incident over cocktails. Nor did he expose my voyeurism during dinner. Instead, the meal passed with a general discussion of the work of 0.R.G.Y. The topic seemed of greater interest to him than to the others. I guessed that the ladies were more concerned with performance than theory.

But there was no particular action planned for that evening. After dinner Friedriksenn seemed more anxious to retire than anything else. It was shortly after eleven that he excused himself. A few moments later Anna Del Vecchio confessed that she too was quite tired and went up to her room. That seemed the signal for the rest of us, and so we all said our good nights and went off to bed.

I couldn’t sleep. I simply had to get a look somehow at those three female fannies. The problem of how was bugging me enough to keep me awake. After an hour or so, with the chalet as quiet as a chloroformed graveyard, I decided the time had come to do a little surreptitious investigating. I put on my bathrobe, fished the pencil flashlight from my suitcase, and slipped out of my room. I remembered that Maria’s room was across the hall from mine. I tiptoed across the hallway and tried the doorknob. It was open. I slipped noiselessly inside the room.

The sound of her even, deep-sleep breathing reached my cars from the bed. I crept over to it and stood over her. I flicked on the pocket flashlight. The beam highlighted Baby Doll pajamas hugging an imposing upthrust of breasts and the smooth sweep of belly. Most un-secretarial, I thought to myself as I looked at the lavender sleepwear.

She was lying on her back. The problem was first of all how to get her to turn over without waking her. I reached down and tugged at her hip, prepared to spring back into the darkness if she showed signs of waking. The hip was warm and soft to my touch. Maria stirred a little in her sleep, but she didn’t turn over.

I tried again. She writhed, as if responding to the touch of a lover. That seemed to be my cue. I dropped my hand lightly to her bare inner thigh and stroked it.

“Ha-ha-ha . . .” Maria giggled in her sleep and arched hrr back so that the panty part of the Baby Dolls was thrust upward.

I slid my hand delicately inside them. This time she reacted more violently. She thrashed about for a few seconds, as if trying to grasp the teasing fingers. When she settled, she was sleeping on her side.

I waited a moment until she was quiet and then I pushed against her buttocks until she was sleeping fiat on her stomach. Now I bent over her and pulled gently downwards on the elastic of the Baby Dolls as I focussed the narrow beam of the flashlight.

“What—!” She sprang up on her elbows, still half-asleep, and peered into the darkness for whatever it was that had wakened her.

I doused the light and huddled in the shadows. After a little while, she settled back into sleep again. I decided it would be too risky to make another attempt to pull the pajama panties down. Maria was simply too light a sleeper. I tiptoed out of the room.

But that was no reason not to try my luck elsewhere. I noticed that the door to one of the three bedrooms was ajar. Silently, I moved over to it and peered inside. Darkness. I took the chance and quickly flashed the flashlight on and off. In that instant the beam showed me the features of Anna Del Vecchio.

I moved inside the room and over to her bed. She had thrown the covers off almost all the way. Almost, but not quite. A corner of one of the blankets was just covering her derriere. She was lying on her side with her back to me, almost at the edge of the large bed. On the other side of the bed the rest of the blankets and sheets were all in a heap. It seemed a golden opportunity. All I had to do was lift that corner of the blanket and I’d have an unobstructed view of Anna’s nether-cheeks. I reached for the blanket.

“Oh, darling, not again,” Anna murmured.

“Why do you say that?" I recognized Friedriksenn’s voice sounding muffled from under the pile of bedclothes on the other side of Anna.

“Well, if you don’t want to, then stop tickling my bottom,” his mistress protested.

“I didn’t touch you.”

“You didn’t? Then who did?”

I froze as the question hung in the darkness.

“I don’t know. But now that the subject’s come up-—” Friedriksenn’s mind was on other things. I was lucky. He broke off the sentence to embrace her.

I took advantage of their preoccupation by darting to the nearest doorway. It led to the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and it creaked slightly.

Friedriksenn noticed. “What the devil was that?” he asked loudly.

“What, darling?”

“That noise. It came from the bathroom."

“Probably only the wind.”

“Perhaps. But I’m going to have a look anyway.” Friedriksenn's footsteps shuffled toward the bathroom door.

Quickly, I darted to the door on the other side of the bathroom. I opened it and went through it, closing it behind me. I stood there with my back to it, not daring to breathe until I was sure that Friedriksenn had gone back to bed. When I was sure, I took a look around me.

I was in yet another bedroom. The draperies hadn't been drawn in this one, and the moon was shining brightly through the window. The beam of light was hitting the bed and illuminating a figure sleeping flat on its stomach. The sleeper had thrown off the covers altogether and was sleeping in the nude. The particular portion of the anatomy highlighted by the moonbeam was the buttocks.

And what buttocks they were! In the course of my investigations for O.R.G.Y., I have had the opportunity to focus on many a fabulous female fanny, but this one was surely the most delightful I’d ever seen. It was smooth and hairless, the skin tinted a delicate pink, the cheeks plump and shimmering like foam rubber in the moonlight. It was a derriere to surpass all derrieres, a neatly halved sphere so beautiful that I stared for a moment just to admire it.

But this was no time for esthetic appreciation. I reminded myself to get down to business. I crossed over to the bed and bent low over the gleaming derriere to search for the scar.

“What the hell!” The sleeping figure sprang to life. "What do you think you’re doing?” It was Luigi Tortorizzi’s voice sounding startled and angry.

“Sorry!” I froze with consternation. “I must have gotten into the wrong room. Accidents will happen,” I added lamely.

“I see. Well, then, would you mind lifting your nose from me—”

“Oh! Sorry!” I straightened up.

“Thank you. As you Americans say, I don’t swing that way.”

“Well, neither do I!” His tone made me indignant.

“No?” The way he said it made it obvious that he didn’t believe me.

“Certainly not!” I summoned up what I could manage of my dignity and crossed over to the door leading to the hall-way. “It was simply an error. Good night!” I exited.

I winced as I heard him lock the door behind me. Oh, well, what the hell! I told myself. Tired and discouraged. I went back to my own room. Three more chances to peek at the derrieres in question and three more strike-outs. Plus one embarrassing foul! Yes, the hell with it! I turned over and went to sleep.

But not for long. It was still dark when I came awake quite suddenly. It took me a moment to realize what had waked me. Lust, that’s what it was! Aroused lust!

And what had aroused it was the fact that a passion-hungry female had crawled into bed with me. She was there now. She was quite busy. She was crouched over my body with her head under the covers and facing toward my feet. Her mouth was assaulting my manhood wildly.

Even as I reacted to the assault, my eyes were focusing. In the crouching position she had assumed, her derriere hung just over my face. She was naked. And there, staring straight at me, only a few scant inches away, on her left nether-cheek, was a crescent-shaped scar about three-quarters of an inch long!

Gina Moretti was making love to me! But who was Gina Moretti? With her head under the covers. I cou!dn’t tell. And, with the exquisite sensations her mouth was providing. I decided I could wait to find out.

After all, first things first! That’s the motto of O.R.G.Y. First things first!

CHAPTER FOUR

Now!

My body telegraphed the message to my brain, and my brain immediately sent back instructions that had me thrusting ceilingwards like a pogo-stick on the upspring. That tongue was moving furiously; those lips were opening and closing hungrily; the whole mouth was picking up momentum and suction like a vacuum cleaner gone berserk. Is it any wonder I felt as if the top of my head was about to fly off?

Now!

And it was at that precise point that the scream rang out and the moment of truth was shattered by the reaction of my amorous night visitor. She clenched her teeth! l did a little low-key screaming myself then. I stopped while she got the message and relaxed her jaw muscles. Far from wasting any time regretting my unexpected passion, I counted myself lucky to have been released before my scream turned soprano.

I had no time to dwell on it, though. Just then the female scream rang out a second time, a wail of terror. The head popped out from under my blankets and I found myself face to face with Carmella Friedriksenn.

So Carmella was really Gina Moretti!

“What was that?” she asked before I had a chance to think about the identification.

“A woman screamed,” I told her, not too brightly.

“I’d better get back to my room.” She jumped from the bed and fled, naked, through the bathroom door. I waited a moment and then got up and put on my bathrobe. Footsteps were padding past my door. I poked my head out. “What was that?" I asked.

“A woman screamed.” It was Friedriksenn, and he hadn’t come up with any more of an original answer than I had.

“Which woman?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. I think it came from down here. That would be Maria’s room.”

I followed him down the corridor to the room. The door was closed. Friedriksenn opened it and lit a candle. As the flame illuminated the scene, he gasped. So did I. The secretary was sprawled over the bed. Her head was hanging over one side, and blood was pouring out of her throat.

Friedriksenn crossed over and lifted her head. “Dead!” he announced. “Her throat is slashed so deeply the neck’s almost severed.” His voice was shaky.

I didn’t blame him. I was feeling pretty shaky myself. But not so shaky that I failed to notice a detail that struck me as revealing. Maria’s body was lying face down. And the panties of the Baby Dolls she’d been wearing had been pulled halfway down her legs so that her naked rear was clearly exposed.

Someone beside me had been looking for that scar. That someone had killed in an effort to find it. Killed and failed, for there was no scar on Maria Trendasia’s behind. The scar the killer had been seeking nestled in the crease of the plump left nether-cheek of Carmella Friedriksenn. I knew that now. I wondered if anybody else did.

Friedriksenn called the police. It didn’t take them long to arrive. When they did, the inspector in charge had us all gather in the living room downstairs so he could question us.

“We were all in our own rooms, in our own beds,” Friedriksenn told him.

I knew that wasn’t true. I guessed he was covering the fact that he’d been in bed with Anna Del Vecchio in her room. I figured I could do at least as much to protect his wife’s good name as he was doing to protect his mistress. The pleading look Carmella-—real1y Gina Moretti—shot me settled it for me. I also lied and said I’d been alone in bed.

Thus we were all liars. All except Luigi Tortorizzi! He alone was telling the truth. He was the only one of us who hadn’t had a bedmate. Unless you counted the dead girl, of course.

I knew then that it must have been Luigi who slit Maria’s throat.

But why? Lying in bed after the police had finally left, I tried to put the pieces together in my mind. Albert Tarleton had warned me that the Mafia was trying to prevent the finding of the heiresses. Suppose Luigi was really an agent of the Mafia! If he was, then he had probably guessed my connection with Dombey of Dover. He would easily have figured out that I was on the trail of Gina Moretti. If Dombey of Dover had found out about the scar, then surely the Mafia would have had little trouble getting this information. Despite his big act of pretending that he thought I was queer when he found me examining him in his room earlier, Luigi must have known what I was really seeking. Then he must have tried to beat me to the punch.

As I figured it, Maria woke up, caught him, screamed, and signed her death warrant. Time was running out on Luigi. He had two reasons for killing her once she was awake. First, just to get a look at her behind to see if she really was Gina Moretti. Second, simply on the chance that if she was the heiress, he’d have put her out of the way forever. If I had Luigi pegged right, the fact that he’d killed the wrong girl wouldn’t keep him up nights. He’d try again. He might even kill both the other candidates just to make sure he’d disposed of Gina Moretti. And he sure as hell might kill me just to get me out of the Mafia’s hair. On that cheerful note, I finally fell asleep.

It was past noon when I woke up. I felt guilty about sleeping so late. I felt guiltier when Friedriksenn informed me that Luigi had taken Anna Del Vecchio out for a ride in his sports car.

“Where did they go?” I asked him.

“Down the mountain road. That way.” He pointed. “It’s an excellent road for an expert driver to show off his skill. Full of curves and hairpin turns.”

“Oh, great!” I stood up. “May I borrow one of your cars?" I asked.

“Of course. But what’s the matter, Mr. Victor?”

“Nothing—I hope. I just feel like a drive.”

“Take the Porsche. It’s all gassed up and waiting out in the garage.”

“Thanks.” I left him and a few moments later I was speeding down the road in the Porsche in the direction Friedriksenn said Luigi and Anna had gone.

I opened the car up wide. The engine, one of the world’s finest, purred like a pussycat nibbling its way down a road of sugar-coated catnip. I shifted into fourth gear and the speedometer stayed steady at eighty-five. The tachometer needle wasn’t anywhere near the red yet, so I knew the Porsche didn’t even have its wind up. I upped to a hundred mph, slowed down to eighty for the curves, sixty for the turns, and back up to the hundred on the straightaways.

It was a long, winding road with no end in sight. I drove almost two hours at top speed. The car felt like the engine was just warming up and I enjoyed the driving. But I was beginning to feel like I was really out on a wild goose chase. I had no idea how much of a head start Luigi had on me. I had no idea what I might do if I did succeed in catching up with him. I wasn’t even sure that he was planning to harm Anna. I was all set to give up, to turn around and go back, when my eye was caught by a car in the distance on the road running down the mountainside below the road on which I was driving.

I guessed it was the same road doubling back, as it had done many times in the course of my drive. It zig-zagged its way down the mountain, providing a perfect speedway for the sports car driver. I lost the other car around a bend and then spotted it again as I came around a second one. It went like that for a while, with the car appearing and disappearing until I realized we were now both heading in the same direction on the same stretch of road. Still, I couldn’t be sure if I was gaining or not. I had my foot on the floorboard now, and I kept it there as I whipped the Porsche around the curves. I’d never competed as a racing driver as Luigi had, but I was giving it my all and I had the machinery to do it. Just from the expert way that other car was being driven, I was sure now that Luigi must be at the wheel.

I was right, but I was too late. I saw him head at top speed for a curve, and suddenly one of the doors flew open and a body hurtled from it. By the time I reached the curve, the other car was stopped on the road. I pulled up alongside it. It was empty. I got out and looked over the cliffside. I could just make out a figure crumpled at the bottom of the sheer drop. Closer, I could see Luigi scrambling down the cliffside toward it. I started after him.

I Was only about halfway down when he reached the body. I saw him stoop over and pull up the skirt. Then he pulled down the panties. He looked for an instant and let the skirt fall back. He started back toward the cliff, and that’s when he saw me. He pulled out a pistol and started firing.

I found myself ducking bullets like a deer on the run. I half-ran, half-fell the rest of the way down and dived behind a snowbank for cover. I realized that I didn’t have a gun with me. It was a hell of a time to remember that little oversight.

Luigi must have realized it, too. He was coming closer now, out in the open, waiting for me to pop my head up so he could draw a bead. I was at his mercy-—a quality I judged him to be somewhat short of—and he knew it. And I knew it.

As he drew closer, my mind worked like a revved-up propellor. It came up with an outside chance. I picked up a small rock and began packing ice around it as fast as my fingers could move. Pretty soon I had a killer snowball. I shot to my feet fast then, and fired it before Luigi could have a chance to aim.

It hit the mark. The ball of ice zinged off his wrist with bone-crunching force and the pistol went spinning out of his hand. I raced toward him then. He raced for where the gun had fallen. We reached our objectives together.

Luigi grabbed the gun. I grabbed Luigi’s arm. Luigi grabbed my groin. I grabbed a lungful of pain and a handful of Mafia throat. Luigi grabbed for air and the gun went sailing a second time.

He tore loose. But this time, instead of lunging for the gun again, he fooled me by sprinting for the base of the cliff. He was fast. Too fast. By the time I reached the bottom of the snow-packed embankment, he was already scrambling up it.

I made a grab for his ankle and got a solid kick in the face for my trouble. My nose started to bleed. It slowed me down enough so that, by the time I’d followed him to the lop, he was already in his car and starting the motor. He zoomed off before I could reach the Porsche.

Luigi was driving an MG. I figured the Porsche to be the better car. What I didn’t take the time to ponder was the fact that Luigi was an experienced racing driver. I was pretty good behind the wheel, but I simply wasn’t in his class.

It wasn’t too long before he drove this point home to me. I kept on his tail pretty well as we whipped down the straightaway. But it was the curves that provided the real test. He took them like a cyclist, on two wheels, leaning into the wind, not shifting down, but accelerating with the arc. I stayed with him, leaning on the Porsche, pressing with my faith in the car and trying to ignore my doubts about myself as a driver.

It became a pattern. He set it and I followed it. And then, when I least expected it, he altered it. That was the moment that almost proved fatal for me.

The MG shot around a curve and immediately into a hairpin turn. Still taking Luigi’s lead, I gunned the motor around the curve and screeched into the “V” turn myself. He was waiting for me. He must have braked sharply and U-turned as soon as he lost me in his rear-view mirror. Now he shot toward me on the inside. As he sped past he swerved the MG so that his front bumper smacked solidly against the rear fender of the Porsche. It was a beautifully timed maneuver to push me over the edge of the mountain road to the abyss below.

It came uncomfortably close to succeeding. It was as if the back wheels of the Porsche went out from under me. It slid into a sidewise skid. I reacted instantaneously with the only action that had a chance of saving me. I accelerated and used the momentum of the skid to point me straight toward the snow-packed mountain and away from the drop. I waited for the split instant before impact to hit the brakes. I slammed into the side of the mountain and everything went white before my eyes.

White, not black. Fortunately the point at which I’d struck was more snowbank than mountain rock. I plowed into it like an enthusiastic Arctic ice-cutter. My neck whiplashed as if it were a yo-yo being manipulated by a spastic. My teeth played a marble tournament in my mouth. And my tummy wrapped itself around the steering wheel so fervently that the horn blasted a tattoo against the vertebrae of my spine.

By the time I was able to dig myself out of the igloo I’d plowed in the mountainside, Luigi was well out of sight. It took me another twenty minutes to extricate the Porsche. I figured he was probably halfway to Sicily by then. There was no point in trying to catch up with him. So I gave up the chase and headed back to the Friedriksenn chalet.

Friedriksenn was in the library. Just as I entered the phone rang. I could tell from his face that he was hearing the news about Anna Del Vecchio’s death. His craggy face seemed to crumble as he listened. He was having a hard time holding the tears back as he hung up the telephone. He sagged into a chair and looked at me mutely.

“I know,” I said sympathetically to save him the effort of an explanation.

“I loved her, Mr. Victor.” His voice was old and tired. “I loved her as I have loved no other woman. She was everything to me."

“I’m sorry.”

“You guessed about us, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“She was my mistress. And she loved me, too. She loved me as nobody else has ever loved me."

“Of course she did.” I saw no reason to disillusion him, although Anna Del Vecchio had certainly given me reason to doubt the genuineness of her affections for Friedriksenn.

“I was very jealous of her," he admitted. “Foolish of me. She never gave me the slightest cause.”

“If you were jealous,” I couldn’t help asking, “then how come you let her go off with Tortorizzi so calmly?”

“It was only for a drive.”

“I know, but still—”

“I wasn’t jealous of him.”

“Why not?”

“Two reasons,” Friedriksenn explained. “First of all, I always had a strong suspicion that he was a homosexual. Anna and I had discussed it, and she thought so, too.”

“And the second reason?”

“She detested him. I knew that. If she was ever going to be unfaithful to me, Luigi would have been the last man she’d choose.”

“Then why did she agree to go driving with him?”

“She disliked him, but she was crazy about speed. She always loved the thrill of traveling fast. She knew Luigi was an expert racing driver. I suppose that outweighed her feelings about him.”

“I see.”

We fell silent for a long moment. Finally Friedriksenn spoke again. “The police think Luigi may have killed her deliberately. From the marks her body left as she hurtled from the car, they believe she was pushed. And he fled the scene, which is certainly suspicious. But why? Why would he want to kill her? And if he killed her, did he kill Maria as well? Why would he want to kill either one of them?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. I had a reason for lying. I didn’t know if Friedriksenn knew that his wife was Gina Moretti, that she’d been a prostitute before she married him. If he didn’t, I figured it was up to Carmella to decide whether or not to tell him. He’d been no saint himself, but many a husband has a double standard when it comes to his wife. I saw no reason why I should compound his grief at the moment.

“I can’t believe she’s dead.” Suddenly the tears were pouring down his cheeks. “It’s so senseless.”

“Why don’t you go up to your room and try to rest,” I suggested.

“Yes. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Victor.” He got to his feet and started for the stairs. I watched him mount them, a broken figure of a man, showing his age, carrying more than the weight of the years he had lived.

Alone, I mixed myself a drink and stretched out in an armchair. It had been a pretty active day and it felt good to relax. I was still relaxing, savoring a second Scotch on the rocks, when Carmella wandered into the library.

“Where is everybody?” she greeted. “This house is like a tomb. Haven’t Luigi and Anna come back yet?"

I filled her in on what had happened.

“How awful’” She accepted the drink I handed her and took a deep gulp. “You say Luigi killed her‘? And Maria, too? But why? Why would he do such a thing?”

I didn’t mince any words with her as I had with Friedriksenn. I told her straight out that I knew she was Gina Moretti and that I knew all about her background. At first she tried to deny it, but when I mentioned the scar and related the details of how she’d gotten it, she saw that it was no use. She admitted that my identification of her was correct. And once she had I told her about the legacy Gunnar Borgman had left to Brigitte Kelly and how now she, Carmella-Gina, was an heiress to one-third of the Gopher Hole uranium bonanza.

“I don’t need the money.” She was very agitated. “My husband has plenty of money. More than enough.”

“That’s up to you,” I told her. “All I ask is that you contact Dombey of Dover.”

“Why do I have to contact them if I don’t want the money?”

“So they can settle the estate of Brigitte Kelly.”

“I wish I’d never heard of Brigitte. I’d just like to forget all about her. Do you know why she named me as one of her three heirs? Why she named the other two girls?”

“No,” I admitted. “I assume it was because she thought more highly of you three than of the other girls who worked for her.”

“Oh, she did!” Carmella’s voice was heavy with sarcasm- “And for good reason!” The sarcasm gave way to bitterness.

“What reason?”

“I don’t think I’ll tell you that, Mr. Victor. You already know too much about me. You already know enough to ruin my life.”

“Are you afraid your husband will find out about your past life?”

“No. He knows. He knew when he married me. Indeed, I think that may have been one of the reasons he did marry me. Sort of a Pygmalion complex. He got a kick out of passing a former trollop off as a society lady with his high-toned friends. And another reason, too. You know how interested he is in oddball sex. I think he had some idea that I’d teach him all the dark secrets of my former profession. When he found out that I really didn’t have anything new and bizarre to add to his experience, he lost interest in me. That’s when he started with Anna Del Vecchio.”

“You know about her?” I was startled.

“Of course. This isn’t some American suburb in the United States, Mr. Victor. You’re the man from O.R.G.Y. You’re supposed to have sophistication in such matters. Don’t look so surprised. I knew about his affairs just as he is perfectly aware that I have been unfaithful to him. We’ve never spoken of it. We don’t have to. It’s tacitly understood that fidelity is not a consideration of our marriage just so long as discretion is observed.”

“Then why are you so concerned now? I mean about the inheritance?”

“Because a legacy as large as you say this one is won’t be disbursed without a certain amount of publicity. That means that there’s a very good chance my past will be revealed publicly. If that happened, my husband would divorce me. I wouldn’t blame him. He’d have to. The scandal would make him a laughing stock, anyway. If he stayed married to me, I’d be a constant reminder to his friends of what a fool he’d been.”

“Well, tell him about it, anyway,” I urged her. “Talk it over between the two of you. If you decide to relinquish your claim, I’m sure Dombey of Dover can work it out to split your share between the other two heiresses. Besides, there’s another reason he should know.”

“What’s that?”

“Luigi Tortorizzi. He’s already killed twice. Now he’s sure that you’re Gina Moretti. I don’t think he’ll hesitate to make an attempt on your life if he gets the chance.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Do you really think the danger is serious?”

“Very serious,” I told her. “He’s obviously a trained Mafia killer. He’s fingered you now and he’ll stop at nothing to seal the contract.”

“The contract?”

“That’s what the brotherhood calls it when a man is assigned to rub out another. Luigi has a contract to find Gina Moretti and kill her. He has to make a hit, or he’ll lose face.”

“A hit? What’s that?”

“The act of killing, in Mafia lingo. At least that’s what they call it back in the States. He needs a hit, and you’re the mark—the victim.”

“Thank you for warning me, Mr. Victor. I really am grateful. I'm sure my husband will want to take precautions.”

“He should. And the quicker, the better. But don’t be too grateful. There’s something I want from you in return.”

“It’s yours if I can give it, Mr. Victor.” The way she crossed her legs so that her skirt hiked up over her thighs told me she misunderstood. “It will be my pleasure," she added, cooing.

“Not sex.” I scotched it quickly and frankly. She looked disappointed. “Information. That’s what I want from you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything that might help me find Barbara Thomas and Françoise Laval.”

“Those two! I hate them! They are a pair of pigs! Why should I help you make wealthy women of them?”

“What happened to all that gratitude you were talking about just a minute ago?”

“Oh, I know. But you don’t realize how I hate them.”

“If you hate them so much, why did you go to Rome with them?”

“I didn’t know them then.”

“You didn’t know them?”

“No.” She went on to explain. “You see, we worked for Brigitte Kelly at different times. Barbara and Françoise didn’t know each other, either. Françoise went to work for Brigitte when I left. Barbara followed Françoise. But the first time we met was after Brigitte died when we were notified to come to the reading of the will. That was the first any of us knew of the other two.”

“Then why did you decide to travel together?”

“It was one of those things that just seemed to happen. After the will was read the three of us went out for a drink together. I guess we all needed it after the insults we took from Brigitte’s family. They were furious that she left everything to us.”

“Why did she leave it all to you three?” My curiosity made me press the question again.

“Ask one of the other girls why, Mr. Victor. I won’t tell you that. I’ve done a lot of things in my life that I should perhaps be ashamed of, and I’m not ashamed of any of them. But this involves the one thing of which I am ashamed.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Forget I asked. Go on with your story.”

“Yes. Anyway, the three of us knew, and I guess our mutual feeling of guilt, plus the way the family had treated us, made us sort of cling together. So we went out for this drink. And we began talking about what we were going to do with the money. It really wasn’t such a lot of money.”

“Five thousand dollars apiece, Wasn’t it?”

“Not after taxes and the lawyers, it wasn’t. We each came away with a little better than three thousand dollars, that’s all. Anyway, we decided to pool our resources and go husband-hunting. It was as simple as that. We had to get out of London; we were too well known there. We knew from the gossip columns that a lot of wealthy men go to Rome. So we decided to go there.”

“I’d say you at least succeeded in your quest.” I waved a hand around to indicate the lavish trappings of Friedriksenn’s villa.

“Not in Rome, I didn’t. I met my husband on the Riviera. Rome was just impossible with those two alley cats!”

“What did you quarrel with them about? Why did you leave them?”

“Over a man. What else would three women the likes of us quarrel about? And what a man! A Polish aristocrat, he was. A genuine count. And not one of your impoverished nobility, either. No, indeed. His family had been wealthy land-owners and they sold their holdings before the Germans and the Russians carved up Poland. He was only a boy at the time. But when he grew up and inherited the proceeds, he put the money to work for him and his fortune multiplied. Arabian oil. Cuban sugar -- pre-Castro, of course. Chilean copper. Even American movies. He had a linger in everything. And everything he touched had turned to more gold for him. A gentleman of wealth and culture and standing; his manners were beautiful; and quite handsome, too.”

“In short, a catch.” I interrupted her rhapsodizing.

“Yes. Exactly. And I could have caught him, too, if not for those two bitches. I met him first. He was most attracted to me. I could really have held him if they hadn’t pushed their way into the picture and turned it into a competition. I really had the inside track until then. And we had an agreement not to step on each other’s toes. But that didn’t stop them. Oh, no!” She looked off into space, brooding over the memory.

“What did they do?” I prompted her.

“Behaved like the sluts they were. While I was playing the lady of virtue, they began vying with each other to see who could get him into bed first.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I had to get down in the gutter and play their game, didn’t I? Let’s face it. Virtue is no match tor sex, no matter how hoity-toity the milieu. I decided to lot the count seduce me. But I was determined that there wasn’t going to be anything cheap or tawdry about it. I was playing the grand lady and I wasn’t going to step out of character to crawl between the sheets. Oh, I know what you’re thinking! And I suppose you have every reason to think it. But I had a lot more control over my sexual desires then than I do now. Believe me, I really did. I wasn’t just a man-hungry slut like those other two. I was out for bigger stakes than just a roll in the hay and a hundred-dollar bill by way of appreciation. And so I arranged things very carefully, to befit the lady of station I was pretending to be.”

“Arranged things how?"

“I selected a picturesque little roadside inn on the outskirts of Rome for our assignation. One of those places that reeks of atmosphere. Overlooking a lake, bowers of flowers, no electricity, only candlelight—well, you get the picture. I arranged for him to meet me there at night. I gave him the number of my room. He was to come straight to me and I would be waiting in bed with open arms. But not too open. I intended to play it very coyly. I would tell him not to light the candle. I would be very shy. I would succumb slowly, by stages, and with tears. And even when he possessed me, it would only be a taste of the joys I might bring him if I was his legally wedded wife. That was the whole idea, you see. A taste in the dark to convince him of how wonderful it would be to have me to go to bed with every night.”

“But he didn’t fall for it, hey?”

“I’ll never know,” she sighed.

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“I made one fatal mistake. I confided in my two companions about what I intended to do. I couldn’t resist bragging, I suppose. They’d been trying so hard to cut me out that I just had to tell them I‘d arranged to beat them. I told them about the assignation and about just how I intended to manage it. I enjoyed rubbing their noses in it. They were so coarse and vulgar, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity of showing them what a girl with some sense of breeding could do. And that was my undoing. I never dreamed of how really vicious they could be.”

“What did they do?”

“You’ll see. Let me tell you about that night first. I went to the inn and took a bath, doused myself with perfume, and got into my sexiest nightgown. I snuffed out all the candles and lay on top of the bed to wait for my noble lover. I must have changed the position of that bed half a dozen times before I had it set up so that the moonlight streaming through the window highlighted my long black hair and the mounds of my breasts pushing up against the transparent nightie. Oh, how carefully I arranged everything. Finally, there was a gentle rapping at the door. Raising my voice scarcely above a whisper, I called out to my lover to enter. He slipped through the door quietly and came straight over to the bed. I couldn’t see him, but I felt the eagerness of his embrace immediately. I tried to be coy and take things slowly, but he was far too impetuous. He fairly tore off his clothes and leaped onto the bed with me. I tried to remonstrate with him to be more gentle, but he simply ignored me. He took me brutally, forcefully, and despite myself I was carried along by his ardor.” She paused, her face a study in bitterness.

“Well, it may not have been the way you planned it,” I started to say, “but—”

“You don’t understand. Neither did I until after it was all over. Throughout, he hadn’t uttered a word. And when he was done, he immediately began putting his clothes back on. I said something to him—I don’t remember what -- something calculated to recoup a little bit of my status as a lady, I suppose. Still he didn’t answer. I wondered at his silence, and that’s when I lit the candle.”

“It wasn’t the count,” I guessed.

“It wasn’t the count.” She confirmed my guess. “Those two bitches had called the count and left a message breaking the date for our assignation. But they’d arranged that I shouldn’t spend the night alone. Oh, yes, they’d been most considerate in that respect!"

“Who did they send?”

‘I don’t know his name. I never did find it out. But one look at him in the candlelight as I was dressing and I was horrified. In all my years in one brothel or another, I’d never been called upon to make love to such a disgusting creature as the man with whom I’d just had sex. His eyes were wild and rheumy and sick, his face and chest were crusted with filth—I could only guess at the filth of the lower part of his body because he was putting on his trousers by now—his skin was all broken out with red blotches. I screamed and he bolted from the room. But even then I didn’t know how disastrous the evening really was. I didn’t find out until a week later.”

“Find what out?”

“That he was venereal. That he’d passed his filthy dose along to me. Those two tramps had purposely arranged it so that would happen. Now do you wonder that I hate them?”

“No. What did you do?”

“What could I do? It was impossible to continue with the count under the circumstances. And I was afraid that if I stayed in Rome I might murder those two. So I found a clinic in Cannes and went there to take a cure. Thank God for sulfa drugs. It wasn’t too long, or too painful. And the convalescence was just long enough to capitalize on Friedriksenn’s interest so that he’d ask me to marry him.”

“Friedriksenn? You mean you met him in this clinic for venereal disease?”

“It wasn’t a clinic. More like a sanitorium, really. But yes, that’s where I met him. He was there for the same reason I was. So you see, we really don’t have any secrets from each other.”

“It must have been one hell of a courtship,” I reflected.

“There were certain difficulties.” She smiled slightly. “But we managed to surmount them.”

“What about the other two girls? Did either of them snag the count?”

“No. And the reason is ironic. None of us could really have landed him—not even me. He had a wife and six kiddies in Argentina or somewhere that he conveniently forgot to mention when he was playing around Rome. I found that out quite by accident from a South American I met in Cannes who knew him and his family quite well.”

“And you have no idea where Barbara Thomas or Françoise Laval might have gone after you left them in Rome?”

“No. But wherever it was, I would bet that they didn’t go together. They were already showing signs of stepping on each other’s toes when I left them.”

“Think about it, Gina; maybe—”

“Don’t call me Gina! My name is Carmella now. Gina is behind me, buried in the past, and I want her to stay buried.”

“Sorry. Carmella then. Maybe they discussed their plans.”

“No. I have no idea. Wait a minute! I just remembered something that might be a lead for you. Françoise always used to talk about how she was going back to Paris. She was in love with a man there. I’m pretty sure from the way he talked that he must have been a pimp. Probably the one who got her started on the life. Some of these Parisian streetwalkers get very sentimental about that one, you know. No matter how many men they have, no man can ever compete with the memory of the procurer who broke them in.”

“Can you remember anything else about him? Any chance remark she might have dropped?”

Carmella wrinkled her brow. “I remember now!” She snapped her fingers. “His name was Pierre. Barbara was always twitting Françoise about ‘Lucky Pierre-—always in the middle.’ Some sort of an American joke. I didn’t understand it and I don’t think Françoise did. Oh, yes, and he lived in Montmartre. I remember that because a few times I posted letters to him for Françoise and that was on the envelope.”

“How about his last name? Was that on the envelope?”

“It must have been.” She shook her head. “I really can’t remember it, though. It must have been one of those common French names. Dupres, or Charlois-—something like that.”

“How about the street address? Do you remember that?”

“No. Wait! Yes! I remember the street because it struck me as comical. It was the Rue de la Boite. I remember mentioning it to Françoise once and she grinned and said it was well-named. That should give you some idea of the kind of street it probably is.”

I made the translation and got the idea. La Boite—the box—the feminine gender in French grammar—-and female in a slang that seemed to be universal. “Do you remember the street number?" I asked.

“No, I don’t. I'm sorry.”

“That’s all right. You’ve been very helpful. Now, could you give me a description of Françoise. Physical, and anything else you can remember about her."

“She is blonde—dyed, with brown roots if you look for them. Her figure is what they call petite. Her bosom is too large, vulgar really, for her small frame. And her hips -- they are too obvious. She is always swinging them like an advertisement of what she’s peddling. She has nice legs, though,” Carmella admitted reluctantly. “Slender and shapely. Her mouth is a little like Bardot’s—always in a sultry pout, you know? I will say for her that she didn’t smear on the make-up the way some sluts do. She had a naturally smooth, white complexion, and she never covered it up. Just a touch of lipstick and a bit of mascara—-that was usually all.”

“About how old would you say she is?”

“That’s hard to say. She admitted to being two years younger than I. That would make her twenty-four now. But I always thought she was lying. She might be a year or two older. She didn’t look it, though. She always looked like a teenager gone bad to me.”

“Anything else about her you can remember?”

“Let me see. Oh, yes, one thing. She’d picked up a lot of American slang from Barbara, and she liked to use it. She worked it into a conversation whenever she got the chance. I think she thought it was chic, or sophisticated, or something like that. Oh, and she never wore a brassiere. She was very proud of the way that cow-bosom of hers stood straight out and pointed upward. She claimed her natural shape was better than anything the bra manufacturers might devise.”

“That’s intriguing,” I murmured.

“I suppose it is to a man. To me it’s just another proof of what a low-class bawd she really was. Like all those cheap Montmartre hookers, everything she had was always on display.”

“Anything else?”

“One other thing. She had a peculiar sort of superstition, or habit, maybe—-I’m not sure which—of always combing her hair after sex. She told us about it once. The way she said it made it sound like she knew it was odd, but couldn’t help herself. A compulsion—I guess that’s what you’d call it."

“That doesn’t sound so unusual to me,” I told Carmella. “After all, lots of women are fussy about their hair. And particularly after making love, when it’s most apt to have gotten messed up.”

“You misunderstand. Not the hair on her head. The hair down there.” Carmella pointed so there could be no mistake.

“You mean she combs it?”

“Yes. And brushes it. That’s what she told us. And I know she dyed it just like the hair on her head. I could tell that from the one time we took a shower together. Brown roots there, too.”

“Well, I can see why she might dye it. But why would she comb it?”

“Something about being sanitary. “And keeping it soft and free of snarls. That’s what she said. But when Barbara and I laughed at her, she never mentioned it again." Carmella shrugged. “For all I know, maybe it’s the custom among Montmartre harlots.”

“If it is, I’ve never heard of it.” I thought a moment. “I suppose if she did go back to Montmartre, she’d be working as a prostitute again,” I mused aloud.

“I suppose so. Although she had worked at other jobs. She was a stripper once. To hear her tell it, she could go back to that any time she wanted. And she was an artist’s model. She used to carry around a sketch some artist had done of her. It was a nude. She used to brag that the artists used to compete with each other to get her to pose in the nude because she had such a beautiful body. But my guess is they probably wanted her because they could get her cheap. And they probably recognized that she was a sure roundheels, too. I think that's about all I can tell you about Françoise.”

“What about Barbara Thomas, the American girl?”

Carmella proceeded to give me a rundown on Barbara Thomas. I filed it away in the back of my mind for future reference. Right now I was more interested in Françoise Laval. Carmella had given me more to go on with her. I decided to leave for Paris just as soon as I could.

What with the police investigating the two murders and throwing out a dragnet for Luigi Tortorizzi, it was almost a week before I could get clearance to catch a plane from Geneva. Carmella spiced up the week somewhat with visits to my room. Friedriksenn was still too filled with grief even to notice.

He and Carmella had their talk about what to do about the inheritance and decided to notify Dombey of Dover that they didn’t want their share. Aside from that, Friedriksenn displayed little interest in his wife or what she was doing. I was sure he knew, but his good-byes to me were affable nonetheless. He had his chauffeur drive me in the Rolls to the Geneva airport.

The plane was half empty. It was the off season for Geneva-to-Paris flights. Also, I’d had to settle for a night flight, and not too many people were anxious to risk navigating the Alps at night. Those who were aboard were a sleepy lot, and most of them doused their seat lights before the plane took off. I did the same and tilted my seat back to try to get some sleep. What with Carmel1a’s night-time visits, I had some catching up to do.

I was just dozing off as the plane took to the air. I barely took notice as the two men came up the aisle from the rear of the plane and took the seats behind me. Except for them and myself, that section of the airliner was empty. The seats were empty for six rows toward both the front and back.

I guess they must have waited for the stewardess to go forward before making their pitch. The first I knew that there was a pitch was when a hand with a knife circled my back-tilted seat and the blade snuggled cozily against my jugular vein.

“Do not move, Signor Victor.”

I recognized the voice. It belonged to Luigi Tortorizzi.

“This is he?” another voice asked. I didn’t recognize this one.

“Yes. Steve Victor. The man from O.R.G.Y. And a naturally good driver, too, by the way. I have not yet had the chance to compliment you on your driving, Signor Victor. Allow me to do so now. For someone with no racing experience, you did very well indeed.”

“But not well enough.” I tried not to move my voice-box as I spoke. That damn stiletto was too hellishly close!

“Still, you have a natural affinity for the sport. By the way, how did you like the Porsche? Wonderful car, isn’t it?”

“Great.”

“Yes. So easy to keep your R’s up when you’re driving it, isn’t it? R’s means rpm’s, the revolutions per minute of the motor,” he explained to his companion. “Vito here doesn’t appreciate the fine points of sports cars,” he told me. “He is a Philistine. The mystique is beyond him. But not you, Signor Victor. You know how an enthusiast should handle a car.”

“Sure,” I replied. “Simple. Up your R’s, Tortorizzi!” But my heart wasn’t in it. Not with that dagger nibbling at my throat!

“On the contrary, Signor Victor.” Luigi chuckled to show he’d caught it. “Up your R’s.” His second chuckle was even nastier. “Si, Signor Victor. I have the knife. So—up your R’s!”

I had the decided feeling that he was trying to tell me something!

CHAPTER FIVE

“ENOUIGH NONSENSE!” The man Luigi had called Vito was growing impatient. “Let us get on with it before the stewardess returns.”

“Get on with what?” I asked nervously. Very much aware of that knife still nuzzling my throat, I had a premonition of the answer.

The premonition was quite accurate. “Why, with your death, of course, Signor Victor,” Luigi told me, as if surprised at my naiveté.

“Let’s not be hasty,” I urged him. “Don’t you think we should talk this over first?”

“As stimulating as I find your conversation, Signor Victor, I’m afraid not. Vito is right. We simply don’t have the time. I am genuinely sorry.”

“You’re sorry!” My voice cracked. “How do you think I feel?”

“Now, I do hope you’re not going to get hysterical.” Luigi’s voice was disapproving. “After all, you are a grown man. And accepting the fact of death is the cardinal proof of maturity.”

“In moments of stress, I tend to regress,” I apologized. “I’ve been trying to work it through with my analyst, but-—”

“Yes. Well, since the problem is all but resolved, it need concern us no further. On your feet, Signor Victor.” The knife blade took a little neck-nip.

“Suppose I just scream like hell instead,” I suggested.

“That would be very foolish. Your throat would be cut from ear to ear immediately. It would be inconvenient for Vito and myself, I admit. We should probably have to hold the crew and passengers at gunpoint while we stole parachutes and bailed out. And it is such a long walk to Paris! Really, Signor Victor, I don’t believe I would even grieve for you if you put us to all that trouble. Indeed, I don’t know if I could find it in my heart to ever forgive you.”

“I see. Well, I wouldn’t want to put any strain on our relationship.” I got to my feet.

“Very slowly now, Signor Victor.”

We started back down the aisle with Vito in front. I came next with Luigi behind me. His arm was draped over my shoulder in comradely fashion, the stiletto lightly and playfully pricking my throat. Anybody seeing us might have supposed we were a trio of beer-drinking buddies off to the john.

There was indeed a privy at the end of the corridor near the tail section of the plane. But I knew it wasn’t that which they were guiding me towards. Our destination was just past it -- the emergency escape hatch. I knew that once we reached it Luigi would cut my throat quickly and shove me out. There was a good chance I might never be missed until after the plane arrived in Paris. And even if I was missed, my fate would probably remain a mystery.

I tried stalling. “Did you finish off Carmella?” I asked Luigi, figuring I might sidetrack him a bit with shoptalk.

“That wasn’t necessary," he told me. “She has renounced her claim to the inheritance.”

“How did you find that out?”

He didn’t bother to answer. He merely smiled and prodded me with the dagger. I guessed that there must be a leak at Dombey of Dover. Luigi knew altogether too much about me and my activities. There must be a Mafia plant there. I’d have to tip off Tarleton as soon as I got the chance. What chance? Talk about being a cockeyed optimist! Cozying up to death the way I was, this was no time to be making long-range plans!

“Anyway,” I told Luigi, “it’s too bad you didn’t know that before you knocked off those two innocent girls.”

“Everybody makes mistakes," he told me. “That’s why they put erasers on pencils.” He sounded hurt.

“That‘s true. And if you ask me, you’re about to make another one. A serious one. Hasn’t it occurred to you that I’m on the trail of something? Wouldn’t you be better off with me alive so you can cut yourselves in on whatever I find? Kill me, and you’re right back at the same old dead end.”

“Not quite, Signor Victor. You don’t really know anything we haven’t already found out. We too have learned that Françoise Laval is in Paris. I don’t believe you know anything more than that.”

“You’re wrong,” I told him, still playing for time, trying to pique his interest. “I know much more than that.”

“He’s stalling,” Vito interrupted. “Come on, let's get this over with.”

We had just drawn abreast of the john. Vito moved a few steps farther to slide back the bolt on the emergency-hatch door. If I was going to make a move, it was now or never. I made my move!

I flipped my hand up from the elbow and knocked the knife-hand away from my throat. My other elbow shot back and caught Luigi in the chest. He stumbled backward.

I shot forward straight through the door to the privy. I looked it behind me and leaned against it.

”Come out of there, Signor Victor! You are only delaying matters.” Luigi sounded very annoyed.

“How could you have been so careless?” Vito bawled Luigi out.

“It wasn’t my fault. He took me by surprise.”

“The family isn’t going to like this,” Vito said disapprovingly. I knew he was referring to the Mafia, but from his tone he might have been lecturing a naughty boy caught playing hockey.

“Aw, gee, Vito, it was an accident. Besides, he isn’t going any place. We've got him trapped in there. Why don’t we just shoot a few rounds through the door. That’s bound to finish him.”

There was a long silence while Vito considered this. During it I lay down flat on the floor of the john and tried to crawl into the tiles. If they were going to start blasting away, I was determined to be as difficult a target as possible.

But before they could decide one way or another, there was an interruption. “Is anything the matter, gentlemen?” It was the voice of the stewardess.

“Some fellow’s in the bathroom and we want to use it,” Vito told her.

“Oh. Well, I'm sure he'll be through soon. Why don’t we just be patient, gentlemen?” Her tone was the universal tone of stewardesses the world over. I could almost see the Rheingold-girl smile she was bestowing on them.

"That’s all very well for you to say,” Vito whined. “But I’m in rather a hurry. He’s been in there since we took off. Why doesn't he give someone else a chance?”

“If you’ll lust return to your seats, I'll be happy to let you know the moment the gentleman emerges.” Her tone was as soothing as lanolin flowing over rose petals.

But my playmates weren’t buying it. “This is really urgent, Signora,” Luigi told her.

“Oh. I see.” She rattled the doorknob. “Excuse me, sir,” she called through the locked door. “But perhaps you’re not aware that others are waiting to use this lavatory.”

“Tough!” I told her. “Let ’em wait.”

“Please sir. I don‘t mean to disturb you, but this is the only lavatory on the aircraft. If you could perhaps manage to hurry a little bit . . .”

“I refuse to be hurried in such matters,” I told her. “My advice is for the gentlemen to go away from the door. Actually, their presence is slowing matters down. It inhibits me. How is a man supposed to function with people hovering about this way?”

“You see,” the stewardess told Luigi and Vito. “It really does seem that if you’ll only return to your seats, it might expedite matters.”

“We’re staying right here!” Luigi muttered stubbornly.

“But really, gentlemen—” The stewardess‘s remonstrations were interrupted by a new development.

“But, Mama, I have to make!” A child’s voice.

“You have to wait, Marcello. There’s someone in there. Can’t you see these people are waiting?”

“I can’t wait!” Marcello whined. “I have to make now!”

“Now you just hold it!”

“I can't!” Marcello began to sob shrilly.

“I said hold it!” The mother’s voice was followed by a slap, and Marcello began to howl in earnest.

“Excuse me.” The quavery voice of an old man. “May I get through here? I would like to use the facilities.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to wait like these others,” the stewardess told him. “There’s someone in there.”

“You mean I have to wait until all these people are through?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Impossible!” The old man’s voice began to develop a touch of panic. “You don’t understand. Let me explain to all you good people." His loudness must have gotten their attention. “I have but recently been operated on, and I must wear a little sac now to collect the waste matter of my kidneys. When this sac fills up it must be emptied. If it is not, I suffer indescribable agony. I beg of you people to let me use the lavatory first, just as soon as it is vacated.”

“You can have my turn,” Vito told him, “I was first. But the problem is how to get the man in there to come out.”

“Please, sir.” The old man rattled the doorknob. “Would you be so good as to hurry?"

“Sorry.” What else could I say? “If you’ll all go away, I’ll be out—in a jiffy,” I promised.

“What’s the matter?” A new voice. Male. “Is the door stuck or something?”

“He won‘t come out,” the old man whined.

“Perhaps he's having some difficulty.” Again the doorknob was rattled. “Can I be of some help, sir? I am a physician.”

“What kind of physician?” I stalled.

“An obstetrician."

“Thank God you’re here, Doctor.” Another new voice. Female this time. “I’m eight months gone.”

“I can see that for myself, Signora.”

“Si. But the infant has just shifted, Doctor. He is pressing down on my kidneys. It is imperative that I get in there.”

“Your problem is not exclusive, Madame. It is why we have all gathered here. Sir.” he called. “You are inconveniencing many people. If there is no difficulty, I beg you to come out.”

“If you’ll just give me a little privacy, maybe I will,” I called back.

“A little privacy!” A new female voice. Indignant. “The nerve of him! And me with my back teeth starting to float!”

“How is a man supposed to concentrate on what he’s doing with you holding a convention out there?” I shot back.

“Make way!” It was the voice of authority. “I have to get in there.”

“You’ll just have to wait your turn like the rest of us.” The doctor’s voice.

“Nonsense. I claim the privilege of rank. After all, I am the pilot. And I promise you that if you don’t let me through, I’ll turn this plane right around and head back for the men’s room at the Geneva airport.”

There was a mutter of resentment from everyone except the stewardess. She explained the problem to the pilot. “There’s a gentleman who’s been in there since take-off," she told him respectfully, “and he won’t come out, sir.”

“Oh, he won’t, won’t he?” A fist pounded on the door loudly. “You in there! This is Captain Flagella speaking. I am in command of this aircraft, and I order you to come out immediately!”

“Sorry, Captain,” I replied. “But that isn’t possible!”

There was a babble of protest. It was followed by each of them confiding the particular urgency of his or her need to the pilot. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. He muttered something about having to get back to the controls and left. After that, they started confiding in each other about the states of their respective kidneys and bladders.

All this talk had its effect on me. Psychosomatic, no doubt, but I suddenly felt an urgent need to relieve myself. Having cornered the monopoly on the plumbing, I saw no reason not to utilize it. I did, and when I was through I flushed the toilet. The rush of water was extremely loud.

“Thank God!” the old man exclaimed fervently. “He’s done at last!”

“No, I’m not.” I relieved him of his false hope.

A heartfelt groan went up from the entire assemblage.

“Now why don’t we all just calm down a little?" The stewardess oozed a combination of common sense and compassion. “Perhaps some of you would like some coffee? Or perhaps a drink?”

It was the wrong thing to say. They turned their wrath on her. Finally it broke her iron good humor.

“Don’t blame me!” she sobbed. “I’m human too, you know! I want to-get in there as badly’ as any of you. But that monster won’t come out!”

“The fiend! The monster! The Nazi! The Communist! The torturer!” The crowd echoed her sentiments.

Somehow I knew I was never going to win any popularity contests aboard that plane. Their mounting wrath gave me more reason than the Mafia waiting to pounce on me for not coming out. The ugly mood they were in, they would have saved Luigi and Vito the trouble of unlifing me. I suspected they would tear me to shreds with relish.

“Signor!” The pilot was back. “If you do not come out immediately, I shall radio ahead to Paris and have the police waiting to arrest you the moment we land.”

“Now let us not be hasty,” Luigi interjected.

I cut him off before he might have a chance to influence the pilot. “I hope all your kidneys burst!” I shouted.

"That did it!" the pilot roared.

And it did. When the plane finally did land in Paris, it wasn’t fists but the clubs of the gendarmes which pounded on the locked door of the john. As soon as I was sure of that, I opened the door.

The pilot had been wise. He’d judged the situation correctly. There was a riot squad waiting for me. And a lucky thing, too. Even with them there, that mob of passengers surged toward me with lynch-blood in their eyes. The last thing I saw as the cordon of police hustled me off the plane was Luigi and Vito watching me go with the mutual expression of children who have dropped their lollipops in the sand.

The pilot was waiting in the paddy-wagon, his face a study in bladder-contracting rage. But he said nothing until we were in the police station. Then he exploded.

“I want this man arrested,” he told the inspector in charge.

“And the charge, M’sieur?"

“Mutiny!” the pilot roared. “Mutiny aboard ship!”

“That is not in our jurisdiction, M’sieur. I believe you must bring such charges in a maritime court.”

“A maritime court? But I’m not a sailor. I’m a pilot. I’m the captain of an aircraft. And this man came perilously close to fomenting an insurrection.”

“Nevertheless, M’sieur, such a charge is not in our province. Perhaps if you could be more explicit as to the alleged criminal act-—”

“Damn right I can! He hogged the john!”

“I beg pardon, M’sieur?”

“Monopolizing a public utility! That’s the charge!"

“I’m afraid that would be a matter for the Chamber of Deputies,” the inspector said doubtfully.

“Acting in a manner contrary to the public good? Isn't there some sort of charge like that?”

“I am not sure, M’sieur. I’ll look it up.” The inspector reached behind him and took a large, thick book down from the shelf there.

“After all, this man virtually tortured a plane-load of passengers.”

“I am looking it up, M’sieur.”

“Very well.” The pilot stood on one leg. Then he switched to the other. Then back to the first. Finally he crossed his legs, but that didn’t seem to help either. His problem was obvious, and finally he could stand it no longer. “Excuse me,” he said to the inspector, “but do you have a men’s room in this place?”

“Through that door.” The inspector pointed without raising his eyes from the book of jurisprudence he was perusing.

The pilot bolted through the door. When he was gone, the inspector raised his head and looked at me over his spectacles. “You do not look like a criminal, M’sieur,” he observed.

“I’m not. It’s really just a misunderstanding.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. In either case, you are in a position to render me a service.”

“What do you mean?”

“All of this is having a terrible effect on my ulcers. You would be doing me a great favor if you would simply turn around and go out by the door through which you entered before our Italian complainant returns. You see, I really don’t feel up to finding a law which might pertain to your conduct. Really, heinous as it appears to be, I don’t believe there is a statute covering it. Perhaps it is time to revise our codes to cover it. I may even do a paper on it. But at some later time. Right now, why don’t you just depart, M’sieur?"

“With pleasure. And thank you." I left.

I didn’t relish the prospect of going back to the airport for my luggage, so I hired a taxi driver to take the baggage check and claim it for me. He met me at the hotel where I had made reservations and surrendered the bags to the bell- boy. I followed the bellboy up to my room.

A nap, a shave, a bath, a change of clothes, and I felt more human. I went down to the bar and had a drink. I followed up a second one, with dinner in the hotel dining room. It was mid-evening by then and I decided it was time to get back to work.

I started at the logical place, the Rue de la Boite in Montmartre. The street was right out of Zola with backdrops by Utrillo. Picturesque and erotic, right down to the garbage in the street. Much of the garbage was human. It dribbled in and out of the gin mills and strip joints and small, bordello-ish hotels which lined the street. It smeared over me as I passed, whispering in my ear, tugging at me intimately, pawing from groin to wallet-pocket and back. The word was out that a rich-looking American tourist had wandered into the street, and the jeunes filles were up off their butts in a jiffy and primping to attract the sucker.

I ignored them. I was looking to find Françoise Laval. And to do that, I figured I’d first have to find her boy friend Pierre. So he was the one I started making inquiries about.

A bar seemed a likely place to begin. As likely as any, anyway. I ordered a drink and laid a fifty-franc note on the bar. When the bartender put the glass down in front of me, I pushed the bill toward him. “Any idea where I can find Pierre?” I asked him.

“Pierre who?” He didn’t waste any time pocketing the money.

“I don’t know his last name. He—umm--handles a few girls. Willing girls, if you know what I mean."

“I know what you mean, M’sieur,” he said noncommittally.

“Well, do you know where I might find him?”

“For what purpose, M’sieur?” he asked cagily.

“I want to make use of his services.” I did my best to blush in typical American tourist fashion.

“I see. And how do I know that you are not a police spy? Then you would arrest Pierre and myself also as an accomplice.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m an American.”

“Perhaps. You look like an American. You talk like an American. But that could be just an excellent police disguise."

“That’s ridiculous,” I told him.

“Then prove to me that you are an American.”

“How?”

He thought a moment. “I will ask you questions. You know, like in the war movies when they discover the Nazi infiltrator because he doesn’t know who won the 1944 World Series.”

“All right,” I sighed.

“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “Who won the 1944 World Series?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I admitted. “That was many years ago, and anyway, I’m not much of a baseball fan.”

“And you call yourself an American? All Americans are baseball fans!”

“No, they’re not!”

“They’re not?”

“No."

“Oh.” He pondered this revelation. “Well then, we’ll try politics,” he decided finally. “Who is your congressman?"

“Gee, I really just don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” He stared at me with increasing suspicion.

“Wait! Yes I do,” I said desperately. “Phineas W. Throttlebottom, Twenty-seventh Congressional District.”

“That sounds right,” he, granted, “but how can I be sure? After all, M’sieur, how would I know anything about some obscure American representative?”

“Then why did you ask me?” I was beginning to get annoyed.

“I thought you might trip yourself up. Look, just one more question. About movies. You go to the movies, don’t you? After all, all Americans go to the movies.”

“I go to the movies,” I admitted.

“Who played the college football player Bolinski in Rise and Shine with Betty Grable and George Murphy?” His tone said he knew he'd stumped me now.

But he hadn’t. “Jack Oakie,” I told him blithely. “Now will you tell me where I can find Pierre?”

“My congratulations, M’sieur!” He grabbed my hand across the bar and wrung it as if he expected it to give milk. “You really are an American!”

“Yeah. Now, about this Pierre—”

“What did you say, M’sieur?"

“Pierre--?”

“I beg your pardon?” He cupped his hand to his ear.

“I’m trying to find Pierre.”

He stuck his finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “I am so sorry, M’sieur, but I seem to be having the difficulty with the hearing.

I' got the message. “Where can I find Pierre?” I slid another fifty-franc note across the bar, and it vanished under his apron. “Can you hear me now?” I added.

“Like a bell, M’sieur. You are crystal-clear and your tones are dulcet.”

“Never mind that! What about Pierre?”

“Pierre. Oui. I do not know where he is.”

“Then give me back my fifty francs, you thief!“ I exploded and grabbed him by his shirt-front.

“Please, M’sieur! No hands, I beg you. No hands! I do know someone who can direct you to Pierre. His name is Jean. He works as a waiter at the Calypso Cafe down the street.”

Somewhat mollified, I let him go. “This Jean had better know more than you do,” I told him grimly. “Or I’ll come back here and take it out of your hide.”

“American savage!” he spat after me as I left. “Yankee fascist! Nazi! To hell with Barry Goldwater² !”

“You’ll have to do better than that if you want to insult me,” I flung back at him.

The Calypso Cafe was a strip joint. The hatcheck girl pointed out Jean the waiter to me. I waited and caught him between tables.

“Where can I find Pierre the procurer?” I asked him when I buttonholed him.

“Who wants to know?” he snarled by way of reply.

I was damned if I was going to go through that again! “This does.” I pushed a hundred francs into his hand.

“There are many procurers named Pierre,” he told me. “Which of them is it you wish?”

“I’m not sure,” I confessed. “But if he handles a girl named Françoise, that‘s the one.”

“Oh, of course. I know who you mean now. You mean Lucky Pierre.”

“Is there a Pierre in Paris who isn’t?”

“I beg pardon, M’sieur?”

“Skip it. Where can I find this Lucky Pierre?”

“About now he should be at the Midnight Bistro. It’s a gathering place for procurers just up the block. Anybody there will point him out to you.”

On to the Midnight Bistro. The joint was packed when I got there, I picked a man at random and asked him if he could point out Lucky Pierre to me.

“He went downstairs. To the pissoir,” he told me, gesturing toward a door across the crowded barroom.

I elbowed over to the door and went through it. There was a long, steep flight of stairs. I saw that much before I closed the door. Then it was pitch-black. I had to feel my way cautiously down the steps. There was another door at the bottom. It was locked. I knocked. “Pierre?” I called.

“Oui? Who is it?" The voice was deep and gruff.

“You don’t know me, but I’d like to talk to you.”

“Okay. Wait till I’m through.”

I waited.

“Damn! Merde!" This a few moments later. “There’s no paper here!”

“I beg your pardon?" I was a little slow on the uptake.

“Toilet paper! There is none.”

“Oh.”

“That’s not very helpful. I’m trapped here. Do something.”

“What would you suggest?” I asked, ready to be helpful.

A moment’s silence, and then he came up with a solution. “Do you have change for a thousand-franc note,” he asked.

“I think so.” I lit a match and managed to count out a thousand francs in small bills. “Yes, I do,” I told him.

“Good. Slide it under the door, will you?”

I did as he asked and he slid a thousand-franc note back out to me. While I waited for him to finish, I couldn’t help thinking the whole trivial incident was really as cogent a comment on the devaluation of the franc as I’d come across since DeGaulle³ took power.

The door behind me opened. “Lead the way,” the voice rasped in the darkness. I trudged back up the stairs with Lucky Pierre following behind.

“What did you want to see me about—” he asked gruffly as I reached the top and opened the door.

“I’m looking for a girl-—” I started to say. My voice failed me as I turned around and got a look at Lucky Pierre in the light.

From his voice I’d been expecting a husky, tough, longshoreman type. Anyway, I’d sure been expecting a man. But I’d been expecting wrong.

Lucky Pierre turned out to be four-feet ten inches of little boy! Even with the cigarette sticking out of his mouth he didn't look more than ten years old, although if he was small for his age, I supposed he might have been as old as twelve.

“What the hell are you staring at?” he asked now in that same gruff man’s voice.

“Nothing,” I said hastily. “Sorry. I don’t think you’re the Lucky Pierre I'm looking for.”

“Why not? You said you wanted a girl, didn't you?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then you got the right Pierre. I handle some of the most magnificent goods in all Paris.”

“Thanks, but I don’t really think-—”

You’re new to the rue de la Boite, I can tell. So you don’t know me. But don’t let my age fool you. I got the nicest stuff on the street. Ask anybody.”

“I’m sure you do. But the Pierre I’m looking for is an older man. He has a girl named Françoise and—”

“ Françoise? I got a girl named Françoise. You want her, she’s yours. And very reasonable, too.”

“I don’t think it’s the same Françoise," I said doubtfully.

“But you’re not sure, right? I can tell you’re not. So why not give my Françoise a try? I guarantee you won't be sorry.”

“Do you really handle a girl named Françoise?”

“Sure I do. And a choice piece of merchandise she is, too. Come on and meet her. She’s just across the street.”

I was pretty sure it couldn’t be Françoise Laval, but what did I have to lose? “All right,” I agreed.

Pierre led the way to a room in a hotel across the street. I took one look at the girl waiting there and wondered if I mightn’t really have stumbled onto a fantastic piece of luck. She fit the description Gina had given me of Françoise Laval to a T. Peroxide-blonde hair, about five-one, magnificent bosom, smooth, slender legs, a mouth shaped permanently as if she'd just bitten into a persimmon, very little make-up—-it was all there. All there and wrapped in a gauzy red negligee that left very little to the imagination.

“What’s your last name, Françoise?” I asked her.

“Hold it!” Lucky Pierre spoke up loud and ugly. “No names! What are you, a gendarme or something? A girl hands out her name and next thing you know the police have a card on her. No, sir.”

“Sorry. Forget it,” I told him.

“You want her or not?” Lucky Pierre was still miffed, and now his tone said he didn’t care one way or the other.

“Yes. She’ll do fine. But you are going to leave us alone, aren’t you?”

“You’re the shy type, eh? Well, all right. Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone with her. But first—” Lucky Pierre crossed over to Françoise and climbed up on the bed beside her. He knelt over her and then, suddenly, he belted her across the face with all his might. “Who’s your protector, Françoise?" he snarled.

“You are, Pierre.” She looked at him adoringly.

“Who takes care of you?” He slapped her again. “You, Pierre.” Her eyes admired him.

“And you’re going to come straight over to me with the cabbage as soon as you get paid, right?” Another slap.

“Yes, Pierre.” Her gaze was if anything even more loving. “It’s your money, isn’t it‘? After all, without you, I am nothing.”

“That’s right, baby.” He gave her a playful smack on the bottom. “Well, have fun.” He swaggered out of the room, for all the world like a miniature Marlon Brando.

“That’s some tough little kid,” I remarked to Françoise when he’d gone.

“Oh, Pierre’s not so bad. He treats his girls better than most. And I’m his favorite,” she added proudly.

“That’s understandable.” Eyeing her voluptuous figure, I made the remark sincere.

“Why don’t you come over here, honey?” She patted the side of the bed.

“Sure.” I went over and perched beside her.

“What would you like to do?” she asked in a husky voice.

“You’re the expert. You decide,” I told her.

“All right, sugar.” She took my hand and pressed it to her breast.

It was warm and as soft as butter. Also, it was so large that my widespread fingers couldn’t encompass it. I didn’t try. I concentrated on the upthrust tip of the breast.

The roseate was as large as a half-dollar, a smooth pink shading into scarlet where the nipple itself pushed out. The tip was merely a slightly raised button when I first touched it. But in no time at all it grew to a length matching the first joint of the finger caressing it.

“Yes, you do that, cherie,” Françoise murmured. “And now do this.” She pulled my head down to her other breast so that the bud tickled my lips. “Ahh, lovely,” she sighed as my tongue flicked at it.

She pulled my lips to hers then, and her tongue was a searing flame in my mouth. The negligee was down around her waist now, and I was gently pinching the tips of both breasts. She squirmed against me, thoroughly aroused. Where the fulcrums of our bodies were pressed together, she felt like an overheated oven. An oven ready to take the cake, there could be no doubt.

And the cake was ready, too. I quickly pulled off my pants and embraced her again. But she was calling the shots, and she called this one in a way I hadn’t expected. “Wait,” she murmured. “Let’s do it this way.” She pulled herself up on her knees and knelt with her derriere toward me. She reached behind her and pulled the negligee out of the way. Then she wiggled provocatively by way of urging me to take her in this way.

It was a truly splendid derriere, and she knew it. That was probably a big part of the reason why she preferred this position. I took a good look at it jiggling in the lamp- light and was inspired to accept the invitation. I flung myself over her, grabbed hold of the inflated pendulums of her breasts, and thrust home.

It was a wild ride. Nevertheless, I managed not to lose sight of my reason for being there. I had it in my mind to he sure to notice if Françoise combed her pubic hair when we finished, as Gina had said she always did. If she went through this ritual, then I might really have stumbled on the right girl. This habit might give her identity away.

But halfway through our love-making, I knew I would be doomed to disappointment. Françoise wasn’t going to comb that area when we finished. I knew that for sure now. Françoise wasn’t going to comb anything below her belly. And the simple reason I knew it was that she was shaved bare as a billiard ball from her navel to where her legs were joined.

Alas, I was riding the wrong horse. This fille wasn’t even in the race. Oh, well! I did what any other man would have done under the circumstances. I made the most of my dis- appointment!

CHAPIER SIX

LUCKY PIERRE was leaning against the side of the building as I emerged. The fat cigar sticking out of his craw would have been worthy of a Tammany alderman. Yet his little boy’s face was as cherubic as a Dr. Spock⁴ infant gumming a mouthful of baby food.

“Great stuff, eh, M‘sieur?” he greeted me. “Did I tell you true? Does Françoise know her business, or doesn’t she?”

“More than satisfactory,” I told him.

“And yet, M’sieur”-—his small urchin’s face peered up at me shrewdly—“you do not seem happy. It would be an affront to my reputation for you to leave rue de la Boite with less than a feeling of complete fulfillment. If Françoise was not perfection, then perhaps another fille—”

“No, thanks,” I told him. “ Françoise was fine. Really. It's just that she isn’t the Françoise I’m looking for. And I’m afraid that you’re not the right Lucky Pierre, either.”

“Not the right Lucky Pierre?” He drew himself up to his full four feet ten inches indignantly. “I am the Lucky Pierre! There may be others, it is true, but they are mere imitations. Ask anyone. On the rue de la Boite, I am Lucky Pierre!”

“No offense,” I assured him.

“Well, all right, then.” He was mollified. His bright, innocent blue eyes studied me a moment. “You are not a typical American tourist, M’sieur,” he concluded. “Just who are you? Why did you come here? What are you after? What’s your game?”

“You’re right,” I admitted. “Actually, I’m a researcher from O.R.G.Y.”

“What is that?”

I explained to him what O.R.G.Y. is.

“I see.” His face lit up. “Well, you have certainly come to the right place, M’sieur. And the right man. I am just the fellow to help you in your investigations. There is nobody who knows the working of sex in the rue de la Boite so well as I.”

I realized that he had something there. Even if he had steered me onto—-or is it into?—the wrong Françoise, this pint-sized prosty-pusher with his intimate knowledge of the street might be just the one to help me in my search. “Look,” I said, “would you like to work for me—for O.R.G.Y., that is—for a week or so?”

“If the price is right, M’sieur.”

We haggled a bit and arrived at a figure. It was too much. The twinkle in his eyes told me he thought I was a patsy for not arguing him further down. But I didn't really care. Dombey of Dover would be picking up the tab for such expenses, anyway. And I might find it necessary to extract more in the way of commitment from Lucky Pierre than he guessed.

The first thing I had him do was find me a room in one of the houses along the rue de la Boite. This was where my investigations would center, and it was silly to commute from the hotel halfway across Paris every night. I moved my baggage over the next morning. That evening I had dinner with Lucky Pierre and clued him in on my search for Françoise Laval and her Pierre. I didn’t tell him anything about the legacy. I only told him what I thought he’d have to know to be helpful to me. I intimated that it was all part of a special O.R.G.Y. project, and he accepted this.

“It won’t be easy,” he told me. “There are many Pierres around the Rue de la Boite.”

“But the one I’m looking for is a pimp.”

“It is the main industry. I do not know a Pierre who is not concerned with the peddling of flesh—in one way or another.”

“Sort of goes along with the name, hey? Well, what about Françoise Laval? We’ve got both names to go on there.”

“Always providing she didn’t change her name for one reason or another, M’sieur. Ladies of the night do so frequently, you know. It is a precaution to keep the police from putting together too accurate a dossier on a girl. But even if she didn’t, it won’t be easy. Laval is as common a name in Paris as I am told that Smith is in your country. And Françoise, well, it rates second only to Marie in popularity where girls’ names are concerned. Still, I will do some poking around and see what I can find out.”

Pierre was as good as his word. Toward midnight of that very evening, he was back with a lead that looked very promising.

“A few weeks back,” he told me, “the police arrested a pimp named Pierre Aramis for trying to cut up a strip-teaser at the Naughty Nude—that’s a clip-and-strip joint down the street. Well, I did a little asking around and I found out that Frieda Fieler, the stripper, who pretends to be German, is really a native Paris fille who used to peddle it up and down the street. That was only a few years back, and in those days this Pierre was her handler. He broke her into the racket. She was away from Paris for a while, and when she came back, instead of going back to Pierre and hustling, she got this job stripping at the Naughty Nude. I’m not sure whether Pierre is jealous of her, or he just wants what he considers his just cut of her earnings, but he’s al-ways hanging around, or tailing her, or giving her a rough time.”

“It could fit in,” I granted. “But what makes you think she’s Françoise Laval?”

“I don’t think it. I know it. Before she took the name Frieda Fieler-—so it would look inviting on the ad posters, I suppose—her name was Françoise Laval. That’s the name she was born with. I checked it out.”

“Good work, Pierre. When can I have a look at her?”

“Why not right now? Her act goes on in twenty minutes. If we get there now we can get a ringside table. The headwaiter’s a friend of mine. Give him a few francs and he’ll take care of us.”

“And kick back half to you, no doubt.” I grinned at him.

“M’sieur, you do me an injustice! What would a young boy like myself know of such practices?”

“You mean what wouldn’t you know. But don’t worry about it. It’s okay. It’ll be worth it if this is the Françoise Laval I’m after.”

He shrugged and dropped the discussion. A few moments later he was leading the way into the Naughty Nude. A word to the headwaiter, and Lucky Pierre and I were shown to a ringside table. I felt a little self-conscious bringing a kid like Lucky Pierre into such a place, but nobody seemed to take any notice.

I glanced about me curiously. The stage was directly in front of us, large, but raised only about a foot and a half above the main floor. A chorus of tired-looking girls was doing a bump-and-grind routine. They wore only G-strings and pasties. From the lack of attention the audience gave them, I figured them to be the warm-up number. The customers were waiting for the main attraction, Frieda Fieler.

The place was large and drafty. It was also smoky and very dark. The patrons were mostly men, a tough-looking bunch of yeggs with a respectable working man here and there plus one or two tourists made obvious by their better clothing. The waiters made sure that nobody’s glass stayed empty for long, and a few B-girls circulated around trying to con the more likely-looking men into buying a bottle of champagne. All in all, the Naughty Nude wasn’t much different from the clip joints in Greenwich Village or Frisco. Except, as I was soon to see for myself, that things were more uninhibited.

It didn’t particularly look that way when Frieda Fieler came out to do her act. The stage went dark for a moment, and then a spotlight picked her up as she made a sweeping entrance. She was dressed in a high-necked black gown of sequins which covered her completely all the way down to her toes. She also wore long black gloves, a black feathered headdress, and high-heeled black shoes. I half expected the audience to protest this completely covered vision. After all, they had come to see flesh. But they must have known what was coming, for they took the concealment of her charms in their stride.

As for myself, I was looking for anything that might point to her being the Françoise Laval I was seeking. There was nothing obvious on which to pin my hopes. The headdress covered her hair completely, and I couldn’t tell whether she was a blonde or a brunette or a redhead. She was a small girl, but in the shimmering gown it was difficult to tell about her figure. It seemed to fit too loosely — for a reason, as I would appreciate when her act really got off the ground. Her bosom and hips looked adequate, but whether they were something special as to size and shape was impossible to determine just yet. And I couldn’t tell anything at all about her legs.

Only her face matched up with the description Gina had given me of Françoise Laval. High cheekbones and a pouting mouth—very Bardot-ish -- plus the fact that she had a lovely ivory complexion. Even on stage she didn’t need much make-up, and she wasn’t wearing much.

Frieda Fieler did an undulating dance that brought her directly in front of a ringside table across from ours. She dangled her hand in the face of a bald-headed chap seated there and wriggled the fingers. It was an obvious invitation for him to remove one of her gloves. I don’t know whether the guy was a shill or not, but the way he did it got a big rise out of the audience. He grabbed her pinky with one hand and her thumb with the other and pulled on them in turn. It looked just as if he was milking a cow, and the way she dangled her hand from the wrist rounded out the illusion.

Finally he had it off, and she danced away. Straight over to another customer who removed the second glove. Now she was out on the floor itself, among the tables, the spot following her as she wriggled into a backbend. The way she did it, her headdress was soon making small, circular, insinuating motions in the lap of another customer. He took the hint and removed it. I gathered that it was his to keep as a souvenir.

I could see her hair now. It was blonde, all right. Long and tawny. A golden mantle flowing over the sparkling ebony bodice. It rippled enticingly with every movement of her body.

That body was swinging into a real ballet style now. A few entrechats and then a graceful leap which landed her atop one of the tables. She stuck her foot under the nose of the fellow seated there and wiggled it. When he got the idea and removed her shoe, she tickled his nose with her toes. Then she swept down in a graceful motion and poured champagne into the high-heeled slipper. Only after he’d sipped it did she dart to the next table and repeat the routine.

Now she was back on stage. She stood still for a moment. Then she reached down with one hand and made a slicing motion just below where her legs joined. This was followed by a plucking motion. The audience got the idea and clapped its approval.

The music became Spanish, slow and sinuous. And that’s the way she moved, too. She passed among the tables in a series of undulating Latin movements. As she moved, hands reached out to grab the sequins covering her legs. Two of the hands were slapped away. The first when it greedily reached out for a second helping. The second when it reached for a sequin just above the imaginary line she had drawn.

Once again she was back on the stage. Her legs were completely bare now. They were terrific. I checked off the fact that they more than matched up to Gina’s reluctant praise of Françoise Laval’s gams. She made the slicing motion with her hand again. This time the imaginary line was drawn just above her bosom.

Back in the audience, she did a backbend over one of the tables. When each of the four men there had removed a sequin, she moved along. At the next stop she sprawled face down across the table so that her breasts dangled down enticingly as the sequins on her shoulders were removed. I noted that they looked quite large indeed in this position.

Bare-shouldered, she grew impish. She mounted the stage and turned her back to the audience. Peering over her shoulder, she wriggled her derriere provocatively and then ran her hands over it to indicate the area of sequins up for grabs this time around. In the section she chose for this honor, some of the men were sweating with eagerness as she descended to them.

The party got a little rougher then. The music was a raucous jazz, and she was moving much more quickly than she had been. I guess she had to just to keep from ending up completely black and blue. Each hand that grabbed stole a pinch as well as a sequin, and a few jabbed most indecently.

But she was obviously used to it. She stayed right in stride as she remounted the stage to give the audience a spotlighted view of the results of her latest expedition into the hands of her fans. Her derriere was completely bare, It was high and firm, milk-white and chicken-plump. And it moved as if with a life of its own—a life that was decidedly not above reproach. Yet, it moved as if testifying to its intimate acquaintance with many a mattress.

Finally she turned around. The band struck up a foxtrot, and she held up her hands as if dancing with a man. Then she motioned to a man from the audience to join her on stage and dance with her. He stumbled up there, went through a few steps, and then stumbled away. His reward was a collection of the sequins which had been covering her waist and lower back.

She was completely naked in back now. In front, only her breasts belly and crotch were covered. She patted her belly and danced off the stage into the eager throng again. She was accompanied by a slow, raunchy blues now. She clapped her hands to the beat and made gestures which ended with a half-dozen or so patrons kneeling on the floor in a circle around her. She wriggled her belly in front of each in turn. Each in turn snapped dog-like at the fast-moving tummy and came away with a mouthful of sequin. Now only her breasts and a triangle of her womanhood were covered. I was particularly anxious to see these areas, of course. Not out of lust—although I won’t deny that I was feeling my share—but as a more positive means of identifying Françoise Laval.

She started with her left breast, from the stage. I gathered this was the special reward reserved for those lucky enough to be at ringside. She bent from the waist, over the edge of the stage, dangling the sequin covered breast over the upstretched hands. She moved in quick sidewise shimmy. A fellow really had to be on his toes to grab one of the breast sequins. And that’s just where most of them were — standing up on their tippy-tippy toes.

With the left breast bared, my hope that she might be the Françoise Laval I was seeking grew. With only a pasty covering the nipple, I could see that her breast was indeed outsize for her petite figure. It was a round, zeppelin-shaped globe jutting straight out from just under the shoulder and quivering invitingly with every deep breath she drew. It seemed a safe bet that the other breast would match it, and a few minutes later I could see for myself that it did. With both of them covered only by pasties now, I could appreciate a cleavage deep enough for a man to really lose himself.