Chapter 17
At the time of his wife's ravishment, of which he was blissfully unaware, Pierre Raimond found himself giving way to an irresistible impulse. It was an impulse which, when followed, could put him in considerable danger. It was an impulse, too, which if followed really gained him nothing except a peculiar satisfaction which, analyze and rationalize it as he might, he could hardly understand.
Having got what information he could from Rolande, he'd put off any plan to see her again. He'd let her understand that he'd show up in the club where she did her turn. He now felt magnetically drawn to it. Her violent sensuality had reacted on him so powerfully that he found he wanted her again, not to get information or through any ulterior motive at all, simply to enjoy the abandoned, passionate lovemaking at which she was such a natural past master.
There was really nothing further he could do until Ahmed ben Lulla had done what was necessary for him to do. The chief was in possession of all the latest developments and a vast force of men were standing by to go into action at any time.
He had reasoned with himself that, if he went to the club and just watched her, it was highly unlikely that her two watchdogs would try anything with him on the premises; that would brand it a little too clearly. In any case he felt adequate to deal with them. Whenever he thought of her protruding, inviting bottom with those pants off he got a quiver from his toes to the crown of his head which almost made his hair stand on end. He had only to picture her body naked on the bed in the hotel and the way she trembled like a leaf in the wind as soon as he touched her and he got an erection which threatened to ruin the line of his trousers for ever. She was a sexual instrument, designed for that purpose, with all the allure which was sometimes missing from others similar.
He was touched by a little "in-loveness" towards her, a situation the ironic stupidity of which he recognized. It was superficial feeling that would past. Of that he was well aware. But at this moment it was almost unbearable and he saw no reason to smother it. He would take the risk.
He left the bar near Opera where he'd been moodily sipping a beer at the counter and drove towards Pigalle, speedily, wanting to get there, to give himself no chance to turn back and change his mind. He parked the car, as usual some distance from the scene of operation, and walked warily through the bustling, vice-tinted streets, ignoring the perky, tight-clad whores who encouraged him or slyly offered to give him a quick suck, as he passed them.
Outside the bar he hesitated for just a second, aware that this was the moment when history was changed, that there was still time to be cautious and live happily ever after. But then he'd never been too concerned about living happily ever after.
He went in quickly, his eyes taking in the whole room at a glance, while his legs didn't stop moving but directed him to an empty table against the wall within easy reach j of the door.
The place was half full. It always seemed to be about half full. The usual clientele by the look of it. A single Algerian was sitting at the bar, looking out over the room. But Raimond didn't recognize him. And after a cursory glance, the man looked away, obviously not recognizing the newcomer either.
Raimond arranged himself behind the table, his automatic loose in his side pocket, hand in pocket, ready for any sudden eventuality. The man at the bar was probably a new watchdog. He looked very bored with his new work.
The little trio in the alcove were playing some soft music. The people at the tables and the bar were chatting in low voices which made a general, vague hum. There was no sign of Rolande.
The waiter came. It was the same waiter. But he gave every impression of being just an employee who knew nothing of the intrigues which involved the management. He was French anyway.
Raimond took a whisky and found, when it was brought and he took a swig, that his mouth and throat had dried up as if he'd just come through a sandstorm.
The trio were playing some French popular romantic songs and conversations were being carried on with a recognition of the background atmosphere. The few couples in the room were distinctly amorous.
Raimond, taking no chances, not risking his own evaluation of the Algerian at the bar, kept a weather eye on the man, but the object of his attention didn't look back at him again or seem to be the slightest bit aware of him.
After a time the trio changed their mood to a soft, old-fashioned blues.
Raimond began to wonder if this was, perhaps, the wrong night. Or maybe she'd been taken off this particular aspect of her entertainment value.
He finished his whisky and ordered another, making a mental note that this was to be the last. He never got drunk, nor anywhere near it. His capacity, as a regular drinker, was considerable, but he never overburdened it.
He'd taken two sips of the liquid and chilled his teeth on the ice when Rolande came in from the back room. She was dressed in the same sort of costume as before, showing her shapely calves and thighs and the same considerable swell of breast, but this time it was pink and it reflected a rose glow on her taut skin.
She didn't see him. She went and sat at the end of the bar in her usual place, waiting for her turn to sing.
Raimond watched her for several seconds, shifting his glance from her to the Algerian at the other end of the long, elegant counter.
From where he sat he could see the long, slight furrow of muscle in her calf, the rounded heart shape of her bottom on the stool. A little contraction started in his stomach and he stood up, hand still in his pocket, picked up his drink and went over.
He slipped onto the stool next to her, and, turning to glance at him, she stiffened involuntarily and her lips opened. In the next fraction of a second she became calm and smiling, all trace of anxiety gone.
"You," she said, softly, "you."
The intensity of her tone belied the calm, smiling expression, a blind for the spy who was watching them without much curiosity. It was usual for men to engage her in conversation between her turns.
"Me," he agreed. "I had to see you."
"I've been thinking about you all the time," she said. "What happened."
"I thought you might be au courant."
"I know the rough outline. You're lucky to be alive."
"How about you?"
"I got smacked for being a naughty girl-nothing too serious."
"They're quite nasty-your friends."
"Well you gave them quite a shock anyway. How come that you're all prepared for that sort of thing."
"I've had an adventurous life."
"Darling, it was dangerous for you to come here. You came just to see me."
"What else?"
She stared at him and smiled into his eyes.
"You're even better than I thought," she said. "God I wish we could just go off to Spain or something."
"Yes," he said. "I know some nice little spots and the climate's so conducive to making love. You feel you can do it anywhere: in bed, on the beach, in the sea, in the mountains ... "
She grinned.
"I can't believe that you've come just to see me after all that," she said. Her eyes were mellow and they looked at him with tenderness overlaying desire.
"I wanted to see you in those pants again-as it's not very-likely I'll see them off for a bit."
Rashly, she slipped her hand against his under the bar, just a fleeting contact because she wanted to touch him.
"We must see each other," she said. She glanced casually along the bar. The Algerian was staring into his drink.
"That's the new boy," she said. "The others lost their stripes."
"We'd better wait a few days," he said. "Things may be easier in a few days."
Something in his tone made her look at him, wondering.
"No, it won't be any easier," she said. "But we'll take the risk. I'll make this one lose his stripes, too. Just give him long enough to lose his eagerness."
"You look lovely," he said.
Her fingers touched his again, for an instant.
"Don't say it," she said. "I can't bear having you say things like that and not be able to let you see how lovely I am.
"I know how lovely you are."
"You don't know all my loveliness yet."
The trio changed tempo again to a slow, modern song.
"That's for me," she said. "You'd better go and sit at a table or I'll get too emotional and start to make love to you."
"I'll go after I've seen the dance," he said. "And I'll see you again in a few days. It'll be easier then, believe me."
"It doesn't matter whether it's easy or not," she said. "It'll just be."
He took his drink and went back to the table. The Algerian glanced at him casually but without any expression. He sat down as she started to sing, her lower lip pouting out, her dark eyes longing. As she sang her voice took on a husky splendor of feeling and a deep silence fell on the club. She seemed to be trying not to look in his direction, but at last, as if she couldn't stand not to, she raised her eyes to his table, looking at him with a meaning intensity which she couldn't hide.
He held her eyes for several seconds, seeming to lose himself in the savage demanding of them and then he looked down at his drink. He wanted her so badly.
As the song came to a yearning end and the music went on softly, filling the place her voice had taken, there was the whisper of a sigh of relief and applause in the room.
Raimond looked up from the drink which was mostly ice now and saw that she'd slithered off the stool and was dancing, swaying in a gentle rhythm. This part would be the worst for his nerves, he thought, seeing her in the scantiness of her underclothes yet not being able to stretch her out on a bed and fuse with her, not even be able to look forward to it.
She unclipped her dress and drew it away from her body in a smooth movement. A lump rose in his throat and stayed there. Her breasts quivered and jogged gently under the tiny pieces which covered the nipples. He could see the hollows above her hips, the neat tapering away from the breasts to the small, firm belly. When she turned he felt his prick move in his trousers at the sight of that half-shown hollowing rump which rounded out towards the spectators like a glazed basin, stretching hard against the flimsy material which clung to it and outlined each buttock separately. He fixed his eyes on the voluptuous join of the buttocks, unable to believe, now, that his hands had held them, his finger caressed her hard little anus. It was all so unbelievable: that he'd lain on that body, that he'd caressed those breasts, that that tongue had danced in his mouth while she herself writhed under him with his sex deeply embedded in her wet, excited sexual channel.
His eyes ran over the fluid curves of her moving body as if they were hands, trying to be hands so that they could feel the flesh simply by looking. And then the innovation happened.
She caught at a couple of clips on those pants of hers and in a trice they were off and she was dancing in the nude.
The spectators craned forward in delighted astonishment.
The Algerian raised his eyebrows and then grinned. Raimond nearly wept with consuming frustration. She had done that for him, because she knew that was what he wanted to see. She even moved towards his end of the room, swaying her buttocks as if in a mamba at the faces of the audience, so that they could follow closely the delicious curves of her buttocks which tensed and hollowed and moved like two eggs rolling together. She didn't face the audience again. Strictly speaking, that was not allowed in a respectable club. She had no g-string. But the few men at the bar had a good eyeful of her down-covered loins and the heaviness of flesh which crowned them.
Raimond swallowed his drink. If this didn't stop he'd have to go. It was too much. He took another look at her long, slender back with the shoulders slightly broader than the slim waist and all that tight, bursting flesh rounding out invitingly below the waist. His eyes ran down the slender thighs which gripped so well in the act of love, the slim calves which muscled lightly as she moved. His mouth was dry, his face flushed-and then the number ended smoothly and, without looking back, she whisked up her clothes and disappeared in the back.
Raimond called the waiter. Next time he came here it would be when he was certain of the rest of the night's entertainment.