Chapter 11

THE NIGHT EXPRESS WAS LATE IN REACHING Carcassonne that Thursday night; it didn't draw into the station until 2:30 a.m. Clambering out onto the platform, expecting to find a sleepy-eyed Joanna waiting, the De Fonsecas and Mayo were disappointed. There was no sign of Joanna anywhere.

Their disappointment turned to dismay when their taxi brought them to the Hotel Calais, and they found that the reservation for Mrs. Mayo Kinsolving had never been picked up, that no woman answering Joanna's description had presented herself at that hotel.

And while the De Fonsecas' attitude was one of bemusement, of mild irritation, Mayo's reaction was completely unexpected. Could this pale-faced, stammering, panicky man be the same male who had occupied the same bed with Joanna some 48 hours previous, the same man who had so vehemently proclaimed his disenchantment with her, had told he he didn't care if he ever saw her again ?

The man who, in bold defiance, as proof of that final disaffection, had installed the spitfire Aimee into his bed only last night? The same man who had worked so long, so paganly?

"My God," he gasped, turning to Roul with horror-filled eyes, "what does this mean?" He leaned against the hotel's desk for support. "I know Joanna was all mixed up in her mind when she pulled out, but I didn't expect her to pull something like this. You don't suppose any thing's happened to her?" In that instant he seemingly aged ten years, he easily matured twenty.

"You're sure Joanna said Hotel Calais?" Roul said.

"Yes," Mayo said. "Here's her note."

"Yes, that's right," Aimee intervened. "She asked me, I recommended this place."

They turned to the desk clerk. He quailed, fluttered his hands defensively, as if he were being blamed for the phantom guest's disappearance. "Perhaps," he suggested, "she might have changed her mind at the last minute. She might have registered at a different hotel. Shall I make some phone calls, inquire for you ? "

"If you will," Roul said imperiously, his expression now as baffled as Mayo's. "Hurry, please."

"That's just like her," Mayo said as the desk clerk began calling, not really believing, but hoping against hope, "to pull some hare-brained stunt like this...."

The trio formed a tense huddle about the front desk, hung on the clerk's every word, Mayo asking Roul to interpret ad nausem.

And when the last call had been made, the last out-of-the-way inn-keeper had been routed without uncovering even a hint of a clue, Mayo turned to Roul, his face ashen, his hands trembling. "My God, what do you suppose could have happened to her ? Where do we begin to look ? "

"There are private pensions, Monsieur," the clerk suggested. "But you would have to wait until morning to call them. At this hour of the night...."

"It's just possible she never left Paris," Aimee said. "She was acting strangely, her talk was all disjointed...."

Mayo Kinsolving knew harrowing terror and helplessness all at once. He knew the deepest meaning of stupidity, of being an egotistic fool. He shambled away from the desk, fell into a chair. "What do we do?" he mumbled. "Where do we begin looking?" His voice broke. "Joanna, Joanna ... '" he called into empty air.

The police detective on duty at the nearest Carcassonne precinct was about to give the rumpled trio short shrift, put them off until morning so he could return to his against-regulations catnap. At least until Roul De Fon-seca's voice crackled with authority, until he mentioned some very influential names. Immediately Lt. Monnier came alert, all but fell over himself to offer service.

A description of Joanna was transcribed, the radio sergeant began putting an all-points bulletin on the air. Patrolmen calling in were given word to be on the lookout for a woman answering her description. Phone calls were dispatched to the railway headquarters, the fact that Mme. Kinsolving had made reservations to Carcassonne were confirmed. A promise to track down the conductors working that run, to obtain further testimony from them, was elicited from the administrator in charge.

"But," the police detective explained unctuously, "that will take time. We won't know until midmorning or so."

"And in the meantime," Mayo groaned, "we have no idea what's happened to her, where she is." He slumped, rested his head against the wall. "It's all my fault. If some harm's come to her ... I'll never forgive myself...."

"Please, Mayo," Aimee comforted him, "don't think the worst. She's all right, I know she is. This is some joke she's playing on us."

In the end, there being nothing more to be done at the police station, Roul and Aimee, frankly surprised at the monumental concern and anguish displayed by a supposedly indifferent husband, took Mayo back to the hotel.

Where, leaving him alone in his room, they went to their own suite, mumbling wonderingly between themselves.

And now Mayo Kinsolving knew the ultimate depths of despair and helplessness. He knew maddening rage at realizing that something tragic had happened, at finding himself absolutely helpless to do anything about it. For the first time in his life he was driven beyond ego, he was forced to look beyond the quick busines deal, he was forced to look into his soul, face the true meaning of his life, of his marriage, squarely.

Now, too late, he realized how desperately he loved Joanna. Forced from his blockage of smug glibness, of fast-buck cynicism, of alienation of true self, he was able to see himself as he truly was.

It was a painful inventory, revelation of an appallingly shallow, goalless man. Revelation of an abysmal fool!

Joanna, he choked into his hands, my darling! Forgive me. I didn't know. I've been sleepwalking. Give me another chance. A chance to forgive and forget-to make things up to you. I love you, love-

He readdressed his plaints of misery. Dear God, give me another chance. Let me have Joanna back.

Again he began to sob. And now, for the first time in his life, knew the real meaning of love, of disenchantment with his empty self. He understood now why he'd cried that last night they'd been together, why he'd been so confused.

His repeated denials of Joanna and their marriage had been, in essence, self denial, denial of his own identity, of his meaning as a man. Small wonder he'd felt confused, mean and worthless. Small wonder he'd demeaned himself with uncontrollable, scalding tears.

God, dear God. How stupid can one man be!

He rocked in his chair, wanted to scream, to ram his head against the wall in futility and frustration.

While at that moment, in another, more seamy section of Carcassonne, on a dirty, odorous bed, in a scabrous room-

Joanna lay in haunted terror on the bed, on her face, her hands tied behind her back, her ankles bound. It was stifling hot in the room, the reek of human sweat hung heavily in the air. Somewhere in the dark a steam radiator hissed nonstop, perfect counterpoint to the hard breathing of the man who slept at her side. The gross, depraved hulk of fat who called himself Butro Simbel.

Joanna was weak, hungry, on the verge of delirium. She longed to walk, to stretch her limbs; she longed to talk, to scream for help from the busy, indifferent world just outside that heavy, barred door. But she could not. Her bonds, the gag made of her slip, precluded that.

So the hapless prisoner merely lay in naked disarray, let the tremors parade over her back in ceaseless waves. She tried crowding the ghastly memories from her brain, she tried to keep track of time. Had it only been 24 hours ago that this fiend had brought her here?

That long since he'd dressed her as their train had neared Carcassonne, had threatened her with death if she betrayed him while they walked from the train, entered a waiting cab? Had she been deprived of the conscience-obliterating drug that long, had she been lucid, able to suffer every torture and abomination in clear-headed resignation, in sober, soul-shriveling acceptance?

Twenty-four hours? It had seemed a dozen eternities had passed in just this one day.

There had been some sleep. But at midmorning the pervert had awakened her in a harrowingly painful way, he'd re-introduced her to hell-on-earth. He'd removed her gag and bonds, had gloried in her shrieks of pain, in the subjugation to which he'd forced her to seemingly by the hour.

Some of these cruelties were unspeakable, had seemingly seared smooth paths into the convolutions of Joanna's brain. She had fought him at first, had pleaded and reasoned with him. Then, thinking she was on borrowed time anyway, thinking to buy her life, she'd feigned cooperation, complied with his demands with a minimum of fuss and repugnance.

But later, when his wishes had become heathenish beyond belief, she wondered if life after this was worth fighting for. She'd rebelled at certain depravities, had been rewarded in an even more sadistic way.

And after he'd tied her arms and legs to the bedposts, had come to her with those long needles, had lit cigarettes, had touched them to her nipples-

He'd had but to light one of the sweetish-smelling Egyptian fags after that, and she'd all but crawled before him, kissed his feet, done his every other bidding.

How many times had she drifted in and out of consciousness from the pain of his repeated attacks, of his ingenious variations on a vile theme?

At mid-afternoon, and again this evening, he'd tied and deserted her for a few hours, had returned with scraps of food he'd reveled in feeding her from his hands, she kneeling at his feet like some kind of dog, begging for something to eat. And for every self-vitiation-

Another scrap.

And for every refusal to play the sick game. The lighting of the cigarette, the veiled threat in his eyes.

Who could be strong against bestial threats like those?

Even now she squirmed, tried to stifle her moans. The pain in her breasts was intolerable now. She wanted to move onto her side. But could not. For the swollen welts where he'd lashed her with his belt shortly after 10:00 tonight still burned like fire. Which torment would be worse than the other?

Joanna stifled her moans lest she awake her captor. She sought solace in her thoughts, wondered where Mayo was at this moment, wondered if he was at all concerned about her. Was he looking for her? Or had he merely shrugged at her disappearance, thought good riddance. The pain in her heart became too great to bear.

She began to cry. Mayo, she pleaded silently, my darling Mayo? After all, how brave can a woman be? How much can she endure? Before she goes completely psycho? Help me, somebody. Oh, dear God, help me-

The breakdown was a mistake. For now Sharkawi awoke, grunted, laughed in that so familiar way again. That way that presaged new indignities.

His hands hurt Joanna anew. She almost died when he turned her on her back, mauled her raw breasts. Even this wasn't enough. Restless, he left the bed, returned a second later. Untying her wrists, pressing an artifact into Joanna's cramped hands, he issued a very vulgar order. Recognizing the item as one of many he'd employed during that endless day, she recoiled, fought him. Only when, his fingers pinched those seared nipples, nearly made her pass out with pain-

She capitulated, did as Sharkawi commanded. She was beyond shame now, all of these indecencies ran into one, long, meaningless stream now. He taunted her, used every filthy word at his disposal as Joanna moved her hands, committed this final profanation upon herself.

Sometime toward dawn Mayo Kinsolving finally slept. But he was awake again at seven, he'd walked miles in his room, had called the police station twice, the main desk once, before Roul and Aimee De Fonseca appeared.

The day was a nightmare. The conductor assigned to the coach Joanna had taken was an elusive man, wasn't located until almost noon. His report was enough to make strong men weep. Yes, he remembered the pretty blonde American. He remembered the fat man who had got off the train with her at Carcassonne. She appeared to have had a fainting spell; she'd leaned heavily on the man. His name? Yes there was a record. A weird thing: Butro Simbel.

All this passed between Roul and Lt. Monnier in rapid-fire French. Which information Roul translated, relayed to the wild-eyed Mayo Kinsolving. All except for one exchange:

"There was something like this in the St. Gervais distrier a week or so back," Monnier said. "Same set of circumstances. Fat man with a mustache, a pretty girl, sharing a compartment. The man got away. But not before he'd nearly killed the poor girl. A teen-ager. She hasn't recovered consciousness yet."

"What did he say?" Mayo said afterward, seeing pinpoints of alarm and revulsion flare in Aimee's eyes.

Roul spared him. "He says," he extemporized, "that they're putting out a bulletin on this Simbel fellow. They'll search the whole city, have a lead on him within an hour."

For the first time in ten hours Mayo felt faintly hopeful. Had he heard the detective's closing words he would have been thrown into a chaotic frenzy.

All through that day the police roved the city, the entire detective force (De Fonseca's importance, plus the fact the victim was American proving vital here) as well as private investigators they'd hired, were looking for Joanna and/or the fat man called Simbel.

But Lt. Monnier had been overly optimistic. The entire day dragged by, and not a single clue was uncovered. Seemingly the psychotic kidnapper had vanished into thin air. Nobody had seen them.

Mayo had never known time to drag so slowly, he'd never known such a sense of misery and despair. He'd wandered the streets by the hour, had gone into practically every bar and cafe and shop in Carcassonne, had flashed Joanna's photograph thousands of times. Always the answer was the same: "Non, Monster. re regrette."

And though the police had pretty much given up by nightfall, Mayo, haggard, unshaven, still roamed the streets, stopped stranger after stranger. Every fat man he saw was immediately suspect; he came to hate corpulence with a savage fanaticism. But still, there were none that answered Simbel's description, they were all French types, not an oriental-appearing one in the crowd.

Roul and Aimee could hardly be expected to feel the same dedication as Mayo. They nagged in the stretch, tried to coax Mayo to rest, to at least stop long enough to eat something. They were finally successful. Afterward they convinced him that he should catch a short nap before they recontinued their search.

At that self same time, in the room Sharkawi maintained in the down-at-the-heels rooming house in Rue Verlaine, a particularly Bohemian neighborhood, the monster was entering into the last dangerous phase of his lunacy.

Having ventured out briefly for rope, tools, giant screw eyes and pulleys, he had surreptitiously mounted same into the wooden beams in the ceiling of his lair. And here, at 8:10 of this Friday evening, after abusing the now lethargic Joanna throughout the long day, he was tying her wrists to the hanging ropes, he was puffing and hauling, suspending the jerking, gagged woman from those beams.

When her feet were three feet from the floor, when she swung idly from her bonds, Sharkawi produced a four-foot-long whip from somewhere. His face a deranged mask, his laughter something out of a horror movie, he began to lash the helpless, hanging form. He gloated, taunted as each stroke cut her-the snake going completely around her body at times-as Joanna shrieked behind her gag.

He was vastly disappointed shortly, when, getting overly excited, he whipped Joanna overzealously. As she fainted, he was driven to further frenzy, lashed her even more ruthlessly, cut her thighs, her buttocks and calves to ribbons.

Slobbering incoherently in his throat, leaving the limp body hanging, he deserted the room. Highly agitated, he headed for a nearby cafe he knew of. If this woman had failed him, he thought. There were other women. There had to be-

Mayo Kinsolving struggled up out of a haunted sleep, knew fleeting guilt. Then he reached for the jangling phone, instantly recognized Roul De Fonseca's voice. "Come on down, Mayo," he snapped. "They've found Joanna. She's at the station now. Hurry."

Mayo felt like falling on his knees right there, thanking whatever gods there might be for his wife's deliverance. But he did no such thing. Instead he flung on his jacket, raced for the door.

Mayo's heart sank, his entrails felt like they were lead-coated all at once when they led him into the room, indicated the prone, small, blonde. "That's not Joanna," he rasped. "That's not my wife. What is this all about, lieutenant? I gave you pictures, I...."

"I know, Monsieur. I received the call at the same time you did. When I got here, I recognized the mistake immediately. But she is American, I had to make sure."

"What's the matter with her?" Aimee asked. "Why does she talk so strangely, why does she twist like that?"

"She's been drugged. We found her in the Rue Verlaine section. Real tough place. We've sent for a doctor. This might be the lead we're looking for."

The blonde woman's story, "A streetwalker," one of the patrolmen sniffed, "free-lancing, from Marseilles, an American really down on her luck"-once her stomach had been pumped, was an illuminating one indeed.

"The fat man," she repeated again and again, "the fat man. He put something in my drink. I tasted it, didn't drink much. I got sleepy, he led me off. He was just taking me into his place when I came awake."

She giggled. "The rat! He thought he had me in the sack already. For free. I surprised him, I hit him, ran like hell. Then I got dizzy again, fell in the street." She flicked her thumb at a particularly choleric policeman. "This stupe found me, brought me here...."

Instantly the police lieutenant pounced on her. "This fat man? Did he have a mustache? An accent? An Algerian or some such?"

"Yes, that's the rotten slug."

"This place of his. Can you take us there?"

She became wily. "What's in it for me?"

"A thousand francs," Roul snapped.

"You've got yourself a deal, sport."

The radioman was going crazy as the six people ran from the station, headed for the waiting squad car. The klaxon started, the red light flashed. Then the tiny auto was in full flight.

The area was crawling with police cars when they reached Rue Verlaine, following the harlot's terse directions. "Right there," she spat. "That crummy two-story deal there."

Lt. Monnier spat orders to his officers in machine-gun sequence, assigned search parties, put others to guarding all exits. Then, within minutes, they were moving in. Aimee was left behind, Roul and Mayo split, accompanied a two-man team of police officers. They began hammering on doors all up and down those warren-like corridors, the concierge frightenedly opening all rooms whose occupants weren't at home.

The entire first floor yielded nothing even closely approximating that which they sought. Now the teams moved toward the second floor. Almost as if telepathic, Mayo felt his scalp bristle as they came to door 65. The officers banged loudly, called for its occupant to open up. But there was silence behind the door, an ominous murmur and no more.

"The key," a patrolman commanded.

And as the door swung slowly open, as the lights were clicked on. As Mayo saw that blood-streaked form, that slumped blonde head, those distended arms. As the form swung slowly on its ropes-

Mayo went insane. His vision blurred, a blood-red haze glistened behind his eyelids. A choking, animalistic howl broke from him. "Joanna ... Oh, my God...."

He ran forward.

But the police officers shunted him expertly aside. "Please, Monsieur. You are in no condition. Let us ... " They fumbled with the knots connected to the radiator, slowly lowered the body. And when Joanna was on the bed, wrapped in a filthy blanket-Mayo hovering over her.

The officers stalked the small room, looked under the bed, behind curtains. Then, finally, they opened a closet door, found the perspiring, quaking Sharkawi cowering there.

Mayo turned, loosed a blood-curdling howl, flung himself across the room in one blurred swoop. "Please," the pervert pleaded in an oily, wheedling voice. "Please, I did not mean to hurt her ... I...."

Then, as Mayo slammed that first powerhouse punch into the middle of that massive gut-Sharkawi began to blubber like a nightmare-frightened child. Instantly the front of his dirty trousers darkened. As he involuntarily voided his bladder.

Sharkawi fell forward, clutched his stomach, screeched for breath. He fell right into Mayo's closed, upcoming fist. A sickening splat sounded in the small room. Abruptly the pervert looked like someone had just squashed a big tomato into the middle of his face.

They claim a madman has the strength of ten normal men. Whether that is true or not is debatable. But the fact is that the two police officers couldn't hold Mayo once he'd started punishing the slobbering, screeching Sharkawi. He broke free, flung them away like they were five-year-olds. He pounced on Sharkawi with maniacal fury, his arms flailing like pistons, his feet kicking, his legs jacking to knee the lunatic again and again.

Sharkawi slumped against Mayo, tried to fall. But he held him away with one hand, bounced him against the wall, kept pouring his fists into that pulp-red face. Sharkawi's shirt was gore-dripping, his mouth was a red, gaping wound from which bubbling outcries came nonstop.

And still Mayo pounded and hammered that imbecilic, pain-distorted face. His own clothes were flecked with blood, his arms were red and runny to the elbow. His howls those of a rabid banshee, he simply refused to let his victim fall.

The fists thudded and tore, there was constant splat of impact, sickening sound of flesh being torn, bones being crunched.

It was only when the other police arrived, helped restrain Mayo, that he finally was pulled off. With a shattery gasp Sharkawi fell to the floor. Where he lay on his back, great blood bubbles forming and popping at his nostrils, foaming like a bloody ice cream soda at his mouth.

Even then Mayo managed to kick him, in the head, one more time.

A crowd had gathered before the decrepit rooming house, police cordons held the curiosity seekers back as the blanket-wrapped female body was brought out of that charnel house. An ambulance inched through the crowds, its siren wailing.

Mayo never let the small, lifeless body out of his sight. He was blood from ears to waist. And yet, shining through that gore-those haunted, wild eyes. The eyes of a man who realizes he has just begun to pay a supreme penance.