Chapter 1

Madame Jeanne Polanche looked up coldly as the gross, dark man sidled his way into the compartment. And though she'd been brought up better, an involuntary wince of distaste fled across her face. If she was obliged to have company on the long trip to Carcassonne, she'd much rather have had a female traveling companion. Men-especially middle-aged men like the one settling into the seat opposite her were such bores.

A stronger irritation stabbed her. If this obese clown was anything like her Andres-she wouldn't have a moment's peace all night long.

And she had looked forward so much to a restful, solitary trip.

She chided herself at not having reserved a private compartment. Then had self-satisfied second thoughts. A Frenchwoman, even so obviously well-off a Frenchwoman as Madame Polanche appeared, is always close with a sou. The saving a second-class compartment offered was irresistible to her stingy breed.

She would just have to suffer this bore. Perhaps if she simply ignored him-

The woman who sat on the upholstered, high-backed seat pretending to read Le Figaro was in her early thirties, was fashionably dressed, wore a mink coat over her dark, wool traveling suit. The compartment warming now, she opened her coat, and her youthful (if slightly plump) figure was revealed. Her hair was dark, her face thin and beautiful despite the shrewish cast to her eyes, the snappish lines at her thin, red mouth. She had very prominent breasts they were sensual attributes of which she was justly proud.

Mme. Polanche's waist was trim enough, her hips gave hint of an earthy sensuality beneath that severe exterior. Her legs were long, slim, were gauzed in black nylon, her hosiery patterned with charming fleurs-de-lis. Her shoes were practical, chisel-toed with cute, baby heels.

If the newcomer hadn't stared, Mme. Polanche would have been vaguely disappointed. For she was much woman. And though she wanted nothing to do with any man, she still expected at least a cursory, eye-flickering acknowledgement of her beauty and desirability.

Which homage her fellow passenger promptly conferred. His glance was discreet, quick. His eyes lingered on her charcoal-shadowed legs perhaps a moment too long. His appraisal unnerved Mme. Polanche. There was something sick, piggish almost, in the man's eyes. She attended her newspaper again.

"Carcassonne?" the man smiled. "Or do you have another destination?" His French was very good, the falsetto emphasis in the wrong places on certain words notwithstanding. Her eyes incisive, Mme. Polanche decided he was of middle-eastern derivation. Morocco, Egypt, Lebanon. She shrugged inwardly. One of les negres was just like another to her.

"Carcassonne," she replied tartly.

"Is this your first visit? You will find the city absolutely charming. I come every fall. As soon as the summer tourist rush is over." His eyes glittered, continued to rove over Mme. Polanche's breasts and legs. "I am a Paris storekeeper. A gift shop. One can't leave during the most profitable season. The Americans ... such lambs."

A subtle feeling of kinship sprang up in Mme. Polanche. "Oh? Is that so? My husband is in business also." She didn't bother to elaborate.

"Permit me," the dusky-skinned man said, executing a ridiculous little bow where he sat, "I am Gamal Mansura. At your service, Madame ... " His voice hung.

"Polanche," she said. "Madame Polanche. So pleased, I'm sure. Forgive me if I chatter. I am gregarious by nature. If I offend, do not hesitate to tell me." He smiled deprecatingly, his teeth glistening whitely against his dark skin. "Perhaps you wish privacy...."

Mme. Polanche was surprised at how quickly she warmed to the man. He was a harmless old fool, there would be no harm in talking with him. If she tired of him she could easily retreat to her newspapers and magazines once more.

But after all, it was eight hours to Carcassonne. Conversation would help pass the time. She forced a smile. "Please. I am a woman. And women are notorious for loving to talk."

"Bien, bien," he chuckled. "I will tell you about Carcassonne then. If you have not been there before, I...."

"I have been," she interrupted. "Twice."

"Voila! We can exchange notes then. Perhaps you know better restaurants. But I can certainly advise you as to which hotels to avoid. Thieves, gougers, all of them. And they throw mud at us Parisians...."

And not more than ten minutes later the initial coldness had completely thawed. But strangely enough, neither of them made even fleeting reference to the historical significance of the walled city; they were much too engrossed in practical matters, in talk of prices, of bargains, of the endless and intricate tipping procedures in southern France.

At exactly 6:10 p.m. on that crisp October night, the night express to Carcassonne left Gare de I' Est station, began threading its way south.

At exactly 6:20 p.m. the conductor knocked discreetly at the door to compartment 223, checked the tickets of the two passengers chatting so amiably therein.

Of course, seeing the comical fat man, the aristocratic female sitting across from him, he never suspected anything could be awry here. With a droll wink at the man, he left them, even double-checked to make sure their door was firmly locked.

By 7:00 formalities between the two had been dropped; they were on first name basis. He was Gamal, she Jeanne. And Mme. Polanche wondered how she could ever have felt antagonistic to the droll buffoon. There was absolutely nothing to fear from M. Mansura. She might as well have been home, talking to Marie Voisson, that fat gossipmonger who ran the shop adjoining Andres'.

"Tell me if I'm being overly inquisitive," she said now, "but I can't help wondering ... Gamal Mansura ... What nationality is that?"

His eyes flickered, a curtain descended over them for the briefest moment. Then they cleared, became lively again. "Algerian, my dear Jeanne. I came over during the first wave, back in fifty...."

"Oh, I see." She forced a grin. "You were saying, about your gift business.. ? "

The talk went on, and Mme Polanche tried to visualize this obese man behind the counter in a gift shop. Talk about the proverbial bull amidst the crockery. And she thought her companion the more comical.

The man named Mansura was perhaps five-seven, weighed at least 250 pounds. Which was extremely disproportionate. His hair was thinning, his scalp gleamed beneath the random plaits of oily, black hair. He sported a thin, waxed mustache above an overly moist, sensuous mouth. Rolls of fat cascaded from beneath his chin, gave him little or no neck at all. His skin seemed puffy and shiny; Mme. Polanche imagined he would perspire even in arctic climes.

Mansura wore a light colored suit, tightly stretched at the midsection. Dark stains glazed his trouser crease where he constantly brushed his hands in that annoying mannerism of his. His trouser legs were loose, baggy at the knee. Again cutting folds strained the worsted fabric, dug into his upper legs, made his pot stand out that much more noticeably. His trouser cuffs climbed to reveal black socks, white, hairy legs. His black shoes were scuffed and run-down.

From one of your pretty men, one of your arrogants, she mused, a woman expects trouble. But this-clown? He'd burst into tears the moment a strong-minded woman tongue-lashed him. And after seven years with the weak-knead Andres, Mme. Polanche was a strong-minded woman indeed.

But not strong-minded enough, as things developed. For like most women, avid for chatter, susceptible to flattery, a pushover for forbidden sweets, Jeanne Polanche had her weak spots also. Which spot the cunning Mansura gauged well. As he now reached up onto the storage rack above him, brought down a two-pound box of chocolates.

Opening the box, he fastidiously folded back the protective liner, revealed the virginal rows of bonbons. Gallantly he offered same to his lovely companion.

"Non, mere, " Mme. Polanche said. "I am on a diet. Please do not tempt me."

"A diet?" he said in mock disbelief. "A lovely, svelte creature like you? I cannot believe that. Please, just a little piece? Surely one won't hurt you."

Jeanne blushed at the compliment. "No, thank you. I assure you ... a girl has to look after her figure."

The man didn't insist. Instead he took back the box, took a chocolate himself, nibbled at it with relish. "I honor your fortitude," he sighed. "I only wish I was as strong." He patted his ample girth ruefully. "But, sad to say, I am not. And since things have come to this sorry state...."

Mansura popped another chocolate into his mouth.

They went on talking, the man consuming chocolates at an alarming (and noisy) rate. And the more he ate, the more Mme. Polanche regretted her initial refusal. Chocolates were her particular Waterloo; candy was all but impossible for her to resist.

Thus it was, as Mansura had almost finished the top layer in the box, picking among the sweets in haphazard fashion, that she suffered a change of heart. "Please," she smiled, "I've reconsidered. I think I will have some candy after all. They look so tasty...."

"By all means, Jeanne. Help yourself. The cremes are especially good." He offered the box again. Only the most suspicious person would have noticed that he held the container a special way, as if willing her to choose certain pieces of candy.

Jeanne Polanche took three chocolates, smiled gratefully. And as she bit into the first one: "I feel so guilty. If Andres ... my husband ... should see me now, he'd have a fit."

"Good that Andres isn't here then. Enjoy yourself, my dear. Shut out conscience."

"Delicious," she said, consuming two candies quickly. Then, as she bit into the third, her face drew into a swift grimace.

"What is it?" Mansura asked solicitously. "Did you bite into something."

"Bitter," she said.

He immediately whisked out his handkerchief. "Give it to me, Jeanne. I'll dispose of it for you. Sometimes they get their bittersweet chocolates mixed up. Here, I'll take it."

She smiled. "No, it's all right. It's not that bad. I'll finish. Just me. After eating the sweeter kinds ... " Instantly the box was re-offered "Another?"

"Please." And the greedy woman took three more bonbons.

Five minutes later, as she finished these pieces, the conversation continuing apace, Mme. Polanche suddenly found herself very sleepy. A dizzy buzzing had begun in her head, and it was almost impossible for her to focus her eyes. "You'll ... you'll have to excuse me," she stammered. "I don't feel so good all at once. I...."

"I'm so sorry to hear that Jeanne," the man said, his smile smug, triumphant now, his tone mocking. Even worse, the woman couldn't quite distinguish what he was saying. She saw Mansura rise, check the paneled doors a second time, she saw him pull the opaque shades on the compartment's outer windows.

Suddenly it seemed unbearably warm in the tiny cubicle.

Everything spun more wildly before her eyes, blurred, became a garish wash of color. Now the colors dimmed, became muddy brown. Then black.

And Mme. Jeanne Polanche, staid and stuffy member of Paris' petite bourgeoisie, sank into a senseless stupor. Inherently suspicious as she was, she couldn't know now that she'd been drugged with effortless ease.

How long she floated in that dark, mindless limbo, the woman would never know. She was oblivious to thought, to sound, to sensation.

And, as she floated up, as her eyes fluttered open, pierced that cottony dullness only temporarily, found that she was now lying full length on the seat, stripped down to just her lingerie-she realized she'd been unconscious to touch as well.

She shivered, fought to summon up outrage, surprise even. But her mind heeled over hard, temporary blackness returned. She felt his hands now as they coursed over her breasts, as his fingers clenched into her soft flesh, as his palms gyrated on her hard nipples. She struggled to break the bonds of this trance, to bring up her hands, claw his degenerate touch away from her.

But there was no strength in her arms, no strength anywhere. Totally deprived of will, she found even thinking was an incredibly difficult process. What--? she wailed inwardly. She couldn't even finish that question.

What, what, what--?

The torpor passed slightly, and she found strength to move her arms. She fluttered her hands at his. But there was no strength in her arms, she felt like she was pushing against a wall made of marshmallows.

The man's giggle came through more clearly now, jittered and seared in the cave of her mind. She wanted to sob, to scream at the same time. But she could do neither.

"Be a good girl, Jeanne," he taunted in a pinched, oily voice. "Be good to Gamal. Just like all girls should be good to him. Relax now, relax ... Do what Gamal tells you."

Jeanne Polanche couldn't, of course, know what kind of drug the madman had used on her. In fact her mind was so dulled that most of the things that happened from then failed to register. It was only later, when total recall returned, when her subconscious regurgitated those depraved memories, that she sobbed and writhed in stunning shame.

Seemingly Mansura wanted nothing more than to have a woman at his command, to subjugate her endlessly. The drug gave him this power, it rendered his victim helpless, she had no choice-no qualms actually-about the things she would indulge him in.

And where the hands wouldn't fight, they would, nevertheless, answer to his commands, commit more passive chores.

Chores like these they did now. As Mansura hissed: "That pretty black brassiere, my dear. Take it off for me. Offer those juicy breasts of yours. On a silver platter."

She shivered on the bench, adjusted her body, tried to reach her bra snaps. But the dizziness continued, made her clumsy. Angered, the man tore the brassiere away himself. At his repeated command her hands swept up, gathered her breasts, held them captive for his hurting fingers.

Now his lips, his nipping teeth. So anesthetized did the drug make her that she barely felt his painful attentions.

The desecration went on and on.

There were moments, as his commands became more and more vile, that she remembered absolutely nothing, when the suffocating blackness closed over her mind anew. And when she reopened her eyes, refocused her vision-

This time she was dressed in just her black garter belt, in her novelty stockings, in the black kid slippers. She was sprawled on her back, allowing the man to handle and investigate her in the most outrageous fashion.

The tide of blackness moved in once more.

Now she found herself hovering over the man-an errant thought came and she wondered why she didn't fall slowly, hypnotically removing his shoes. Now his socks. She reached for his belt, began to unbuckle it. But he forestalled her.

She wondered what she was doing on the floor, at his feet, kissing his toes, his instep. She wondered at the way he put his bare foot on her face, seemingly intended to push her head right into the floor.

The next time her vision focused the bloated, obscene body was totally naked before her, the pervert was proudly displaying himself to her. Now as he beckoned to her, she fell toward him. His voice hissed. All will gone, she found herself fondling, admiring him there.

The world spun more crazily now.

She sat on the edge of the seat now, her head reversed, she was caught up in a fit of revulsion, some of the drug's effects wearing off now, she tried to fight his cruel hands. But he was too strong for her.

She found herself kissing his feet again. This seemed to be a special fixation with the man. His voice cut the void sibilantly, ordered her to further excess. She gagged when he forced his feet, first one, then the other, into her mouth as far as each would go. He held her to the vile task for what seemed an eternity.

"Good, isn't that?" he hissed continually, his voice an aberrated chant. "You like doing that for Gamal, don't you? All women like that, don't they? To crawl before a man, before their natural-born masters?"

Jeanne felt her head rocked, she felt her brain reel. But she didn't feel the pain that accompanied the slap.

"Tell me!" the voice drifted in. "Tell me you like doing this!"

She returned to her task, attended him more slavishly. "Yes," she muttered, "I like this. I do...."

"You're wild about being a slave...."

"I'm wild about being a slave."

"You can't get enough of this...."

"I can't get enough of...."

The stygian darkness thundered down again.

When she recovered this time she found herself kneeling before the man. She found herself honoring him in a monstrous way. She found herself crooning over the forced subservience, praising him, almost as if, in reality, she enjoyed the sick task.

"With us again, eh, Jeanne?" he grunted. "You'll have to stop that sort of thing. You're missing some of the best parts. Wonderful, isn't this? You like this just as well as the other, don't you?"

She felt faint tendrils of pain in her scalp as he yanked at her hair, forced her even harder. She choked, couldn't get her breath. Still he held her. And when she thought she'd die-

He released her, sighed. "Tell me, slut. This is good, n'est-ce pas?"

And before the blow could fall again: "Yes, yes," she gasped. "Good, so good."

He snickered. "Then why do you stop, pig? Words are superfluous at a time like this. Back to work, my high-class tramp. Show yourself for what you really are beneath those furs and silks. Gueuse, gueuse ... Harlot."

He slapped her just the same. "Work, damn you, work!"

The ultra-respectable Madame Polance worked. As if her life depended upon how well she performed.

Which, perhaps, in the long run, it did. For the psycho got more wild by the moment, more sadistic. He seemingly couldn't defile, couldn't torment her enough.

Somewhere during those abominations the blessed torpor closed down again; there was a mental vacuum to ease her agony.

She had vague impressions of that suffocating weight on her, of pain and breathless struggles. She recalled his howls, the fact that she'd been forced to her knees before him again.

And when he'd been rejuvenated another time: She couldn't be sure. But hadn't she felt her breasts being squashed into that gritty upholstery, hadn't her face been rubbed raw as she'd fought to stifle her screams by driving it into those unyielding cushions?

Hadn't she almost died at that horrendous pain?

Jeanne Polanche heard the rattling on the door, came up from a deep, terrifying sleep, stared about her wildly. Her head clearer now, she instantly saw that she was naked; she was amazed that she was alone, that her obese Torquemada was gone. Her eyes darted, she was appalled to find herself naked, she wondered at the red blotches on her skin, advance messengers of long-lasting bruises.

"Madame!" the conductor's voice came. "Monsieur! You asked to be called at Narbonne. We are there. The end of the line. Sil vous plait, madame, monsieur!"

The conductor couldn't know there was no monsieur, that he'd escaped back to Carcassonne, had left these confusing orders. The conductor couldn't even begin to guess what grisly tragedy had transpired in this compartment.

Rage ballooned within Mme. Polanche. The police! she thought. She'd summon them, spill every ugly detail. The fiend wouldn't get away with this! She'd catch him, track him down, see him rot in prison. She'd-

She fell back wearily onto the seat, struggled to make her head stop spinning. Abruptly all will, all fight drained out of her. Listlessly she reached for the tangled snarl of lingerie on the floor. She groaned at the searing pain that went through her at every moment.

"Madame! Monsieur!" the conductor repeated.

"Yes," she snapped. "L ... we hear you. We'll be out in a moment."

She knew overpowering shame and outrage as she fought with her clothes. She realized that she couldn't go to the police, that she could never reveal her degradation to anyone. She wanted to scream with frustration to realize that the man named Mansura would never be brought to justice if things were left to her; he'd undoubtedly vilify legions of women before he was ever apprehended.

For there was one small, but priceless matter. Her reputation. Once the news got out-

She could never hold her head up again. Her husband, her friends-the very world-would turn on her.

Great hawking sobs escaped her, her tears blinded her as she fumbled with her clothing. The details of this abomination would remain her secret the longest day she lived, she would carry them to the grave with her.

She would die before she would willingly tell the world what had happened to her in compartment 223 aboard the night express to Carcassonne. Wild horses couldn't drag that information from her.

Now Mme. Polanche worked more desperately to untangle her hosiery.

The conductor was banging at the door once more.