Chapter 4

The October night was extremely mild, there was a hint of rain in the air. The unseasonable weather had lured out Paris' open-air cafe addicts, and at this moment in the seamy Rue Lappe district, seated at a table before Cafe Florida, an extremely gross, oily-skinned, thin-mustached man named Kamil Sharkawi was excitedly eyeing a thin, fashionably dressed female two tables over. His anticipation grew as he saw her cross her legs, saw how lovely they were.

She had no business in this trouble-infested area of Paris, he thought. What the little dear gets she deserves.

The name was different, the man was the same. Only in this case the name was his real one; he had a string of aliases-Gamal Mansura among them-as long as his arm. This night he wore a dark, plaid raincoat, a ridiculous, small hat. That and the sun glasses he sported despite the hour, gave him a very comical appearance.

Which was just the picture that Sharkawi wished to affect.

The man did not own a gift shop as he had told his last victim. That frolic had occurred a week ago, he revered now, helped to explain his restlessness these past two days. Instead he was, in reality, engaged in an illicit and dangerous enterprise of drug smuggling. He was an Egyptian, had a very dependable supplier of heroin in Cairo. And because Sharkawi was a very cunning man and an intelligent one besides-he had never been tapped by the Paris flics, he had never got hung up on the dope habit himself.

But there was one deadly weakness infecting him. The one that had brought him out tonight. Hunting. Who can say which addiction is the worse ?

Tonight there were no contacts to be made, he was on a busman's holiday, making his usual rounds for an entirely different reason. And so he relaxed, sipped his third Pernod slowly, studied his target for tonight, considered the best strategy by which he might approach her.

The woman wasn't so much, he concluded. Somewhat on the scrawny side, her face angular and harsh. Probably, had he been some other man, a less obese, repugnant man, he could have had the woman merely by flicking his finger, by buying her a few drinks. For all he knew she was a Hamburg whore, on a holiday also, she could be had for $10 easily.

But that wasn't the way he enjoyed his women. That wasn't his style as all.

The woman looked up at that moment, saw him staring, smiled contemptuously at him. And Sharkawi felt the bottled-up hatred swell inside him, bloat him. It had always been so, ever since he was a small boy. He had always been fat, his smile had always invited scorn, he had always been butt of his schoolmates' practical jokes and insults. Women had always laughed in his face, he'd always been forced to buy what he wanted from them.

At least until this last year. When he'd evolved his foolproof scheme, since Feisel, in Cairo, had supplied him with this new drug as sideline to his regular trade. His smile broadened, revealed yellow, cracked teeth. No-he needn't buy a woman's favors any more. He took what he wanted from them now-they willingly gave themselves to him these days. After a manner of speaking anyway.

And now this German tourist slut had had the audacity to smirk at him, to ridicule him with her eyes. He hadn't been sure before. But he was sure now.

She would definitely qualify as the night's sport.

And with no more to do than that, he rose, waddled to the solitary woman's table. "Pardon me," he said in

French, "I don't mean to intrude. But I have been dying of curiosity, speculating on your nationality. I have decided you are German, a tourist, on vacation in Paris. Is that right?"

The minute the woman opened her mouth, spewed the fractured French, she betrayed herself. "Yes, you are correct. I am German. From Munich. But how could you tell?"

"I don't know. Instinct, I guess. Your clothes, your hair I suppose. Have you been in Paris long?"

"Two days. I am here with a girl friend. She had another engagement."

"How long will you be here? Are you enjoying your stay ? "

"A week more," she smiled, thawing somewhat. "I find Paris most fascinating." She paused regarded him suspiciously again. "Are you a native? Do you know this district?"

"Yes. I am a habitu‚. Are you interested in the sights?"

"I heard there are some very wild clubs hidden here. I wonder ... could you guide me?"

"My pleasure, Madame ... I didn't quite catch the name."

"Excuse me," she said. "Gerda Trokmann. Miss Gerda Trokmann. I am a buyer for a department store in Straubing. That's a suburb of Munich." Her smile was venal, lewd somehow. "I am combining business with pleasure."

The fat man made his ridiculous bow. "Beni Zarabi," he introduced himself. "At your service. So charmed to meet you, Mademoiselle Trokmann. May I have the honor of sitting with you, perhaps buy you a drink?"

The woman smiled coyly, made room at her table. "You are very kind." Instantly her suspicions fled. After all, in broad view of everyone, on the street, and with this clown of a man, what harm could come to her?

It was the most stupid assumption the woman would ever make in her whole life.

The man who called himself Zarabi beckoned a waiter, ordered another Pernod for himself, moselle wine for Mile. Trokmann. "You are wise," he said drawing close, talking confidentially, "to ask for someone to guide you down here. You know, I hope, that you are in a very tough part of Paris? I know my way, I can show you the clubs you seek."

"I know about the district," she smiled peevishly. "Why do you think I came? I was looking for something different."

You will find something different, Sharkawi thought to himself, his eyes greedily appraising the woman. Something very different. Something that will change your life from this day forward. "Some wild dancing, perhaps? Some nude women? Nude men, even?"

Mile. Trokmann smiled in a salacious way. "We speak the same language, M. Zarabi. You can show me such places?"

"But don't you have such things in Germany?"

"Yes, we do. But I have been told they're better in Paris. I came to see for myself."

The waiter arrived then. It was as Sharkawi took the glasses from the tray, handed them to the table that he slipped the small, white pill into the wineglass. He engaged the woman's eyes, chattered about the impending vile safari until the pill dissolved.

Now he pushed her glass toward her, lifted his in toast. "To your bold adventure," he said.

The woman sipped her wine, made a wry face. "This wine, it's different. Stronger somehow."

Alarm registered in the man's eyes. "Shall I call the waiter? Complain? Sometimes a different bottle is opened...."

"No," she smiled. "This is fine. Don't make a fuss.

There, it tastes better now. Only at first it was bitter." She took another sip of her drink. "Tell me more about this one club, M. Zarabi. It sounds fascinating."

As they talked Sharkawi studied the woman intently, watched for the first signs of the drug's effect in her eyes. He was pleased to find that she was, at close range, more attractive than he'd thought. Her face was pretty enough, her blue eyes lustrous, her complexion clear and flawless. She was a blonde, about 26, had obviously been around. Her breasts were good, her legs were exceptional. If these were clues to the condition of her remaining female attributes-

Even more exciting was her smug, imperious manner when addressing him, looking at him. It was obvious she held him in low regard, as someone to be used, quickly discarded. This was the type of woman he prized most highly; they made the best victims, he derived an especially intense pleasure from humiliating their cocksure breed.

Sharkawi's hands trembled, he became more excited by the moment. A few minutes more now-

He saw the first traces of dullness in her eyes, he saw the way she shook her head to rout the sleepiness that possessed her all at once.

Then he was summoning the waiter, settling his bill. "Will you call a taxi for me, please? It seems my lady friend has become ill all of a sudden."

And minutes later, as he bundled the limp woman into the cab, no one bothered to look up, to question the quick flow of circumstances. But then this was Rue Lappe. A murder might have been committed in full view of the passing pedestrians and nobody would have winked an eye.

The cab driver winked at Sharkawi as he dropped him in the fetid, damp alley, said, "Have fun, Monsieur." For which broadmindedness Sharkawi tipped him an additional five francs. As he half carried, half dragged the lifeless figure deeper into the alley, raucous laughter, loud music came from the rowdy taverns on each side of the cavern.

Minutes later, topping the long flight of stairs, Sharkawi let himself into his messy lair, a large, three-roomed apartment located above one of those same taverns. There were no other tenants to hear him; the bar noises would drown out any sounds he might make.

Dropping the woman on the floor, he scuttled about the apartment, closing windows, drawing drapes, locking doors. Then, by the light of a dim lamp, looking down on the drugged Mile. Trokmann, he leisurely began to undress himself. He chuckled at the way her firm, youthful breasts rose and fell with her breathing.

For a long time after he'd undressed the girl, had muttered, exclaimed, made insulting remarks as each pink, lacy article of lingerie had been torn off her, he knelt over her, studying her, his hands abusing her outrageously, turning her, arranging her legs in suggestive positions.

He went to get something to drink.

When the German adventuress first drifted up from her torpor, she had the distinct sensation that the was suffocating. She gagged, forced her eyes open, tried to force the choking thing from her mouth. She focused her vision, stared up at the man sitting in the chair above her, felt her heart constrict as she heard his fiendish snort of laughter.

She struggled, was appalled to find herself flat on her back on the floor, totally nude. Even more sickening-she realized that the thing in her mouth, the thing gagging her, was nothing less than his right foot! And if this wasn't bad enough, she railed as she tried to turn her head, only had the foot pin her face more cruelly, she found that his other foot was pinning her elsewhere, was partly wedged there, hurt her terribly.

"So, my dear Gerda," he snuffled, "you finally woke up, did you? How do you feel? Woozy? That will only last a few hours. Then you will be all right. But in the meantime ... we will have a little fun." He jammed his foot harder into her mouth. "There, how's that? You like that, don't you? It's good to be treated like an animal, isn't it?" He said more, disgusting things, he delighted in forcing this rotten humiliation upon her. But the woman didn't hear them all. She fainted once more.

When she awoke next she was still on the floor, still performing the horrid subservience with his feet. First one, then the other. And though she fought to gather strength, to force those extremities away from her, she found she was limp as a rag. And though her head was clear at rare moments, her muscular control was gone. "Good," he was prompting now. "They're good, aren't they? You love them?"

She moved her head feebly, didn't answer. But when his foot slammed down on her neck, cut off her wind completely, terror flooded her, she knew she was in the hands of a madman, that if she had any hope of ever leaving this snake-pit alive-

"Good," she mumbled, her voice coming from miles away, "they're good, very good."

"You want more?"

"More," she choked. "Please give me more."

She swooned again, the pain eviscerating, as he jammed his feet more savagely into her mouth. Elsewhere besides.

When she awoke next she found herself on a bed, the man almost squatting on her chest, his hands abusing her nipples. Again she was choking, she couldn't talk for the unique gag that was stuffed into her mouth.

"More?" he crooned, swaying and jutting his body at her. "You want more?"

Again, when she hesitated, he became even more cruel, he rocked his body forward with sadistic intent. She thought she'd die from the pain.

"More," she gasped when he let her talk. "Please, more."

This time she was grateful when she sank into that sulphurous trance. These were things she didn't want to remember. Never again, so long as she lived.

She fought against consciousness, was wild to scramble back into that murky void. But it was impossible. She. kept surfacing, was sickened to her soul to find the man still sitting on her, still reviling her, taunting her, making her repeat the insane refrain of depravity.

He made her get over him later, kiss him everywhere. He extorted other, indescribable servilities from her also.

Then she was on the floor, on all fours, he was fastening a dog collar about her neck, he was snapping a leash to it. "Come, puppy," he mocked. "My little witch. We'll go for a little walk."

He kicked her when she balked, he slapped her upraised buttocks with gleeful cruelty, he seemed to derive tremendous satisfaction from watching her crawl on all fours throughout his apartment, he forced her to bark, to whimper, to parody a dog in other ways. When she didn't comply there was terrible punishment. With his hand, with the leash, with his feet.

Again and again he stopped, made her grovel and curl at his feet, made her kiss and lick his feet. "Good little puppy."

Then she fell, the blackness came down anew.

She awoke on the bed, found him crouched between her knees, his eyes greedy, his ardor aroused, waiting. His eyes were fanatic, evil. She moaned, fell back, made one more attempt to escape. But she had scarcely any of her original strength left.

She submitted, felt scalding pain as he took her in a crude, pile-driver manner, as his immense weight dropped and rose, dropped and rose. She squealed, fought for breath, prayed that the blessed daze should take her again. So she wouldn't remember this.

She prayed harder later. As, his initial vilification finished, he forced her to tend to him anew, revitalize him in that so vile way. This she didn't want to remember!

As she didn't want to remember the way he flung her away from him when she was successful with her efforts. The way he rolled her onto her face, spread-eagled her, bound her ankles and wrists with leather straps that, seemingly, were permanently attached to the four posts of the bed.

She screamed, had strength enough to fight at the last. As he tied the cloth gag between her teeth. Only it was too late now. She was beyond salvation by then.

Now the madman took a heavy belt, began to lash her back, her buttocks, her legs with it. His eyes were deranged now, he moved in a secret, sadist's world all his own.

How inordinately sadistic Gerda Trokmann was soon to learn. As, the cruelty reviving him even more than she had, he advanced on the bed, fell upon her bleeding, slashed form. "You will like this," he chanted in an eerie tone. "You will like this very much...."

But Gerda didn't like what came next. If ever she came close to dying, if ever her heart nearly burst from pain-

She screamed into her gag, fought with all her remaining strength. But there was no exit, no surcease of the maddening pain. No exit except one.

Mile. Trokmann seized upon that.

She embraced the blessed sanctuary of unconsciousness.

When she awoke she was in an alley. Not the same alley to which she'd been brought, but one perhaps 200 feet over. But for all she knew-having been unconscious upon her arrival at Sharkawi's in the first place-it might as well have been 200 miles away. She fought to rise, to understand what had happened to her. But the pain, the acute sense of degradation, was too great, it bore down upon her like a hundred-ton weight.

She was dressed, she had her coat, her shoes, her purse. But instinctively she knew her underwear was missing. The pervert monster had kept her lingerie for a souvenir.

She smelled the rotten stench of the gutter in her nostrils, tried to rise. Then her outrage, her sense of helplessness defeated her. She began to sob rackingly.

And yet she was cautious, she stifled her cries as best she could. For should anyone hear her, come find her like this, start asking questions-

No, that would never do.

She would lie still, regain her strength. And perhaps, in a little while, she would be strong enough to get up, to walk. She would find her way back to her hotel, sneak in quietly so Elsa wouldn't hear her. Elsa, no one would ever know about this. She'd die if anyone knew of her subhuman vilification.

She cursed and sobbed. Won't I ever be strong enough to get up? God, dear God-