Chapter 7
John Jemson found his newspaper beside his plate, along with a steaming cup of coffee, the way Myra had learned to prepare it every morning. She had been hard to train, but he had done it, with patience and touches of refined cruelty.
"Isn't this coffee a trifle weak?" he inquired, sitting down at the breakfast table across from Myra.
His wife looked up, shadows flickering in her blue eyes. She was in her thirties, but she looked faded, wan, pale, spiritless. He liked this in her. When a woman married, she was no longer a woman, she was a wife. There was a difference in John Jemson's mind. She said, "I made it the way I do every morning, John dear."
He shrugged, pushing it away. "Maybe that's what's wrong."
Covertly, he saw that her eyes brimmed with tears. She jumped up, took the cup and hurried to the kitchen with it, Jemson sighed, pleased, because this was actually what he had hoped to accomplish. He wanted her in the kitchen while he read the paper.
He yawned almost helplessly. He'd been out late last night; he wasn't sure at what hour he had gotten in some time before his alarm screeched, that was all he knew for sure. The girl he had been with was a lovely little thing, so cooperative, willing, eager and grateful.
That was the ideal personality for a woman. He liked women with open minds and round heels.
Myra returned from the kitchen. He concentrated on his newspaper. He read about a young drug salesman, Bradford Livingston, charged with the statutory rape of a seventeen-year-old girl.
John shook his head, reading the news story with more than mild interest. He didn't blame a man for wanting that young stuff. He himself often had the urge, and this was why he had a rule; he never hired girls at the mortgage and loan company who were under the age of consent. You got more used merchandise, but at least you didn't get arrested for rape, statutory rape, which meant you went to prison even though the girl may have been willing and eager.
He shivered.
"What's the matter, John?" Myra watched him narrowly, never taking her hawk eyes off him.
John flung his head up angrily. He said, "Nothing is wrong, Myra. Where is my coffee?"
"It's not ready yet, dear. I only saw that you looked troubled. Did something worry you? You work so hard."
"Now, don't start that, Myra."
"Start what, dear?"
He laid down his newspaper, exasperated. "Look, Myra. You don't fool me after all these years. I've been married to you too long and that's the truth! I know you too well. You start off as if you're concerned over my welfare, but you're headed in only one direction: where was I last night? Whom was I with? Well, it's just as I told you yesterday, I was working."
"Until after three a.m., John?"
"No. As a matter-of-fact, I went out with a couple of guys and we got to drinking. I've explained to you, Myra in my job I can't punch a clock in this house. I'll get here when I can."
"I didn't mind so much when you were young the way you chased every woman you saw. Some of them were so ugly! They were not nearly as pretty as I was, but you wanted them. I thought you would cool off, calm down, and that we could grow older together gracefully."
"My God! I'm just forty years old! I'm not ready to become senile yet, gracefully, or any other way. If you want to grow old, you do it, but stop nagging at me. I'm a young man, Myra, still young, and I've got a lot of living to do."
"That's just it, John. I want to live, too, but you won't let me. You keep me miserable, sick, wondering which one of those girls you're chasing after! You think I don't see the contempt in their faces when they look at me whenever I come into your office?"
"If you think that, then I suggest you stay away from my office."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you, John? You'd never have to see me at all, except a few moments like this at breakfast, and the rest of the day you could chase your women."
"Myra, that's all your imagination. I've told you a hundred times, in my position as personnel director of National Mortgage and Loan, I do have to deal with women, some of them young, some quite pretty but all of it completely a matter of business. I won't have you carrying on like a shrew because I happen to do my job well."
"You chase them, John! Don't lie to me! You take them out to lunch, to dinner. You spend most of the night with them!"
"Shut up, Myra. You're sick!"
"I am sick And you make me sick. I'm sick of sitting around here crying because you're no good. Don't you think I'd like to go out to some nice place for lunch, or dinner, or to a show? Do you think I like staying home alone like this?"
"Then go out! Go anywhere you like!"
"Alone, John? I want to go out with you. You are my husband, you owe me something."
"I don't owe you anything except what I give you. You have this house, and it cost me plenty."
"It's like a jail a cold, empty place."
"It's what you make it!"
"No. It's what you make it, John. You are wrong. You make a mockery of marriage. You expect me to be a slave, and to keep my mouth shut no matter what you do."
"I don't want you to be a slave, but I do expect you to keep your mouth shut if you can't do anything but mouth these insane accusations." He threw the paper down on the floor and stood up.
She jumped up. "John. What's the matter?"
"I think you know what's the matter, my dear. I'm getting out of here. I'll come back when you can show some restraint, when you no longer scream these baseless accusations at me. In the meantime, I suggest you learn some self-control."
He stared at her a moment and then turned on his heel, striding out.
She cried, "John, you're not going without your coffee ... "
"Shove the coffee, woman. I couldn't keep it on my stomach, after the way you've behaved here this morning."
She ran after him and caught his arm. "Oh, John, don't. It's just that I want you to be a decent husband!"
John backhanded her across the face. She toppled backward and then sprawled out on the floor. Her negligee parted, but he glanced at her with cold disinterest.
He spoke icily. "I am a decent husband. It's you who are a shrew and a witch. No wonder I don't want to come home at night. You scream lies at me, you nag...."
"If I do, you made me that way," she sobbed. "Oh, John, why can't you love me, or let me go?"
"Go," he said. "You can go any time you like, but just remember you won't get one cent from me. You'd need proof about these affairs of mine in order to divorce me and you know you can't get it, Myra, because you know it's all in your head!"
John went into the Pirate Room of the Parliament House Hotel across from the ten-story National Mortgage and Loan building. In the dimly-lit sumptuousness of the dining room, he ordered a breakfast steak, eggs and coffee. He sat and ate quietly, watching the women who entered, cataloguing them in his mind.
He had made a study of women. He was a psychologist with a master's degree and he had made a private inquiry into the minds and habits of women. He had learned that most of them fit a fairly ordinary pattern, differing in nonessentials such as personality traits, emotionalism, self-interest.
John smiled, thinking that you studied a woman carefully in order to determine, first, what sort of treasure she had locked up inside her. Was it worth the effort? If you determined that it was, that it would be rewarding to conquer her will and her body, to subdue her, you then searched for the key that would unlock her to you. There was always a key. What was she like? Emotional, immature, selfish, ambitious, strong-willed? Her personality offered the key to opening her up to you. You traded on what she wanted most. Few of them resisted this approach.
His smile widened. He had proved this over the years.
"What are you grinning about?"
John looked up and found Nathan Collins standing beside his chair. A graying man in his earliest fifties, Collins was one of the executive vice presidents of the mortgage firm. There was little about loans and banking and interest that Collins didn't know. But on one subject, Collins envied and admired the assistant vice president in charge of personnel: John Jemson knew how to get the pliable young chicks.
"Sit down," John invited Collins.
The tall slender man shook his head. "I've got to get to work. I've other things to worry about than whether I'll hire two blondes or two brunettes today."
John smiled easily. "Put in your order and I'll find a girl to fill it for you."
Collins shook his head. "Sure you would. And you'd use her yourself before you ever turned her over to me."
John grinned. "The fortunes of war. Nat."
Nat Collins laughed. "Those fortunes of war are going to catch up with you one of these days, Johnny. Myra is going to catch you with one of these chicks, and she'll take everything you've got."
"I'm not worried. She doesn't know how to start to check up on me."
"She'll get smart enough to hire a private detective, and then varroom! The end of old Johnny the harem-keeper!"
John laughed and shook his head. "She'll never do it. Not Myra. If she were that smart, we'd never have stayed married this long."
John walked into his office at the personnel section on the fifth floor of the Mortgage building. He was the only male employed in the entire department.
He smiled, pleased at what he saw when he entered the outer area. Some of the other departments had women who'd been employed for what they knew about finance, banking, auto loans, computers. But each girl or woman in his arena had been carefully chosen, hand picked for some delightful development of bust, thigh, ankle, or face.
He went into his inner office, walked around his desk and sat down, seeing the mail that had been placed before him for his attention. He sighed, thinking there were still a few of the women working in his own department whom he had not yet tested on a mattress, but these females knew they were expendable. Their jobs had less than total security. He gave them all time. They either came around, or they departed and were replaced.
He tilted his head, warm with the power it gave him to know that at almost any hour of the day, one of those women would come in here, close his door and practically plead with him to take her out some evening, a night that would end with his going to bed with her. If she pleased him after the trial run, he would continue to see her until she palled on him, or tired him, or started making demands.
He saw nothing wrong with this.
He had one scruple which he kept inside his own mind and never mentioned to anyone. He did not fire a girl after she had come to him. Even if she were less than exciting for him and he did not want even a repeat performance, her job was then secure, unless she fouled up in some way that had nothing to do with her relations with him.
What could be fairer than that?
Those girls could have job security. They could obtain it pleasantly enough. They were nice to him, he protected them in their jobs. It was that easy.
His private secretary opened his door and stood, her breasts silhouetted against the morning light behind her. She said. "There's a job applicant here that I thought you would want to interview personally."
He smiled at her, knowing she screened out the dogs. She was worth every cent he had been able get for her in yearly salary adjustments. "Thank you, Martha. Send her in."
He nodded, well pleased when the new girl came through the door She was a honey-blonde with the scrubbed fresh look that he fancied. Her breasts were magnificent, high-rising and full. A deep hunger stirred in him at the sight of them.
He stood up, looking at the curve of her hips, the supple lines of upper leg, calf and ankle. Altogether she was delightful. She looked as if she might be a trifle young. After reading about the statutory rape case in the newspaper this morning, he knew he was not about to take any chances on age, no matter how delicious and appealing the fruit appeared.
"Hello, my dear. Sit down, won't you?" He motioned to a chair beside his desk. She sat down and crossed her knees. He sat a moment, distracted by the dimples thus revealed through her sheer stockings. "What is your name, my dear?"
"Carol Hill," she said. She handed him the application she had filled out while waiting for her interview. The first thing he checked was her age. She had written down that she was twenty. He exhaled in a small sigh of relief.
"You're a stenographer, eh, Carol?"
"Yes. I can type seventy words a minute, almost error-free."
"I'm sure you can. Where have you worked? I know it's on your application, but we like to know our people here, eh? We want to be friendly." He winked at her. "It would certainly be a pleasure being friendly with you."
"Thank you," Carol said.
He frowned, seeing that she did not smile. But one thing pleased him. She did not quite lift her eyes to meet his. This was reassuring. She was not bold or forward. She might turn out to be quite pliable.
"References?" he asked.
"I've written to the company where I worked before."
"That will be fine. We can certainly hold a minor matter like that in abeyance, Carol, for a lovely young girl like you. The important thing is to see if we can't get you placed. Right?"
"That would be very kind of you."
"Oh, I want to be kind," he said. He laughed and patted her hand. "I think you're the sort of girl who would be grateful for kindness, eh, Carol?"
"Yes. I guess so."
"It's good if we understand each other," he said. "Now, my secretary has noted here that you've passed the screening tests in typing and shorthand. There remains only the matter of personality. How you will fit in to be part of our big family here. You understand?"
Carol looked at him, waiting.
"It's like this, Carol. We want our people to get along in harmony, without personality clashes. I don't think there will be any difficulty with you. But I might have to spend a little time with you maybe even after office hours some evening talking to you at first. What would you think about that?"
"If it has to be done."
"You don't sound very excited about the prospect."
Her head came up. "Should I?"
He laughed. "Well, my dear. I'm a psychologist and a business major. An assistant vice president in this company. If I can take the time to get to know you a little better...."
"Why, that would be fine," Carol said, and this time she forced a smile.
John nodded. "Well, we're going to give you an opportunity. It so happens we have an immediate opening, and you may have it at least until we see how you work out, eh? I'll keep in close contact with you for the first few weeks. We'll see. That all right with you."
Carol stood up and he caught his breath at the pert loveliness of her, the fresh complexion, the beauty of her eyes, the fullness of those lips, and that gorgeous body that set him trembling inside. He'd get to know this one well!
When Carol was gone out of his office, he sat smiling a moment, then he dialed Nat Collins on the private line.
"Nat. John Jemson. Remember you were finding fault that I never sent you the lookers? Well, I've got one down here for you today. A honey-blonde. Built like blue chip stocks. I thought about you right away, Nat. I want you to remember I'll do things for you, any time I can."
"If she's that good, why didn't you keep her yourself the way you usually do?"
"Nat! Is that nice? I told you, you wounded me at breakfast this morning. I'm trying to do something nice for you. Now, I'm sending her up to your steno pool. That's all I can do. The rest is up to you. From here on out, it's every man for himself."
"Oh, I see. You're going after her yourself?"
"I sent her up to you, Nat. You call her in, look her over. You'll see what a favor I did you. But I can't promise that I'm not human. I can't keep my hands off indefinitely. I'm giving you all the breaks. She's right up there where you can make your pitch, so do your best." He laughed. "At that, I'll bet you ten to one I'm in her pants before you are!"
Carol returned from Nat Collins's office and sat down at her desk.
She sighed. She had never been ogled the way she had been in that man's office. He had appeared so distinguished, in his fifties, at least, but he was like a schoolboy admiring her. And he'd stumbled in his dictation, as if he could not keep his mind on his work.
She shivered, despising him. She had hated the personnel man, too, seeing at once that he was on the make for her. This place was no different from anywhere else; all of the men were alike, all of them on the make.
"What's the matter, hon?" The dark-haired girl at the next desk smiled at Carol. She said her name was Dolly, and then she asked, "What do you think of Mr. Collins?"
"Yuk," Carol said. "He acted as if he had never seen a woman before."
Dolly frowned. "Why, I can't understand that. He's the very nicest boss in the place. Ask anybody. You're lucky to be up here. He's so distinguished and business-like. And he's good to us, too. Just be thankful you didn't have to stay down in personnel with old octopus!"
"Octopus?"
"Sure. That's what all the girls call Old Jemson. He thinks he's God's answer to starving females. He's after all of them. That poor wife of his, she's so jealous that she stays sick all the time. You ought to see her when she comes in here. She looks at all of us, hating us en masse because she doesn't know which one of us might have been out with him last night, or the night before. It would be funny, except she's so sad and so dumb for staying with him."
"Why does she?"
"Because she hasn't got sense enough to catch him with some dame and take him for everything he's got. Sometimes I think somebody ought to tell her how and when. But that's not your worry. Just keep out of Jemson's reach, that's all. If he decides he wants you, and you won't go out with him and go to bed with him, he'll get you fired. You just ask any of the girls. They'll tell you. Stay out of his sight that's the only way to get along without giving in to him."
John Jemson looked up and smiled when Carol entered his office at four-thirty that afternoon. She looked at his smile and she hated him as if he were Herb or Mort. She shivered, remembering Brad and what she had done to him. She would not feel sorry for him. He had had her just as Herb and Mort had and he had paid for it, just as all men would from now on.
She shook the thought of Brad out of her mind.
"How did you like your first day here?" she heard Jemson asking.
"It was very nice," she said. "I think I'll like it here."
"Yes. Well, that's what I thought maybe we might discuss."
Carol frowned. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing serious, my dear. Nothing that we can't straighten out. You and I, between us if you're willing to cooperate."
"What is it?"
"Well, my dear, we have a reply from our call to your last employer. They were very high in praise of your work; however, there was one other point that distresses me a little as it worried them. They were astonished to hear that you were in Bluetown. It seems that you simply walked off your job with them, without any prior notice."
"It was an emergency," Carol said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have done it."
"Yes. Well, I thought perhaps such an emergency, or a personality disorder, or an emotional problem, called for a closer scrutiny. T wondered if we might not have dinner together and discuss it purely as a favor to you, of course."
Carol bit her lip "I'm sorry, I can't have dinner with you, Mr. Jemson."
"Well, that's up to you. However, we take a dim view of ... "
"I might meet you after dinner, though, so we could discuss anything you cared to."
"That's better. Yes. Well, I believe that I might be able to get away for an hour or so. We'd need some place where we could talk privately. What about your place?"
"I'm living at the Regency Hotel at the moment," she said.
"The Regency? Well, if you wish, I could come up there to your room about eight, perhaps? We've a great deal to discuss, for your own welfare, my dear. As a psychologist, I'm sure I can help you."
"That will be very kind of you," she said.
She left the mortgage and loan building at five, walked along the crowded main street, and turned into the lobby of the Regency Hotel. She had moved there from the family hotel where Brad had installed her upon her arrival in Bluetown. She hated the place after she'd decided to have Brad arrested for rape. It was filled with tormenting memories and ugly recriminations for her.
In the lobby of the Regency she saw men put aside newspapers or magazines to ogle her as she passed. Their gazes seemed to crawl across her breasts, over her hip, along the lines of her legs. But this only strengthened her resolve, chilled the hatred that raged in her toward all men.
She stepped into a phone booth and closed the door. She checked the number she had written on a slip of paper. Drawing a deep breath, she dialed the number, heard a woman's eager voice answer:
"Yes? Hello."
"Is this Mrs. John Jemson?" Carol said. "Mrs. Myra Jemson?"
"Yes. What do you want?"
Carol tipped at her lips with her tongue. "I have some information for you, Mrs. Jemson. Tell me, is your husband at home?"
"Who are you?"
"You don't know me, Mrs. Jemson, but I may be the best friend you'll ever have. Tell me, please, is your husband at home?"
"What business is that of yours, young woman?"
"What business is it of yours, Mrs. Jemson? I know he's not there, and I know that he won't be later tonight."
"What are you talking about? Who is this?"
"Never mind who I am. You suspect your husband, but you can't prove what you suspect. I can help you prove what you believe."
There was a breathless silence. After a moment, Myra said, "What do you mean?"
"I mean if you want to catch your husband with another woman, why don't you bring a couple of witnesses, and arrive at Room 421, Regency Hotel about nine o'clock tonight?"
There was no answer. At first Carol was afraid that Myra Jemson had fainted. But after a long time she heard the click as the receiver was replaced.
Carol wore a nearly transparent white blouse and a sheer bra that night. Her skirt was tight across her hips and she did not bother putting on stockings. She looked at herself in the mirror and, though she appeared pale. He knew her beauty would please John Jemsen. He would not notice her pallor.
He arrived promptly at eight, and he barely noticed what she was wearing. She realized he had been drinking pretty steadily since he left his office and he wasted no time, but started pawing her as soon as he walked in and saw they were in a bedroom with no place to sit except one straight chair or the mattress.
Drawing a deep breath, Carol resigned herself to his man-handling and she did nothing to discourage him.
He lacked any finesse, but she saw that this was because he'd had one martini too many. His eyes were glazed and his breath was hot against her cheek. His trembling hands toyed with her breasts and she found herself remembering the way Brad had loved her, recalling the wonder of his caresses despite herself.
She had to bite back her tears, but she knew all she had to do was foul up with Jemson and he would get out of here before she was ready to have him leave.
"Honey," he said, "You feel even better than you looked, and I didn't think that was possible."
"I'm glad you're pleased, Mr. Jemson," she said.
He laughed and drew her into his arms, kissing her. "Come on now. You got to start right by calling me Johnny."
"Oh, Johnny," she said, laughing. "How you can love!"
He drew her harder against him. "And you haven't seen nothing' yet, honey."
"Maybe I've got some surprises in store for you, too, sweetie," she said.
He drew her down on the bed beside him. He wanted to move slowly, to savor each delicacy of this flesh-feast, but he was too hungry for her to wait. He was far too anxious to take his time. She let him unbutton the fragile blouse and allowed him to slip his hand between her blouse and allowed him to slip his hand between her shoulder blades and loosen the bra-hooks there.
She responded to him with a simulated passion that he did not recognize as completely phony, despite all his degrees in psychology and long experience with women. She breathed loudly, lying back while he drew away the thin wrappings of her blouse and bra.
When she lay before him, nude to her navel, he put his hands on her, his breath frantic. "I tell you true, baby," he said. "I've got to say this. I've had other women but there was never another as lovely as you are. You get me so excited, I don't know if I can enjoy it."
"Why not?"
"Haven't you ever wanted anything so bad that you couldn't wait to get it?"
She closed her eyes so he could not see inside them. She was thinking that all this that he suggested had been denied to her by men like him. But she did not say so. Instead, she pressed closer, wriggling under his hands so her breasts quivered in his palms. "That's the way you make me feel now, Johnny honey," she lied.
"Oh, baby, I hope I can wait," he whispered.
"You've got to, she thought. She moved over on the bed against him. She unbuttoned his shirt and loosened his tie. His chest was matted with hair and she scratched her fingers through it, tickling him lightly until he shivered in reactions.
He sat up, leaning against the head of the bed, staring at her lovely breasts while she undressed him, removing his clothing slowly, tantalizingly. He wanted to hurry her, but the delay was exquisite torture.
When he was undressed, wearing only a pair of white shorts, the soft life he lived showing in the relaxed belly muscles and the sag of chest muscles, she removed her own skirt and panties, kicking off her shoes.
"Do you want me?" she asked.
He didn't speak. His eyes trailed across her, almost seeming to bleed in their terrible need for her. She motioned him toward her, smiling, and lay down on the bed. He was rigid now, and breathless with lust. She reached down and held him and he sobbed out in his excitement, his whole body shaking. She was afraid he was not going to be able to wait at all. She saw that he did not even notice that she was without desire for him. She played her part so well that he was on fire now, past the point of waiting for anything; and he threw himself upon her, grunting loud, in a frantic driving of passion.
She stayed there under him and closed her eyes while he moaned aloud at her loveliness, at the wonder of her. But then he was gasping and working wildly, unable to control himself. Soon he fell away from her, and for the moment at least, it was all over for him.
She stared at his flabby body sprawled out before her there. She checked her alarm clock. It was not nine o'clock yet, but he was too exhausted to go anywhere for a while yet.
He lay on his back with his eyes closed, his arms out at his sides, and he was panting loudly.
She let him rest for some moments, until she was afraid he might become restive or sober up slightly. She got up on her hands and knees, dangling her breasts like tempting clusters of grapes above his face.
He gasped aloud and took a breast in his mouth, kissing her greedily.
She whispered over his face. "You want me to do something special for you, Johnny?"
"Yes, yes!" he gasped.
"I want to make you all excited again."
He nodded but he could not say anything. She kissed his mouth, and moved her lips downward along his throat to his chest muscles. He lay on his back, making encouraging whimpering sounds. She stroked her hand over his chest, down over the flabby muscles of his stomach and touched him, moving her hand faster. She felt his heart pounding swiftly against her face.
She had one agonizing thought as she drove him wild--was she never to feel the sweet pain of embraces like this? She wanted a man whom she could love, who would drive her wild, but she knew there were only the Johnny Jemsons in this world.
She brought his lust to a fiery pitch again. He was stirring, struggling to life on the bed, when suddenly the door was thrown open.
Carol heard Johnny cry out.
He jumped up. thinking at first it was the hotel detective. Then he saw his wife. He roared her name. "Myra! What the hell are you doing here?" He was ready to lunge at her to drive her away, when the flash bulbs popping told him the scene was being photographed, and the cold look in the second witness's face confirmed his worst fears Myra had gotten herself a divorce lawyer.
He sagged onto the bed, whimpering, seeing in that moment the ruin that cascaded around his head, taking everything he now possessed with it.
"How?" he whispered mindlessly. "How?"
Carol waited until the flash bulbs stopped popping and then she reached out and covered herself with a sheet. She heard Myra raging at John Jemson. but she could not feel pity for him. She could not help thinking that Mort had been repaid a little, after all. And Herb.
Every man who touched her would pay for what they had done to her!