Chapter 11
I didn't bother setting an alarm, and the next morning I overslept. I permitted the luxury, since I'd put in a pretty full day's work the day before-if you can call checking birthmarks work. I opened my eyes, stretched, and stared at the ceiling. I switched on the light and looked at the clock: eleven-thirty.
I'd apparently been too exhausted to dream, which was a good thing. I had to conserve my energies for the last lap in my race against time, the Mafia, and Carol Rutledge. I was pleased that I was so close to my goal. Once this thing was settled, I could get down in earnest to courting Naomi the way a girl should be courted.
A knock came at the door, interrupting my thoughts.
"Come in," I said.
The door opened, and Annette cautiously poked her head in. "Monsieur is decent?" she asked.
I had to grin at that, considering what had happened between us the previous night. Possibly she was shy when the lights were on. In the dark, however, she was bold, even inventive. But I remembered she didn't want anyone to know, so I played it straight.
"Yes, Annette," I told her. "Monsieur is decent."
Satisfied, she came into the room but left the door open. "I was wondering if Monsieur would like to attend lunch with the ladies?."
I hadn't noticed it before, but my stomach seemed unusually empty. "Yes, I would."
I tossed aside the covers, got up and went to close the door. Annette looked at me, wonderingly.
About last night, Annette-" I began.
"Last night, Monsieur?"
"It's okay, no one can hear us. I just wanted to assure you that no one will know about it."
She cocked her head at me, he pretty features screwed into a quizzical look. "Know about what, Monsieur."
"Okay, if you want to play it safe," I said. "I just wanted you to know I wouldn't tell anyone about us."
She hesitated. "Monsieur has been drinking, perhaps?" she suggested.
"Of course not!" I said, getting a little annoyed with her insistence. "I'm sorry for snapping at you. Annette. Forgive me. But you were so wonderful last night-"
I reached to touch her, and she shrank away. "Oh, monsieur!" she said.
I paused, puzzled without knowing why. It was the same line she'd used the previous night, except it was different-different in more ways than the mood of the expression.
"Say that again," I told her.
She stared at me, uncomprehending.
"You said you wanted to be an actress. Let's see you say 'Oh, monsieur' as though you're in my arms and we're making love."
She hesitated briefly, then half-lidded her eyes, pursed her lips and said, "Oh, monsieur!"
"Annette, be frank with me. Were you in my room with me last night? Did we make love?"
She shook her head. "But no, monsieur. I have a fiance in Paris, a very terribly jealous man. If he thought I even looked at another man, he would go into a rage."
"I see," I said slowly. "Do me a favor and don't mention it to anyone, will you?"
She nodded, went to the door. "Will monsieur go down for lunch?"
"Yes," I said, absent-mindedly.
She went out and closed the door behind her. I sat down on the edge of the bed and considered this new development. Annette had no reason to lie to me, even if she were ashamed of what she'd done and regretted the action. Someone had come into my room the previous night, pretending to be Annette. I fell for the French accent, especially with the distraction of her being so close. And of course, she didn't want the lights turned on-because then I could see it was not Annette.
But then the problem was, who was it? The answer seemed more obvious than I liked to think. The im-poster had probably been Carol Rutledge. I'd held her in my arms and made love to her and never thought of looking for a birthmark or turning on the lights to see who it really was.
She'd said she would see me again, though. Possibly for a return match, in which she could pump me for information-or perhaps even to kill me, if she thought that might be necessary. If I hadn't mentioned it to Annette, I'd be defenseless against Carol; you don't ordinarily expect death at the hands of your love-partner.
I put on a bathrobe and went down the corridor to the bathroom, where I shaved, when the door opened and Miss Charlotte Rice came in. She saw me and stopped, her eyes widening. It was probably her first sight of a man without any clothing on. I was too startled to pick up the towel, and by that time the action would have been anti-climatical.
She uttered an "oh!" and turned, slamming the door behind her. Her feet made rapid sounds up the corridor.
I imagined I would get a lecture on door-locking, but the prospect failed to bother me. I finished toweling myself dry, put on the bathrobe and went back to my room to dress.
A few minutes later, I arrived at the dining room to find all the girls there. I glanced briefly at Miss Rice, who turned away from my gaze and actually seemed to blush at some memory.
Janet Hooper didn't give me a second look, but that didn't matter; the only thing we had in common was that we both liked girls. Eva Slater's smile was not too welcoming either, and I decided that maybe she thought I wasn't her type. The others, including Naomi's, were honest and warm and friendly; Christina's glistening smile also imparted a secret knowledge, an empathy between us, that no one else knew.
We ate and made idle conversation and all the time I wondered which one of the girls had visited me in the dark pretending to be Annette. I tried to recall details of the girl's features and body and hair-and failed. I had thought it was Annette, so I remembered her as Annette. But it was not, I was sure of it.
Assuming it had been Carol Rutledge, it must be one of the three girls I hadn't yet checked for the birthmark; Carmen Cervantes with the long black hair and the dark flashing eyes; Mary Ellen Cuthbert, the southern girl with the accent you could cut with a mint julep; Joanne Murray, the baby-faced creature who was trying to convince herself she was another Marilyn Monroe.
None of them seemed the type, but I remembered that Carol Rutledge was a capable actress; she'd proved that with her impersonation of Annette in my bedroom. She could also adopt another phony accent, or an artificial attitude, in addition to changing her appearances.
After lunch, Joanne Murray bounced up to me and wanted to know how about a game of ping-pong? I recalled what had happened at the last game we'd played, when her halter had fallen off under the stress and strain, and it was an inviting prospect. However, I had more pressing problems, so I told her maybe later, gave Naomi a reassuring nod and started for the library.
"Mr. Sly," a cold voice said behind me, and I paused while Charlotte Rice came up to me, her face grim. "May I suggest that hereafter when you're in the bathroom that you lock the door?"
"You certainly may, Miss Rice," I said. And since I was annoyed by her prudish attitude, I added: "And may I suggest that the human body, while not a thing of beauty in every case, is certainly nothing to be ashamed of. If you put on a bikini and joined the other girls by the pool, perhaps your mind would be a lot healthier too."
With that, I turned and walked away, leaving her to splutter indignantly. I closed the library doors behind me, and I realized that I'd made a mistake. This was not time to get the woman sore at me, not when I was so close to my goal. Now she would watch me like a hawk-eyed chaperone, perhaps even try to make trouble when I already had trouble enough. It was another incentive to get the job over with as soon as possible.
I sat on the edge of the desk, picked up the phone and dialed a number. I got Devlin's secretary on the phone and said, "This is Christopher Sly. I'd like to speak to your husband, please."
There was an uncertain pause and she said, "My what?"
"Isn't Oscar your husband?" I said.
"Not any more. I was his fifth wife, and sometimes he forgets we're not married any more."
"I see. By the way, I meant to ask whose Jaguar XKE that was parked out front when I was there. It's a beautiful body, and built for speed."
"It's mine," she said. "The car and I are alike in those respects-in case you're interested."
"I'm interested," I said automatically, and then I thought of Naomi and felt like a heel. I said, "But right now, I'd like to talk to Oscar, if I may."
"Just a second."
The line went silent for an instant, and then Oscar Devlin said, "How're things going, Sly?"
"Not bad."
"Keeping up the pace?"
"Yes," I told him. "I've got to get in touch with Dave. It's very important."
"Dave had to fly to New York, but he should be back tonight. Any message I can give him?"
"No. Just tell him to call me as soon as he gets in."
"Will do. Oh, Sly?"
"Yeah?"
"Keep it up."
"Keep what up?."
"The good work," he chuckled.
"Yeah," I said.
We hung up. One thing I wanted of Dave was protection for Naomi. The hood probably wasn't too happy that I'd given him a sore stomach, and he might come back looking for revenge. I didn't want anything to happen to Naomi because of me.
There was a sound behind me, and I turned to find Carmen Cervantes standing in the doorway. She was wearing a white low-cut blouse that showed the crevice between her breasts, a many-colored skirt that flared from her hips, and a pair of sandals. Her long black hair was pulled tightly along the side of her head and fastened in back, from which point it cascaded in an ebony stream down her back. A blood-red rose was bobby-pinned behind her left ear. She gave me a smile, and her dark eyes flashed.
"Hello," I said. It was an inadequate beginning, but all I could think of at the time.
She nodded acknowledgement and said, "Could I speak with you for a few minutes, Mr. Sly?"
"Of course, Carmen. Come in."
She came in, her skirt whirling, and closed the door. She hesitated, looked at the door, made a rapid decision, and locked it. I wondered what that was all about, but I didn't ask. I had the impression she was going to tell me. The thought went through my mind that she was Carol Rutledge and she was about to whip a derringer from her underclothing and shoot me, but I dismissed that thought because it was too unpleasant. More pleasant were the recollections of the hungry looks Carmen had given me on several occasions.
She put her hands on her hips and sauntered toward me. She stopped in front of me so that I had a view of her neckline and the deep vee starting above the material.
"Do you think I am pretty?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
This pleased her. She stepped back and cupped her breasts in her hands.
"And do you think I have nice breasts?"
"Yes," I said "At least, what I can see of them."
"I will show you more," she announced.
She took hold of the blouse and pulled it up over head, worked free of it and tossed it into a nearby chair. Her breasts were full and large, restrained by a black bra that showed an immense amount of cleavage. She reached in back of her for the fastening hooks, unsnapped them, and slipped the bra and straps from her breasts and shoulders.
The breasts did not fall. They stood out firmly, bronzed and beautiful.
"Do you like them?" she wanted to know.
I nodded eagerly. "Very nice," I said, wondering what was going to happen next.
"They are real, too," she said proudly.
"I'll bet they are," I said.
"Here, feel them if you don't believe me."
She grabbed my hands and pressed them to her. I felt them.
"Yes," I said, hoarsely. "Yes, they're real all right." I wasn't complaining, but I did wonder what had inspired this performance.
"Some girls sag when they don't have support," she said, "but not me. Even-" she hesitated, looked around the room, then whispered confidently, "even Christina, the Swedish girl, has this problem."
"Really," I said.
She nodded, then stepped back, "Legs?" she said. "How. are these for legs?"
She took the hem of her many-colored skirt and lifted it up high above her hips and the black panties she wore. Her legs were long and smooth and perfect.
I nodded. "Very nice," I managed.
"Here," she said, coming toward me, "feel how smooth the skin is."
I felt how smooth the skin was and admitted it. The room was suddenly getting very hot, and I held my breath as she stepped back again and pushed the skirt down over her hips and stepped out of it Then she walked around the room in her panties and slippers, her hands on her hips, her firm breasts jiggling, her perfect legs moving in almost a dance step. Then she stopped in front of me expectantly.
"What do you think?" she wanted to know.
I stared at that long hair, the deep eyes, the bare throat and shoulders and breasts, the hips covered with thin panties, the smooth tapering legs. I could feel my breathing becoming heavier, my heart moving at a greater speed.
"I think you're a very sexy girl, Carmen," I said honestly.
"Good," Carmen said eagerly. "Then, what are we waiting for?"
She hooked her thumbs into the elastic tops of her panties, pushed them down over hips and thighs and stepped out of them. Then, with an animal cry, she threw herself at me.
The maneuver surprised me, and we went down on the library floor in a tangle of arms and legs. I was glad she'd locked the door because Carmen's assault was much too overwhelming to be denied-if I'd thought of denying it, which I didn't. The business with the breasts and the prancing around had gotten me in the mood from which there was only one escape.
Her hands and fingers were frantically moving about my clothing, unbuttoning buttons, unzipping zippers, tugging at the belt, pulling at the shirt. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself infected with it.
She pulled me to her and rolled over on the floor, her breasts flattening under me. I placed my hands on her hips and pulled her toward me until it was impossible to get any closer. Her dark eyes were slitted with passion, her face esctatic, as she shivered with delightful sensations permeating her. Her arms circled my neck, holding me in a tight embrace, her breathing became as ragged as my own, our hearts staccatoed in unison, matching our movements.
Her teeth found my shoulder, bit savagely into it, and then a torrent of frantic Spanish flowed from her lips, as we were lifted on a roaring tide of passion that crescendoed to the highest peak of sensual excitement, exploded in fleshly breakers, and then ebbed slowly into the calm of the aftermath....
For a while we lay together on the soft carpeting of the library floor. It was minutes after I heard the sound that I became aware that someone was pounding on the library door.
"Mr. Sly," Charlotte Rice's voice came through, "are you in there?"
I motioned Carmen to be silent. "Yes," I said, "I'm busy right now."
"Is Carmen in there with you?" she asked.
"No, of course not," I told her.
Another female voice-Naomi's-came through the door. "I saw her upstairs just a few minutes ago."
Charlotte Rice grunted, but she moved away. Good old Naomi, I thought. I owed a lot to that girl.
I got up, helped Carmen to her feet. A light film of moisture was on her skin, making it glisten, and a few wisps of black hair made commas on her forehead.
"You'd better get your clothes on and leave before Rice comes back down."
She nodded, and began pulling on her clothes. "Do I get the part?"
I stared at her. "The what?"
"Don't be angry with her. Naomi told me why you are really here."
"She did?" I couldn't believe it.
Carmen pulled the black panties securely around her hips, started slipping her breasts into the bra. "She said you were a talent scout for a big producer, and I should be very nice to you and maybe you would give me a part in a picture." Her dark eyes flashed at me. "Did you like the way I was nice to you?"
"I certainly did, Carmen," I said, "and I was very much impressed with your talents. The very next time I have a part that will fit you, I'll think of you."
I was also impressed even more with Naomi's talents. She was a clever girl. She'd wanted to help me, and she had. Carmen didn't have the birthmark either.
"Hurry!" Naomi whispered through the door. "Rice is coming back down stairs!"
I opened the door and Naomi thrust her head through.
"No, but that narrows it to two: Mary Ellen Cuthbert and Joanne Murray. If the next one has the birthmark we'll know she's the one I'm 'after; if she doesn't, we'll know it's the other girl. Either way, I can't lose."
Carmen hurried over to us, stuffing her blouse into her skirt. Naomi hustled her out, calling over her shoulder, "Lock the door."
I locked the door again, went to the phone and dialed a number. At the other end it rang twice, there was a click, and an unenthusiastic female voice said, "The ti-yem is two-twelve-and forty seconds." I glanced at my watch, which was two minutes slow, but I didn't bother to correct it. I was listening to the ;angry, determined stomp of Miss Charlotte Rice coming across the large room, and the pounding on the poor that followed.
"Open the door," Miss Rice demanded. "I know you've got Carmen in there."
I placed the receiver on the desk and went to open the door. Charlotte Rice rushed in, her grey head swiveling suspiciously. '
"I told you I was making a very important call. Now please don't bother me."
I returned to the phone, placed it to my ear. "The ti-yem is two-twelve-exactly," the voice said. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the woman sniffing around the drapes and bending to look under the piano and the desk.
"All right," I said loudly into the phone, "call me back when you have the time."
I hung up and turned to face Charlotte Rice, who had given up the search.
"Now, what was it you wanted?" I asked innocently.
She smiled humorously, a showing of even teeth that was not intended to be friendly. "You're clever, Mr. Sly, but not clever enough." She was holding a blood-red rose idly in her hand, which I tried to ignore, "While you were supposed to be telephoning, I made a call of my own-to Majestic Studios, and more precisely, to Oscar Devlin's boss. He was very sympathetic. So sympathetic, in fact, that you are being replaced, effective when the new man arrives tomorrow morning!"
She turned toward the door, paused there. "I suggest you have your things packed so you'll be ready to leave without any delay."
I hardly ever have the desire to clobber a woman, but the thought occurred to me as Charlotte Rice swept triumphantly from the room. Defeated, I thought glumly, with victory so near.
The intercom buzzer sounded on the, phone. I picked it up, punched the button.
"Monsieur, this is Annette. There is a long-distance call for you on line four."
"Thanks," I said into the phone.
"Chris, this is Dave," a familiar voice said.
I thought I detected an unfamiliar note of panic in his voice.
"Yes, Dave, where are you? I've been trying to get In touch with you."
"I'm in New York. I've been doing some special pecking. Have you found what you were looking for?"
"Not quite. One more will decide it."
"Good, but there's something else you've got to know, Chris, but I can't tell you over the phone. I'm going to jet back to LA tonight. I'll meet you at your apartment-the other one-at eight o'clock. Be there, Chris, because it's literally a matter of life or death."
It was the inevitable question. "Whose?" I asked him.
He hesitated only briefly. "Yours," he said.