Chapter 11

The tall man in the light business suit walked toward the pink stucco building on the crest of a Hollywood street. At intervals he glanced quickly behind him.

No one.

There were patrol cars cruising about the area a few blocks away where Penny Bruce and Sally Rosson lived. But none here. He was sorry about the cars. He would have liked visiting Penny and finishing the job.

The bitch, he thought. Pretending to be so high, mighty and holy. He felt an irresistible desire to strangle her until that pretty face turned green. But there would be time enough when the police pulled out. There was no sense in sticking your neck in a noose. Meantime, there were a couple of other stuck-up bitches to take care of. Women who thought they were high and mighty. Who looked at him-or rather through him every night in that art class.

He glanced around him once more and walked up the front steps of a small house, tightened his grip on the briefcase, and rang the bell. The occupant took a long time to answer and he had to curb an impulse to run. The patrol cars were more than half a mile away, but they might be extending their radius. Or the police might decide to question anyone who fitted a certain description. Then the door was opened.

It was opened by a young woman of nineteen in a loose-fitting robe decorated with Egyptian hieroglyphics. Her long, black hair fell about her thin shoulders and her dark eyes were struggling to come fully awake. "Hello," she yawned.

"How do you do, Miss Harmon," he said affably. "I'm from the Bryan-Jennings Agency."

Her eyes came fully awake now.

"The advertising agency?" she asked excitedly. "Oh, come in, come in!"

He laughed sympathetically at her flurry of excitement and followed her into the dark, cool room that smelled of wine.

"I'm sorry the place looks so messy," she said. "We had a ball here last night. A lot of beat characters from Venice West. Like it was full of horses. Crunch, crunch, crunch! Everything seems to have been trampled."

She stopped to pick up some couch pillows from the floor. "I'm sorry, Mr.-what did you say your name was?"

"Harry Lane," he said. He leaned forward in his basket chair and watched her. The girl's robe had come open as she bent over and he could see that she was naked underneath. Her pear-shaped firm breasts protruded from her thin chest like two sculptured crests. Suddenly, as she moved to get another pillow, he caught a brief tantalizing glimpse of the rest of her. It made his temples throb painfully.

"Sorry, I'm not dressed," she said matter-of-factly. "Fact is, I didn't get to bed till four. Listen, let me give you a cup of coffee while I dress. Okay? Then we can talk. I didn't expect you this early."

"No, please, don't bother. I don't have too much time. I've got a lunch date with an editor of Vogue at Perino's in about half an hour."

The tall man crossed his long legs casually and smiled at her.

"Perino's?" Lois was impressed. Perino's was the most expensive place in town. "My God. I couldn't afford a pot of coffee in that place. That's worse than the Hilton."

He agreed, laughing.

The dark-haired girl drew her robe closer to her superb figure. "Well, I still feel funny talking to a man from Bryan in this getup. It looks like an Egyptian kimono."

"You don't sleep in that, do you? Not in California?" he said with a hint of teasing in his voice.

"Oh, never! Specially not in this heat. No, I sleep in the raw."

His dark eyes seemed to brighten. "Now maybe that might be a layout for us. We might do it if that long hair went a little further down than your navel."

"Yes," she said, laughing with him. "But not for McCall's. What kind of poses do you want?"

"Well, as a matter-of-fact, that's why I'm here. I want to work them out. Then go back and talk to the layout boys. You don't mind going through a few poses, do you? Just to give me an idea?"

"No," she said quickly. "Of course not. Only I expected you to come in a couple hours. I wanted to shower and make up, you know. Couldn't it wait till after your lunch? We'll have a lot of time then."

"Wish I could," he said regretfully, not taking his eyes away from the cleft of her breasts just above where the robe closed. "But I have to get back and kick this around in a session at the office." His voice softened as he went on. "I'd like you to get this job, Lois. And if you're good, there'll be others at $25 an hour."

Her eyes widened. "Twenty-five? I thought you said fifteen."

"For this one, but if you're good, we go up, and I think you'll be good. I'm the one to decide, anyhow."

"Twenty-five," she repeated. "That's wonderful. I can quit posing at that drafty Acme studio. God, that's wonderful. I almost wan': to kiss you, Mr. Lane, do you know that?"

He smiled appreciatively. "Harry, please."

He looked at his watch. "Well, better get started." He stared at her so strangely that her eyes fell to her robe. In her excitement, she had let her loose-fitting robe fall open again. The visitor was staring at the patches of white skin that were exposed.

She drew the robe closer, embarrassedly. "What would you like me to do first?" she asked, smiling.

"Take off that robe," he said agreeably.

"Take off my-" She stared at him. "I don't understand."

"Well, I'd like to see what your figure's like."

"But you've seen pictures of me. You told me so on the phone."

He shrugged. "Pictures don't tell all. They may have been taken years ago. I want to check for blemishes. These precision cameras we use show up a lot of faults, you know. I want to know all the touching up we might need."

"Touching up?" she said worriedly.

He smiled. "Take off the robe, dear." He turned his palms upward. "After all, you can't expect the buyer to buy without seeing the merchandise."

"I don't like to be called merchandise," Lois said, somewhat annoyed. The tall man's brutal self-assurance was beginning to irritate her, but she hesitated to offend him. The fee for the modeling job was too important.

She started to remove the robe and then remembered the windows. "I'd better pull down those blinds," she said.

"Sure. But hurry. I don't have much time." His voice was still pleasant but a note of petulance had crept into it. She moved quickly to the windows, lowered the blinds and then faced him. Without another word, she pulled her arms from the sleeves of the robe and let it fall to the floor at her feet.

He sucked in his breath sharply, not taking his eyes away. "My God, you're beautiful. I've never seen you like this. You look much more beautiful in daylight."

"In daylight?" she began, puzzled. "I don't understand. The photos you saw were all taken in natural light."

He was not listening. His eyes crawled hungrily over the firm white breasts, the sloping white belly, and the smooth, firm, tapering white thighs.

"You look like an odalisque by Matisse," he said reverently. "Please he on that couch. Yes, like that. My God, those beautiful breasts." For a moment he lost his power to speak. Then he went on softly, worshippingly, staring at the magnificent torso of the girl, sprawled now, long, lovely legs and curved back on a low couch. "You're exquisite dear," he continued. "You have what the French call fines attaches. Tiny wrists and ankles. But everything is in the right proportion. Everything."

"Can I get up now?" she asked. The visitor's intense manner and the way he devoured her with his eyes worried her.

"In a minute, dear. In a minute. I want to look at your lovely white skin a little longer. I hate looking at women's bodies at night, i hate them under artificial light. It changes the color of the sweet skin. I love a woman's white skin in daylight. Even in strong sunlight. Her flesh is twice as beautiful, twice as sensuous. I go out of my way always to look at a woman's body during the daytime. When the sun's high in the sky. That's when the light's best."

The man's hypnotic voice, the words he used were making her uneasy. He seemed to be talking to himself more than to her. "No wonder painters love to draw those breasts. They're absolutely marvelous. And those thighs. I love large full thighs on women. I remember a beautiful poem about thighs."

"We'd better get to the other poses." she interrupted. His ecstatic glances and the tremor in his voice were beginning to make her nervous. "Are these all for the soap ad now?"

"Don't rush me," he said petulantly. "I'll come to them in time." He reached forward and touched a spot on her right thigh. "Beauty mark. We can put some makeup on that. Lord, Lois, your skin is so smooth. It feels wonderfully cool. If we could only get that into the ad. But it's hard." He ran an exploratory finger from her hip to her toes on one leg, sliding his hand along lovingly down the pink flesh.

She shuddered involuntarily but said nothing. He had promised her two full weeks of work on the different ads. At the rate he would pay her, she could get a better car and fly home to Chicago to see her parents. She had heard that sometimes these men were coarse and demanded a "feel." She hoped he wouldn't try anything else. She would have to throw him out and the whole deal would be ruined.

He started another trajectory with his forefingers, slowly down the other leg. Suddenly the doorbell rang shrilly.

He stood up stiffly, glaring at her. She jumped up.

"Oh, my God, that's Mrs. Young. I forgot, we're having lunch." She leaped to the spot where her robe had fallen and hurriedly put it on.

"Who's Mrs. Young?" he said, annoyed at the interruption.

"A neighbor. She's bringing some roast pork and apple sauce."

"Tell her to go away," the man rasped. "I don't have much time."

The bell rang again. Three short rings.

"I can't," Lois said. "She has a key. If I don't answer, she'll enter. She feeds my Pekingese when I'm out of town."

"Tell her to go," the man insisted.

It was too late. They heard a key turn in the lock and a moment later the door swung open. A short, stocky woman in her middle thirties, wearing red slacks too small for her huge hips and a scarf around her head, entered. She carried a large covered tray. She stared at them.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, nonplussed. "I didn't mean to barge in ... I thought you were asleep."

"No," Lois said. "Mr. Lane's from the Bryan agency. He came early."

"Oh, I see," the woman said. Then her eyes noticed the blinds. She smiled. "Well, I guess I'd better be going, huh?"

"Well," Lois said uncomfortably. "Oh, Mr. Lane, this is Mrs. Young."

"Pleased to meet you," he said affably. "Sorry, we're so busy. Please do excuse us."

Mrs. Young was surprised at the tenseness in the man's voice. She nodded stiffly and put the tray down on a small table.

"Sure. Well, I'll see you, Lois. Hope you like the pork and apple sauce."

Lois nodded. She wanted desperately to ask her friend to stay but she was afraid of losing the assignment.

Mrs. Young turned to Lane, nodded coolly and turned to go. She opened the door and started out.

"Toby," Lois said suddenly.

Mrs. Young turned, expectantly.

Lois shook her head. "Nothing. Thanks a lot for bringing lunch. Let me buy you a drink tomorrow."

Mrs. Young smiled. "Fine. Call me when you're free. Good-bye, Mr. Lane."

When the visitor left, Mr. Lane quickly turned to Lois and said irritably, "Who the hell is that woman?"

Her eyes grew wider. "I told you. She's a neighbor."

"You told her to spy on us," he said, accusingly.

"No, of course not," she said annoyed. "Though God knows what she thinks now. I had the blinds down and nothing on but this robe. She probably thought you were-"

He leered. "Shacking up with you?"

She colored. "Well-"

"Probably thought I was playing with you on the couch. She's probably got a dirty mind, huh? I suppose she wants to know all the details whenever one of your boyfriends stays overnight, eh?"

"No, she doesn't," Lois said angrily. "And nobody stays overnight."

"No?" the visitor said, lifting an eyebrow. "You'll excuse me if I don't believe that. I'll bet there are loads of men who would like to feel what's under that robe, Lois, especially those lovely breasts. Can you blame them? Men are animals, you know."

The conversation had taken an alarming turn. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost 12:30. She hoped he would notice the time and leave. He had probably had a few drinks somewhere. So many agency people did, she knew. The combination of the alcohol and her nakedness had probably overexcited him. She could see the danger signal in the way he breathed, in the tenseness of his voice.

"Take off that robe," he said softly. "Take it off."

His silky voice alarmed her now. Usually when she was alone with anyone who seemed so close to the point of wanting to maul her, she insisted they go out somewhere. It made her flesh crawl to be alone with a man in that overexcited condition. Once she had been seized by a half-drunk escort during a nightcap in her flat. She had been terrified.

The man had sat there in a kind of alcoholic trance, his desire flayed by the drinks, her perfume and the skintight Capri pants she wore. He had jumped on her suddenly and mauled her, hurting her terribly.

Now, sitting here next to Lane, she could feel his tenseness and desire. He seemed to be a coiled spring waiting for a signal to strike her. Only a last measure of control and a fear of losing the modeling contract kept her from fleeing the room.

"Take it off," he repeated, his eyes imprisoning her own.

"It's after 12:30," she pleaded in a small voice. "You'll be late for your lunch. I can come to your office tomorrow."

"Take it off," he repeated slowly. He moved closer and removed the robe from her body.

He put his arm around her and moved her to the couch.

"Does that door lock automatically?" he asked suddenly. "I'm sick and tired of interruptions. Now let's see if you have any more blemishes that might show up in our ads."

She lay supine on the long couch, her heart beating quickly as he scrutinized her. Occasionally he squeezed the flesh of her stomach the way someone squeezed the cheek of an infant. Then he said brusquely, "Turn over please!"

She rolled over. She could hear him draw in his breath again.

"This is the first time I've seen a Venus dimple up close," he said slowly. His hand cupped her buttock and then his finger traced a curved line. "Here it is. My God, it's wonderful. You can feel it, really feel it-that magnificent concavity-that superb indentation. I've tried to find models with it so I could get it into my photographs. It's as rare as a four-leaf clover."

"Please, you're hurting me," she said, as he cupped her buttock in his hand again. "Let me up."

"I'm sorry," he said easily. "I got carried away. There's nothing to be worried about from that angle. I can tell you that. You have the most photogenic derriere I've ever seen. You can turn over now."

Her heart pounding, she rolled over again. Just a few moments more, she told herself, to quiet her mounting fears. Just a few moments more. Then he'll go. Then I'll have that job. Only, please, God, don't let him keep touching me. I'll scream if he keeps doing that with his hands. He had begun to run his fingers around the contours of her breasts. Please, God, don't let him get carried away. She knew she would have to sacrifice the job and the money she needed badly, if he insisted on having intercourse with her. Mr. Lane ran his finger casually around her navel. "This is almost as pretty as your Venus dimple," he said.

Venus! The word struck a chord again. Something familiar about the phrase "Venus dimple" had struck her even in the first surge of fear. She stiffened as a thought occurred to her. "Who told you that phrase?" she asked, asked.

"What phrase?" he asked, as he brought his eyes to within a few inches of her breasts. "Venus dimple."

"Oh, I've heard it from a number of people. Now lie still. I want to check carefully those freckles just above your navel."

"Please, Mr. Lane-it's close to one o'clock. You'll miss your appointment with that editor."

He laughed. "Don't fret about it." He kissed her navel. "I love the scent of your flesh, you know that, Lois?"

"What are you doing?" she said alarmed.

"Never mind," he said.

She stared at him as he opened his belt and stepped quickly out of his trousers. He wore nothing underneath.

He speared her with his hand as she sought to rise from the couch.

"No," she said. "I don't want to. Please."

"I won't hurt you," he said gently, holding her down.

"Let me go," she wailed. "Let me up."

"Stop fighting me, damn you. Don't you want that job?"

She kicked at him with her legs. "No. Let me up. I'll scream." She scratched at his face with her nails as he fell on her.

"Stop it, you bitch!" he yelled as she bit the arm clutching at her.

She was not listening. She was pouring every ounce of energy into fighting him off-scratching at him, biting, pummeling with her fists when she could get them free of his own.

"STOP, STOP!" she screamed. Suddenly he screamed in turn as she kneed him in the groin. He broke his hold on her and, holding onto himself, howled in pain.

"You bitch!" he screamed. "You effing bitch! I'll kill you. You sleep with every son of a bitch in that art class, but I'm not good enough for you, huh? You can't give me what you give everybody, huh?" He stopped to breathe heavily and then slapped her face repeatedly until it was stained a deep red. "All right, you bitch, I'll do it the easy way. I tried to be nice to you. I tried to be gentle, but you're just like the others."

The words, even more than the slaps turned her blood to ice water. She realized then what had slowly been percolating in her mind. He was not Harry Lane. He did not come from any advertising agency. Precisely at that moment it dawned on her that this was the prowler who had attacked other women in her class. She realized, too, why the phrase "Venus dimple" had rung a bell. Only one man in that class had used it. She stared at him, completely incredulous.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" he said suddenly.

She was too paralyzed with fear to answer.

Even when he hurt her by squeezing her breasts hard as he repeated his question.

"Tell me!" he demanded, peremptorily.

She made no answer.

For a moment, drunk in the ecstasy of his desire, he paid no attention to his growing uneasiness. He threw off the remainder of his clothes, forced her legs open with his sweaty fists and entered her. She groaned and tried to get out from under him, flailing at him with her hands and yelling. He stifled her screams by cupping her mouth with his hand. She bit him and he pulled his hand away with a shout of pain. With a force she never dreamed she had, she threw him off. He grabbed her quickly and pinned her down again.

"Let me go," she screamed. "Let me go!" Then she saw his eyes and her blood ran cold. He was staring at her like a madman. "Don't kill me," she begged. "Please don't kill me!"

Now his own fears, which had been quiet while his desire soared, flared up. He tightened his grip and his eyes widened.

"Who said I was going to kill you?" he said slowly.

"Please, please," she begged. "I won't tell who you are."

His face hardened suddenly. As he locked her eyes with his, she read the message in them clearly.

It was: Murder.

"I'm sorry you said that!" he said sadly. "All I wanted was what you've given all the other bastards in that class. You and all those other bitches."

She shook her head weakly. "Please.

You're wrong. I never did it with anyone there. I swear it."

"You're a liar!" he yelled. "How many times have I sat there watching all those bastards eyeing you up and down? Eating up your lovely breasts, your belly, every inch of you. And when I asked if I could take you home, you laughed at me. Then I'd see you get into someone else's car."

"Please," she begged, "you're hurting me with your hand."

"When I asked you why you wouldn't go out with me, you said I wasn't your type!"

"I didn't mean it," she said weakly as his hands tightened around her throat. "I swear I didn't mean it."

"No, I know what I've been missing," he said softly, as he pressed his thumbs in hard.

"No," she wheezed. "No, please ... I don't want to die."

"I'm sorry you recognized me," he said, as he kept pressing down. "I'm really sorry. All I wanted was to see what it was like to make love to you."

When she was still, he turned her over gently. Placing his finger just above the ridge of her buttocks, he traced again the indentation of her Venus dimple.