by Jerry eBooks
“If you tire foolish enough to accept my husband’s check for fifty thousand dollars. Monsieur Morosco, I will tell you what he will do. He will take off the walls of the galleries three pictures—three pictures only. He will make you a present of the rest and laugh in your face as he walks out of the door.”
“Madame spoke of being poor,” said the other softly. “If madame will permit, I would like to offer her some token—some tangible token of my eternal gratitude.”
“I do not seek to profit by my husband’s perfidy, monsieur!” said Mary, drawing herself to her full five feet two inches.
“I do not need madame’s assurance of this. Nevertheless, it will be a great pleasure to be of some assistance and. if madame feels under any sense of obligation, she may end herself of it by telling me which three pictures he would remove?”
“Since you make the offer thus delicately, monsieur, I will accept your help. With a small sum—even so small as ten thousand dollars—I shall be able to cross to the other side of the world and make a fresh start——”
On the short drive to the Morosco Fine Art Galleries their owner ignored the speed limit. On arrival there, with a splendid gesture of defiance, he tore off the seal on the door. From the safe he drew a thick package of currency, which be held suggestively in Mary’s full view. Mary already knew the general descriptions of the “reputed” Rembrandt, Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec, knew also that they were hanging on the same wall and were all three clearly visible from the street. As she pointed them out to Morosco he was so grateful that he did not even remark the swiftness with which the pile of currency disappeared, or the click of the door as Mary left.
Experience told Mary that there was no time to lose. Back at the hotel, she paid the bill—the bags were already packed—and told a porter to put them in the car.
She round Pete and La Gobolinsky in the casino bar. This was the moment for shock tactics. La Gobolinsky looked up with a haughty who-is-this-woman? look, directed proprietorially at Pete.
“Pete, darling,” said Mary sweetly, you know how I hate to interrupt a business talk, but I thought you would like to know that two people were inquiring for you at the hotel a few moments ago. They seemed—angry——”
“Who were they, my pet?”
“People I’d never heard of, darling—a Princess Gobolinsky and a picture dealer called Morosco. Do the names mean anything to you?”
The names meant something to La Gobolinsky, who grabbed her bag and left the bar. “She seems in a hurry, doesn’t she?” remarked Mary. “And you know, darling, something tells me we shouldn’t waste time. Our bags are in the car—let’s go.”
“Darling,” said Mary some forty minutes later, when they were over the Italian border, “how much would your cut have been if it had all worked out as you hoped?”
“Somewhere about five thousand dollars—why?”
“It’s much better to be honest, Pete, truly it is,” said Mary dreamily.
“How do you work that out?” Pete wanted to know. “Which reminds me—how did you pay that hotel bill?”
“Out of the ten thousand dollars Monsieur Morosco paid me, of course.”
“He paid you ten thousand bucks? What for?”
“For lipping him off that those three pictures of his were the real McCoy, of course, and warning him that you and I that woman whose pools of mystery you seem to find so interesting, were trying to put a swift one over him by buying them from him for less than they were worth. He was most grateful.”
“Darling!” exclaimed Pete delightedly. “Then you’re not reformed any more?”
“Of course I’m reformed,” snapped Mary. “It’s just that I’m—well, trying not to be bigoted about it. Keep to the right side of the road, darling; we nearly hit that last car.”
LOOK DEATH IN THE EYE!
Lawrence Block
She was beautiful.
She was, and she knew that she was—not only by the image in her mirror, the full and petulant mouth and the high cheekbones, the silkiness of the long blond hair and the deep blue color of her eyes. The image in her mirror at home told her she was beautiful, and so did the image she saw now, the image in the mirror in the tavern.
But she didn’t need the mirrors. She was made aware of her beauty by the eyes, the eyes of the hungry men, the eyes that she felt rather than saw upon her everywhere she went. She could feel those eyes caressing her body, lingering too long upon her firm ripe breasts and sensuous hips, touching her body with a touch firmer than hands and making her grow warm where they rested. Wherever she went men stared at her, and the intensity of their stares undressed their passions and hungers just as thoroughly as the stares attempted to strip her body.
She sipped at her drink, hardly tasting it but knowing that she had to drink it. It was all part of the game. She was in a bar, and the hungry men were also in the bar, and now their eyes were wandering over her. But for the moment there was nothing for her to do. She had to drink her drink and bide her time, waiting for the men—or one of them, at least—to get up the courage to do more than stare.
Idly, she turned a few inches on the barstool and glanced at the other customers. Several men were too busy drinking to pay any attention to her; another was busy in a corner booth running his hand up and down the leg of a slightly plump redhead, and it was easy to see that he wouldn’t be interested in her, not that night.
But the other three customers were fair game.
She regarded them thoughtfully, one at a time. Closest to her was a young one—no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, she guessed, and hungry the way they are when they’re that age. He was short and slim, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a conservative bow tie. She noticed with a little amusement the way he was embarrassed to stare at her but at the same time was unable to keep his eyes off her lush body. Twice his eyes met hers and he flushed guiltily, turning away and nervously flicking the ashes off his cigarette.
And each time the eyes returned to her, hungry and desperate in their hunger. Mr. Dark Suit couldn’t keep away from her, she thought, and she wondered if he would be the one for the evening. It was always difficult to predict, always tough to calculate which pair of eyes would get up enough courage to make the pass. It might be Mr. Dark Suit, but she doubted it. He had the hunger, all right, but he probably lacked the experience he’d need for hero.
Mr. Baldy was two stools further from her. She named him easily since his baldness was his outstanding feature in a face that had no other memorable features. His head was bare except for a very thin fringe around the edges and the light from the ceiling shined on it.
Next, of course, she noticed his eyes. They were hungry eyes, too—but hungry in a way that was different from Mr. Dark Suit. Mr. Baldy was a good twenty-five years older, and he was probably used to getting his passes tossed back into his lap. He wanted her, all right; there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. But the possibility of a refusal might scare him away.
For a half-second she considered flashing him a smile. No, she decided, that wouldn’t be fair. Let them work it out themselves. Let the hungriest assert himself and the others forever hold their peace.
And there was no hurry. It was rather a pleasant feeling to be caressed simultaneously by three pairs of eyes, and though the sensation was hardly a new one, it was one she never tired of.
And the third man. He was seated at the far end of the bar, seated so that he could study her without turning at all. But, strangely, his eyes were not glued to her body the way Mr. Dark Suit’s and Mr. Baldy’s were. Instead he was relaxing, biding his time, and occasionally letting his eyes wander from his beer glass to her and back to his beer.
He was somewhere in his thirties, with a strong and vaguely handsome face and jet-black hair. Mr. Bright-Eyes, she named him, laughing inwardly at the glow of assurance and confidence in his eyes.
Mr. Bright-Eyes wouldn’t be afraid or stumbling about it. At the same time, she wondered whether or not he w
ould care enough to make an approach. He wanted her; that much she knew. But he might need a little shove in the right direction.
A rock-and-roll tune was playing noisily on the jukebox. Not yet, she thought. Wait until everything is just right, with soft music and all the trimmings. Let the eyes stay hungry for a few minutes.
She studied them again, the three of them. Mr. Dark Suit’s eyes, she noticed, were brown. Mr. Baldy’s eyes were a watery blue, a bit bloodshot and sick-looking. But Mr. Bright-Eyes had, happily, bright blue eyes. They seemed to gleam in his powerful face.
She wondered who it would be. Another night, another pair of eyes—but who would it be tonight? Which eyes were the hungriest? Which eyes wanted her, wanted her enough to hurry up and make a pass?
Mr. Dark Suit finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another. He sipped at it nervously when it arrived, then set it down on the bar and stole another glance at her, drumming his fingers on the bar all the while.
He’s so nervous, she thought. If I made the first move he’d come running. But he’s scared silly.
Mr. Baldy, his drink forgotten, stared at her quite openly. He didn’t seem shy at all, and the watery blue eyes moved up and down her body without the slightest embarrassment.
He can watch, she thought. A looker, but not much for action. What’s the matter, Mr. Baldy?
Mr. Bright-Eyes looked up from his beer and saw her studying him. For a moment a shadow of a smile passed over his face; then it was gone, and he was gazing once again into the glass of beer.
Although she wanted to be perfectly fair, she felt herself hoping that it would be Mr. Bright-Eyes. She always played perfectly fair, always went with the first one, but this time she felt a decided preference. There was something about those eyes, something about the way they looked at her so openly . . .
The rock-and-roll tune came to a noisy finish. She waited on her stool, fluffing her hair into place and taking another short sip of her drink.
The next record was a slow one.
Now, she thought. First she stretched a little, throwing her shoulders back so that her two perfect breasts stood out in bold relief as they pressed against the thin fabric of her blouse. Then she crossed one leg over the other, letting her skirt fall away as she did so and giving Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy a quick glimpse of milk-white skin.
Unfortunately, Mr. Bright-Eyes couldn’t see her legs from where he sat. It was a pity.
Then, with her breasts jutting and her legs crossed, she tossed off the rest of her drink and leaned forward on her stool, hesitating a moment before ordering a refill. This was the crucial moment, the time when one of the three had to be ready for a game of drop-the-handkerchief. Somebody had to pick up the cue.
“Another beer for me, and one more for the lady.”
She started, turned her head, and discovered happily that it was Mr. Bright-Eyes. He certainly was smooth, she marveled, the way he was right at her side the minute she was ready for another drink.
A moment later the beer was poured, the drink made, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seated on the stool beside her. She noticed the sad looks in the eyes of Mr. Baldy and Mr. Dark Suit, sad because they realized the chance they had missed.
Too bad, she thought. You had your chances. Why, you had a better chance than Mr. Bright-Eyes, what with looking at my legs and all.
“You’re a lovely woman,” Mr. Bright-Eyes was saying, and she was pleased to note that he had a fine manner of speaking, spacing his words nicely and pronouncing all the consonants the way they belonged. Why, that man a few nights ago didn’t talk very well at all, mumbling the way he did. Of course it was partly the drinking, but she was glad Mr. Bright-Eyes could speak so clearly and nicely.
But she didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying. It wasn’t too important, and besides she was far too busy looking into his blue eyes and enjoying the way they traveled so gently over her body. She could feel them on her, and when his gaze traveled down her body and caressed her hips she almost shivered.
He continued to talk to her and she continued to answer him and the jukebox continued to play, but she spent most of her time looking into his eyes and loving the feeling they gave her. He told her his name, which she promptly forgot because Mr. Bright-Eyes suited him so much better, and she told him that her name wasn’t especially important, since it really wasn’t.
Mr. Bright-Eyes said something about a rose by another name and she laughed politely, but it was his eyes that really held her interest. Even when his hand moved down to rest gently on her thigh, she was more aware of the hunger in his eyes than the gradually more insistent pressure of his hand.
Slowly his hand moved up and down her thigh, gently caressing her flesh, and all the while Mr. Bright-Eyes was talking earnestly, his voice just a little louder than a whisper and his eyes deliciously lustful and hungry.
But it wouldn’t do to ignore the hand. Keeping her gaze rooted to Mr. Bright-Eye’s face, she gently placed her own hand on top of his. At first he seemed taken aback, thinking that she wished him to remove his hand from her thigh. That, of course, was not what she intended at all.
Reassuringly, she moved his hand over her thigh, pressing it gently and tenderly. She was pleased to notice Mr. Bright-Eyes get an even hungrier gleam in his eyes and begin to breathe a slight bit heavier than before. It was all part of the game, but the game could be very pleasant for her.
“. . . one of the most exciting women I’ve ever met,” he was saying, and as he spoke the words his hand closed possessively around her knee. His eyes were glued to her breasts. She knew that they would leave any moment now, that he was almost ready and almost convinced that she would now follow him to the ends of the earth if he were only to ask.
And indeed she would.
“Honey?”
She smiled expectantly.
“Would you like to have the next one up at my place?”
“Of course,” she said.
His bright blue eyes gleamed more than ever. How bright they were! She was actually in love with him now, in love with his eyes and the hunger and beauty in them.
As they stood up, she saw Mr. Baldy shake his head sadly. Mr. Dark Suit’s jaw fell slightly and he looked quite awkward, sitting precariously on his stool with his mouth half-open. Then Mr. Bright-Eyes slipped his arm easily around her waist and walked her to the door. She could feel their eyes watching her every step of the way, and it wasn’t hard at all to imagine the regret in their eyes—regret mixed with admiration for Mr. Bright-Eye’s technique.
He was smooth, all right. So very smooth, and while it was a shame that Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy were doomed to sadness for the evening, it simply couldn’t be helped.
And besides, wasn’t there a book about survival of the fittest or something? If they had Mr. Bright-Eyes’ finish they wouldn’t be sitting by themselves, with their eyes all afraid and beaten.
It was dark out, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seemed to be in a hurry, and as a consequence they were walking very swiftly toward his apartment. He said something about wasn’t it dark out, and she agreed that it was, and his arm tightened around her waist.
She leaned a little against him and rubbed her body against his. Walking as they were and with the night as dark as it was, it was hard for her to see his eyes. Each time when they passed a streetlamp she leaned forward a bit and glanced into his face, as if to reassure herself that his eyes still wanted her as much as they had.
In his apartment everything went very well. He told her how beautiful she was and she thanked him quite modestly, and they went to the bedroom and he took her in his arms and kissed her very expertly.
Then, after she had been expertly kissed, he bent over to remove the spread from the bed. It was at just that moment that she took the knife from her purse and plunged it into his back, right between the shoulder blades. One jab was enough; he crumpled up on the bed and lay very still, without a scream or a moan or any sound at all.
Afterwards, b
ack in her own apartment, she put his eyes in the box with the others.
THE $5,000 GETAWAY
Jack Ritchie
O’Hanlon and I were in the guard’s dining room having a cup of coffee with Lieutenant Farley before going on duty.
“It’s impossible,” Farley said.
I lit a cigar. “You mean it hasn’t been done.”
He shook his head. “I mean it’s impossible. Nobody ever got off this rock unless we let him.”
“What about Hilliard?”
Farley snorted. “Maybe he got off, but what good did it do him? His little wooden flippers didn’t do much to improve his swimming. The current and the cold finished him and he drowned.”
I grinned slightly. “For two weeks, until we found his body, we thought he made it.”
“Not me,” Farley snapped. “I would have bet plenty against it.”
O’Hanlon looked pained, the way he always does when I argue with the lieutenant.
I watched a fleck of cigar ash drop to the floor. “It’s only a mile and a half across the bay to the city. Or about two and a half to the point. A good swimmer shouldn’t have trouble.”
“There’s the fog and the cold, Regan,” Farley said. “Don’t forget about them. And the current is tricky and strong.”
“That’s what the newspapers say.”
Farley pounded the table. “That’s what I say, too. I been here since the place opened and I know what I’m talking about.”
I rolled the cigar in my mouth. “I read about Henderson and Wallace in ’37. Their bodies were never found. Some people like to think that they crawled out of the bay on the other side and went on to a happy life in South America.” Farley’s voice rose. “Their bodies were carried out to sea.” I rubbed my jaw. “We’ll never know.”
Farley glared at me. “We never heard a thing about them.” O’Hanlon glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly four, Regan. Time for us to go.”