by Troy Conway
Catch me killing a woman. Hah.
I think I know a million other ways to knock her off and enjoy myself at the same time.
Brigitte Lcbcau was still glowering as we followed the lanky Oriental and the bosomy Occidental down the winding stairs of the house she lived in. Cabbage smells filled the air again.
“Don’t trust those hussies,” she whispered, “they will cut your heart out if they get the chance.”
“Not if I see them first,” I said. “Come on. Chin up, Madame. This may be a big help all in all. Annette may have the answers we want.”
“So might the Almanac,” Madame Brigitte Lebeau said fiercely. “But I do not live by books.”
We didn’t say another word to each other until we were all crowded into a black touring car which was parked on the slanting hill. Mei Ling High drove, her free hand clasped around Francoise’s. Love in the afternoon. The kids were hung on each other. Brigitte snorted again and placed her hands on my lap.
“If they hurt you,” she vowed in another whisper, “I’ll have their breasts for breakfast!”
What a woman. No wonder France has survived all these years.
If Danielle Lebeau had what she had, that girl might be alive today.
Sans doubt.
With or without ketchup, mes amis.
The black touring car reached Les Deuces about fifteen minutes later. That is to say, the manhole cover. For daylight purposes, the entrance was camouflaged with one of those MEN AT WORK set-ups that allows for a curtained, roped-off area to block off passersby. The cobbled street, a narrow areaway not unlike Wall Street in New York, was deserted. Again, I didn’t see a single gendarme. Somebody had a friend at the local prefecture, okay. Mei Ling High slowed the touring car, we all clambered out right above the spot that marked the club and she motioned us to go down while she parked the car.
Francoise led the way. Madame Brigitte Lebeau swayed behind her and then I trooped down too. A flock of pigeons on a roof nearby all cooed in chorus. They flapped their wings as if they were cheering us on. The new day had begun with a lullaby lo Birdland.
I had only one regret.
I was kicking myself for not getting in touch with Walrus-moustache. The way things were going, I had the distinct impression that I was getting into a lot of hot water without letting the head chef know I was monkeying around in the kitchen.
There isn’t an easier way to get burned.
Ask Julia Child.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The mysterious Annette was waiting for us in one of the twenty cubicles that made up the decor of the club. But this cubicle had a lot going for it. The wall-to-wall carpet was practically knee-deep and there were enough bolsters, cushions and stuffed animal dolls to supply Macy’s. Francoise led us to the curtained entrance, giggled, and disappeared. Madame Brigitte sniffed the incense still smouldering around the place, pushed the curtains aside and shouldered in with me on her tail. Nobody else seemed to be around Les Deuces that morning. Not the bronze stud, the girls, the customers or even the hairy doorman. Only Madame or Mademoiselle Annette. The leopard skin walls reminded me of the exotic backdrop in the sexy photo that Danielle Lebeau had been so ashamed of. It was a dead ringer.
Annette was seated cross-legged on the floor in the cushiony cubicle. She had a lot going for her too. Raven-black hair, eyes as big as saucers, with breasts to match and a very, very scanty scrap of silk that wound about her torso and hips like a scarf. It was flaming red, and exhilarating match for the lady’s green eyes. Also, she looked about twenty-four by 38-22-38. I haven’t seen a waist like that since Scarlett O’Hara.
“Sit down, sit down,” she said in a low, thrilling voice. “We will all be good friends in no time at all.”
I motioned to Brigitte, who was too busy sizing the dame up for queerness to sit down. Madame Lebeau was stilll angry about last night.
“Prove it,” I rasped. “Chinatown and the Cow Woman says you can tell us a lot about Danielle Lebeau.”
“In time. First, make yourselves comfortable. I am so pleased to see you both. The very famous Mr. Damon and of course, the one, the only, the unforgettable Fifi La Fleur!”
As mad as she was, Brigitte was pleased. Fame is so fleeting.
“Thank you, whoever you are. But come—what can you tell us about my precious daughter?”
Annette patted the cushions next to her side.
“Please sit next to me, Brigitte. I will respect your alias, you see. I simply wanted you to know that I know who you are. I worship your name. You showed the world that a woman is a woman from the very cradle itself.” Brigitte looked at me and I shrugged, so she sat down next to Annette. The woman laughed and reached out to hold Brigitte’s hand. Her green eyes were on me, though. Exploring.
“Do you wonder why I had you brought here, Mr. Damon?”
“Funny you should say that. I was just about to ask.”
“Perhaps I should explain the purpose of Les Deuces to you first. As a man of sexual keenness and knowledge, you of all people should appreciate a hostelry like we have here.”
“I’m listening.”
“Very well.” She was eyeing me but stroking Brigitte’s crossed thighs now. Madame Lebeau’s skirt had ridden up, exposing her dimpled knees. Brigitte did not move away. “Les Deuce’s doors are open to all who seek the ultimate in sexual diversion. We do not turn anybody away. Not anybody. Homosexuals, voyeurs, bisexuals, even asexuals—whatever men and women seek to satisfy their libido, we provide. You understand?”
“Come to the point.”
She smiled and patted her heart with her free hand. It was a heart as big as a house.
“You understand—all men and women are not created equal. You should know that better than anyone. They tell me that you shamed poor Michel-Duval Fountainbleau last night, but no matter. The point is, we must provide for some of the people who come here. Many of them are celebrities, people in the news—government officials too. But we are discreet. The police cooperate with us for a fee and nobody wonders about Les Deuces. Now—as to my reasons for bringing you here. You are in Paris, Mr. Damon, and I would consider it a great honor if you will allow us to throw a grand soiree in your honor. There are many of my customers anxious to see you, to hear you. To—ah—experience you. I am willing to pay you any sum you care to name if you accept. There is big money behind me so don’t haggle over price. We can meet your price.”
I stared at her. But it was an opening, a wedge.
“I promise to think it over. Now, about Danielle Lebeau. What does a girl like her have to do with a place like this?”
Annette now looked at Brigitte Lebeau. She almost looked contrite. Sad, even. Almost.
“If Madame Brigitte will consent to beat me, I will tell you. But not until then.”
Brigitte shrank back. “Beat you? This is nonsense!”
“No, Brigitte,” Annette cooed like the pigeons, reaching behind her. She brought out a long black riding whip, tooled in gold. Even in the dim light of the cubicle, I could see the letters Annette inscribed on the haft. The same silly thing we had found in Danielle’s baggage. “Yes—you recognise this? Danielle was one of us. Indeed, she was one of our best ladies. The customers adored her. I cannot say who killed her, for I do not know. But come—use the whip on me please. I have been flagellated by some of the most famous women in the world. Movie stars, stage actresses, princesses—but I would deem it an honor to be flogged by the woman who was Fifi Le Fleur, Child Courtesan!”
Brigitte glared at her helplessly. Annette was carefully disrobing, without getting up. The flaming scarf fell away and for Brigitte’s eyes and mine, there sat a splendidly nubile broad, all flesh and a yard wide, ready for the whipping post.
“Rod—” Brigitte ahemed and ahawed. “What am I to do?” I could see her decency wasn’t offended as all that. The taint was still on her. She too liked sex in any form. The shapelier the better. Nobody wants to be over the hill at thirty-seven.
&
nbsp; “Aw, crap,” I said. “Give her what she wants and then maybe we can find out what the hell this is all really about.”
“But, but—”
“Go on. I don’t mind. I haven’t watched a bare ass get striped in many a moon.”
Annette laughed happily and bent over, exposing her buttocks. She had no more to say. She simply wanted what she wanted. She braced her hands against the thick carpet and I marveled anew at the curious byways of sin. The dame had a figure that would drive burlesque audiences nuts and all she wanted to do was have it beaten daily. Like a rug.
Brigitte shuddered, closed her eyes and raised the whip. It came down lightly at first and Annette whimpered. But a few more light ones and Annette went berserk.
“Harder, harder, you fool! That’s love-tapping——”
Brigitte snarled an oath and really let her have it. The whip flicked like a muleskinner’s lash and Annette shrieked with joy. The shriek ignited Brigitte. In no time at all she got right into the spirit of the thing and whaled away. Annette’s bared beauty flattened out, bobbing, thrusting, wanting to meet the lash. After a dozen strokes, I’d had enough. I had to hold Brigitte’s arm back. Her eyes had that glassy look again. She could talk against queers all she wanted but she had a streak within her as wide as the Comstock Lode. She liked girls as well as guys.
“Okay, okay. Don’t spoil the merchandise. Had enough, Annette? That’s all you get until I get more information.”
She came up, sobbing happily. She leaned back against a cushion, breathing hard. Her eyes held nothing but admiration for the former Fifi Le Fleur.
“Thank you, thank you . . . you see, Brigitte? You see how exciting it is? To whip at beauty, to lash it, to make it scream for mercy?”
“Sure, sure,” I agreed. “Now about some simple talking? You have to convince me that Danielle Lebeau was one of you. Can you do that to my satisfaction?”
Annette sighed and Brigitte passed a hand over her brow. She was perspiring. Dew dappled her lower lip. The excercise had put the scent of the bull ring in her nose. The flag was up.
“Really, Mr. Damon,” Annette said luxuriantly, stretching happily. “It’s a shame that Danielle was murdered, because she held such great promise. She was worthy to be the daughter of Fifi Le Fleur.”
“Cut it out,” I growled. “Murder’s murder. Now are you going to open up in your own way or do I have to . . .”
I didn’t finish what I had to say because the curtains behind us parted and in pranced a naked Chinaman, puffing furiously on a short cigar. He wasn’t completely nuked. A love amulet dangled around his fleshy neck, clattering like beads. But his eyes were angry and his thin falsetto voice rose in an injured whelp. “Annette! You bitch! You’ve begun without me! You’ve got your goddamned brass, I must say!” He was shivering with rage, his Buddha-body spilling like jello. “Whose idea was it in the first place to bring them?”
Annette smirked and Brigitte Lebeau threw her hands skyward and crossed herself.
“Shut up, Wan Lo. You’re here now, aren’t you, and they’re still here, aren’t they? Control yourself. There’s still time.”
He ground out the cigar with his bared foot on the carpet.
As mad as he was, he bowed in my direction and had a spare gelatinous bobble left for Brigitte Lebeau. His eyes were shrewd.
“This woman—” he sighed. “Forgive me. Wan Lo, at your service. I’m so pleased you could make it. Annette and I have so many grand plans for you both. Did you tell him about the soiree?”
“Yes, I told them,” Annette sighed. “Mr. Damon will let us know. Meanwhile—” She held up the whip with which Brigitte had flailed her. “Madame Brigitte has favored me with her love.”
“Bitch!” He hissed the word again, fuming, but he still was all smiles for me. “Of course, Mr. Damon, you will do me the honors too? I would deem it a high privilege to be whipped by such as you.”
I was beginning to see the light. Beginning to see a way out of some of the dilemma. These two weirdos would make with whip talk all day if they had their way. That’s the way it is with cultists. They never stop talking about their favorite subjects. So there was only one thing to do. But I had to do it without Brigitte Lebeau. She was far too en rapport with the whole deal. But I also knew I couldn’t talk her into leaving. So I did what I had to do. I am a psychologist and a human being in that order. And a Coxeman first, last and always.
“Brigitte,” I said and motioned her to me. She frowned, got up and walked toward me. Wan Lo and Annette watched us both, wondering what I was up to. It only took one second.
A short Karate chop to bring on unconsciousness. Not too hard, not too vicious, only a sleep-inducer that a gorgeous self-defense lady had taught me in San Francisco in exchange for some instruction in body holds during coitus.
Brigitte knew I hit her but she never did have time to think about it. Her eyeballs rolled, I caught her before she fell, and made her comfortable on the damn floor, in the corner.
“Ohhhhh!” Annette whispered in an awed tone. “That was so lovely. So brutal!”
“Isn’t he the beast?” Wan Lo chuckled with admiration. “So vicious and cruel!” He tongued his thick lips.
I had them pegged down to the queer eyeballs but when I have a job to do I do it. I reached down for Annette’s personalized whip, flicked it experimentally and turned back to them. They were watching me like mesmerized kids now. Small wonder. I was Santa Claus in their scheme of things and I was coming to give them the hiding of their lives. I managed a leer and pointed to the floor.
“Lie down. Now. The both of you. Show me your backsides. You want me to whip you? Well, I will. I’m going to flail you until your flesh is in ribbons, until the blood runs like the Red Sea. Until you beg me to stop. Come on. Get on the floor!”
Delirious with joy, transported by my transformation, they fought to obey, each of them scurrying into position. Annette moaned happily and crouched, spreading her buttocks with her bare hands, the more to enjoy it. Wan Lo shuddered with ecstasy and showed me the fattest ass since Hermann Goering. For a long moment I had to fight my own desires. I really wanted to whip them. But first my plan. There’s nothing a masochist likes so much as torture and these two liked their sadists to out-Marquis de Sade. In the dim quiet of the cubicle, with Brigitte out like a light in the corner, I began. Lesson Number One with a Masochist: Deny them.
“Now,” I said. “Who shall be first, I wonder?”
“Me!” Annette blurted.
“Me! Me!” Wan Lo sing-songed.
“Maybe we ought to wait,” I suggested. “I think I’ll have a smoke first?”
“No!” Annette screamed.
“No! You can’t—” Wan Lo began to sob. “It isn’t fair. You said you would—you can’t change your mind now. Oh, Mr. Damon. Be kind—”
“You mean cruel, don’t you? Sorry, I’ve lost the mood. I think I’ll go home now.”
“Stop!” Annette had whirled but she was still facing me ass-first. “We’ll do anything only please lay it on us like a sweet man. Can’t you see we need it?”
“Yes,” Wan Lo whimpered. “We’re sick but there’s no other way for us. Be a good man and do your worst. I mean—whip us, for the love of Buddha. Like you promised!”
I could see the perspiration of ecstasy dampening their bodies. They were like dope addicts doing the cold turkey bit. I added some fuel by letting the lash flick out lazily, barely touching them. They both shuddered together like a vaudeville act.
“Nope,” I said. “I’m not in the mood. Some other time.”
“Please.” they moaned, almost in chorus again. “We’ll do anything you say . . . only, pleasel”
“Anything?”
“Yes. damn you, yes!”
“Then tell me about Danielle Lebeau and how she died. Do that and I’ll whip you so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”
The prospects of that made them dizzy. Dizzy enough to tell me all I needed to
know from Les Deuces. They were both so anxious to add to their whip cult folklore that their story almost came out like water. I calmed them down and let Annette do the talking. She didn’t turn around, still showing me that gorgeous derriere of hers while her Oriental lover boy listened avidly and added some details, hoping thereby to get some added lashes from a grateful Rod Damon. What a pair of acey-deucies. I think they really swung in all directions.
Danielle Lebeau’s fate was a horror story.
Her sexual interests (thirst for thesis material) had led her to Les Deuces. She was fascinated, of course, but too beautiful. The inner circle of the club, of which Annette and Wan Lo seemed to be big wheels, seduced her. They drugged her, got her photographed in the nude, blackmailed her with that so she had to come back to them, for fear of being booted out of the Academie Sexualite. Madame Lilly de Jussac would have flipped her lid, it seems. The rest of the game got easier. More drugs, more connivings and poor Danielle found herself a member of the Maso-Sadist League, complete with boots, customers and her very own little whip. And then a very important man who patronized the club fell for her in his own queer way. He was as useless as a de-sticked man can be but he got Danielle to accept his passion via the dildo route. Alas, the dildo he used was about the size of a donkey. To hear Annette tell it, he had nearly driven Danielle insane with the thing.
“This very important man,” I snarled. “Might that be one Gaston Corbeau, the kindly old father image?”
“Then you know?” Annette looked sulky. “Why bother then with all this talk? Come—whip my ass.” She stuck it almost in my face.
“Sure, cherie. Tell me more first.”
Wan Lo snorted like a steam whistle. His fat buttocks quivered, waiting for the lash. “Hurry up, you bitch! Tell the man what he wants to know! He’s one of us, can’t you see that?”
Annette had little more to tell but it was enough to freeze the nuts and bolts off a robot.
One last session for Danielle Lebeau, among her crazy queers and the cultists of the club. Drugged again, half out of her mind, she was literally abused and misused by every male and female member of Annette’s cult. Real fun and games. And then finally someone had sat her down on his naked lap, stuck the knife into her heart and let her twitch her life out on his erect penis. The Marquis de Sade did that once for kicks with a young boy and it’s a famous example of how sick this old world has been sometimes. The body had then been parked back at the Academie Sexualite and nobody in Paris had ever connected it with a sex club, peace talks or anything. Just a murder, it says here. I felt like throwing up.