by Troy Conway
It’s a home run in any ballpark.
A Grand Slam is what you get for your efforts.
Ask the next chocolate soldier you meet.
Better still, ask Brigitte Lebeau.
“You lovable rascal,” she moaned, dropping against me. “Now, I am truly destroyed. Defeated by four lumps of candy. Sacré!”
“Aw shucks, t’weren’t nothin’.”
Her mind, for all her joyeux sacktime, was still on the party, though. As mine was. As mine had to be.
As she rubbed me down with a hot towel, scrubbing me to refresh and relax me with her brisk, loving hands, we discussed the whole affair.
“You seek to uncover the ones who murdered my poor Danielle, yes? That is your plan.”
“Yes. That and the idea that we want your country to get going with the talks. Time’s awastin, Brigitte. It’s got to be a success.”
“Oui. Tell me. You are more than merely a sex fiend, yes? Truly, you are an agent of some kind? A spy working for the United States.”
“You might say so.”
“Then I do so say. Do not fear. Your secret is safe with Brigitte. Ah, intrigues. How I miss them. The court at Emperor Nicky’s, the affairs, the amours—”
“Don’t cry. Crying’s for kids. We’ll lick this thing yet.”
“Ah, yes.” She wrapped the hot towel around the tallest part of me and placed her warm cheek against it. She sighed and her shapely globes teetered charmingly. “That for you I will always gladly do.”
You see? I’m not the only one that’s always thinking about sex.
Or always making bum plays on words.
Some people can just never get their minds out of the bedroom!
Lollipop time extended itself once more into the wee small hours of the night. The good Madame, as French as Napoleon brandy and De Gaulle’s moustache, had come a long, long way down the road to recovery, being her own grande woman once again. I asked her all about the Emperor Nicky and the good old days of court intrigue. Her royal bedfellow had been a real swinger, it turned out. It seemed it was nothing for him to want to go to bed right after dinner and ball till breakfast. A peculiar hunger which a young, willing and wanton Fifi Le Fleur was quite ready to satisfy. It seemed she had a lot of hungers of her own. When she introduced Emperor Nicky to soixante-neuf, he was beside himself with joy. She taught him all there was to know about lip service. In the end, the dear regal man declared a royal holiday in the kingdom, known as The Day Of Sixty-Nine. Nobody who wasn’t on the inside of royal matters knew exactly what the hell Emperor Nicky meant but he was the sort of jolly king who didn’t give a damn. So on that day the country celebrates the number Sixty-Nine without really knowing what all the shouting is about. To most it is the date of a historic battle or the beginning of the dynasty’s reign. They’ve had a lot of Nickies in their time.
Brigitte, emotional as ever, wept for the good old days. But she wept happily, tears being one of her main armaments in the battle against Life and Old Age. That, and of course, her incredible sexual drive. In which case, she was not alone, my friends.
“Sacré, Rod . . . you must never leave France. You must never leave Brigitte!”
“Who, me?”
I never argue with great ladies who are great lays.
CHAPTER TEN
Before I began my long series of plans for that important evening, I took Brigitte Lebeau out for a decent meal. She certainly had it coming to her. Apart from her fantastic cooperation on the peace talks assignment, and in the sack, of course, I wanted to blow her to a fine meal.
Like the joke goes, we should have stood in bed.
A lot of Parisienne rats were working underground. But how could I know that? There I was, hale and hearty after a splendid joust with Madame Brigitte among her fading percales and the Paris sun was high in the sky. We were hungry, so I promised her a steak, with all the trimmings and all the good cognac she could hold if she would merely pick a place.
She picked the Salon des Artistes, a posh eatery along the sidewalks where many a canopy shrouds many an outside table. She said it was merely a ten-block walk and since it was such a lovely new day, why shouldn’t we walk, she suggested.
So we walked.
I guess my defenses were down. I was envisioning a fine meal, then packing Brigitte back to her dump on the winding hill and then I would be off to see about my plans for the Hotel Fourchette that night. Walrus-moustache was already busy with his sundry tasks and I was sure the wrap-up would go off as scheduled. I was beginning to miss America.
So there we were, arm-in-arming along the sidewalk, watching the taxicabs scuttle, admiring Paris’ boulevards and sights and sounds and smells. Brigitte had wrapped herself in a shawl of sorts and another of the too-tight dresses that showed every rounded line of her packed body. She was happy too. She sang a lot of risque Edith Piaf songs under her breath as we strolled.
And suddenly, out of a clear blue sky, she stopped singing and nudged my arm.
“Cheri, we are being followed!”
I stopped too, looking back. “Where?”
She wagged her head helplessly.
“I do not know for certain. It is only that I, Brigitte, who have been followed by men all my life, tell you this: somebody is following us!”
“See anything at all?” My questing eyes saw only strollers, men sitting at tables behind newspapers, mademoiselles walking French poodles.
“Mais non! But I feel it in my bones, I tell you—”
“I’ll take your word for it. Just keep walking as if nothing unusual had happened. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
“I am frightened. Who would follow us? Unless it is the men who did those awful things to Danielle.”
“Don’t think about that now. Promenade, Madame. You look beautiful.”
“Ah, tres gallant, Rod!”
Gallant, hooey. She did look like a million dollars and I was still starved. And I didn’t want to waltz around with thugs or policemen or any more of the mad crowd from Les Deuces. But when you have the sort of fame and reputation I have, anything is possible.
We cut across the avenue at the next interesction, and try as I might, I could find no one and nothing suspicious in the average-looking, customary strollers enjoying the new day. There were a couple of swell-nifty dolls about ten paces behind us but it couldn’t have been them. It would have been a crime if it had been them. They were young, full of life and showing every bit of it in mini-skirts and picture hats. I tightened my hold on Brigitte’s arm. The streetlight was on red. We waited. Traffic streamed toward us. Cabs, busses, Fiats, Renaults, all kinds of foreign cars. The street was noisy with sound.
The light changed to green and I hustled her over to the far sidewalk. She was out of breath now and her breasts were dancing under her dress. No matter how old she got she would never wear a bra. It was an insult to her.
I was beginning to wish I was carrying another kind of rod. Brigitte had made me jumpy with her fears and ruined the whole day.
Fears?
She was a mind-reader and had eyes in the back of her head. We hadn’t gone five steps down the next avenue when it happened. All in a hurry and without even a moment’s warning. I had my eyes wide open, but it happened too fast even for a Speedy Gonzales like me.
I had Brigitte’s arm anchored in the crook of my own when two guys in striped pants, formal jackets and tall silk hats suddenly were blocking our path. Madame Brigitte squealed in alarm as she threw on the brakes to avoid crashing into them. I stopped dead in my tracks. The two men, looking like refugees from a diplomatic function, both had spade beards, trim moustaches and identically cold eyes. They were also oblivious of all the passersby jostling past us. It showed right out of their cold bleak eyes.
“You will please us greatly if you accompany us, Monsieur Damon.”
The one who spoke smiled and did not tip his topper to Brigitte.
“Sorry,” I said. “No autographs.” I tried to step around hi
m with Brigitte hanging on but his crony blocked me and also opened his mouth.
“I have a gun, Monsieur,” this one said. “It is very large and of high caliber. A wound offered at stupidly short range is no challenge. You would be dead before you hit the sidewalk. No, do not scream, Madame. The same bullets would do the same thing to you, I am afraid.”
I tightened my grip on her wrist. Both the two top-hatted men couldn’t have looked sweeter about the whole thing. We were up against what the hard-boiled detectives and policemen call a pair of real pros. Like killers for hire, out to make a “hit” on a “contract”. I tried not to perspire in broad daylight.
“Okay,” I said. “What do we do now?”
“We go for a charming ride,” the first man said. He waved an arm, indicating a long Daimler parked at the curb. There was no driver visible. “Won’t you join us?”
“We insist,” the other one said, taking Brigitte by the elbow and escorting her. “To see Paris properly one must truly tour it.”
“And leave the driving to you, right?” I gritted, following. No one in our immediate vicinity would have given a second thought to what was going on. Ostensibly, two VIPs were inviting a pair of friends for a ride. In the country or the city, it didn’t matter which.
So that’s how we got shanghaied in broad daylight and were driven through the streets of Paris toward the open fields beyond the city. I and Brigitte sat in the back of the limousine while the top-hatted duo sat on the front seat. One drove and the other was turned toward us, pointing out the sights with one long ugly pistol with silencer attached. Madame Brigitte Lebeau was for once tongue-tied with fright. Murder and violence and sex and excitement are not compatible bedfellows at all. Damn the Thaddeus X. Coxe Foundation. They will get me killed one of these days.
I never did find out the names of our hijackers so I called them Alphonse and Gaston. Alphonse was the one that was driving. Gaston had the gun.
“Who are you?” I asked, trying to look indignant. I was indignant. “What the hell are you bothering us for?”
Alphonse chuckled and Gaston brushed a speck of dust off the tip of his silencer-gun.
“You are Rod Damon of America,” Gaston purred. “Quite naturally, you are here to see the wonders of the Académie Sexualité. Quite undercover, you have put your nose into matters that should not concern you. So what do we do? We remove the nose.”
I again tried not to sweat. Brigitte was moaning low.
“What are you talking about? I’m just a tourist, Madame here has been my companion—”
Alphonse gritted out a French oath and Gaston shook his head. The gun pointed at my forehead.
“Please, Monsieur. I beg of you. Treat us as equals. Not as idiots. You have been assigned to protect the Peace Talks conference. We have been assigned to sabotage the Peace Talks conference. It is as simple as that. Now we have you so we will remove you as a threat to our efforts. You see? A matter of simple logic. We cancel you out and our hopes for success mount to the skies. Where shall we kill them, mon ami?” He asked Alphonse that the same way you would ask a pal how he likes his eggs? Scrambled or sunny-side up?
Alphonse considered only a second. “There is a small bridge between the villages of Bal and Arlienne. Why not there? It is always deserted and they will sink to the bottom of the lake unseen.”
“Good,” Gaston purred again. “I’m in favor of that. No one must know what befell these two. At least, not until our plans mature a bit. To the river then. Make all haste.”
The Daimler shot down the roadway, kicking up pebbles, dust and all that was left of my nerves. Poor Brigitte was almost in a swoon. It can’t be much fun sitting around listening to a pair of clowns discuss how they are going to kill you.
I rallied a mite.
“Who put you up to this? Corbeau?”
They eyed each other and laughed.
“Madame Annette at Les Deuces?”
Again, they laughed.
“How about that red-headed dame at the Academy? Lilly de Jussac?”
They both erupted at that, snorting through their noses and Gaston nearly had an internal rupture. Finally, he had the gun straightened out again and laughed right in my face.
“Idiot! Those pawns—pah! There are bigger people than they involved. But no matter. What do you care who it is? The information will not warm your last moments to the grave. Come, if you are Christian, say your prayers. The bridge is but another ten minutes or so—”
Brigitte Lebeau had gotten some of her wind back.
“Animals,” she hissed, shaking. “With a beautiful woman, this is all you can think of?”
Gaston elevated his eyebrows. “Madame?” He didn’t quite get her, but I did.
She sneered at him and immediately fumbled for her bosom, which already had enough décolletage showing to shame the Seven Hills of Rome. Gaston’s eyes suddenly twitched. A full giveaway. He got the picture. And Madame Brigitte Lebeau was no dummy. She was smart. As masterfully smart as she had to be. She had something to sell to save her life. I waited, knowing what she was up to. Alphonse at the wheel was sneaking furtive looks into the rearview mirror. Frenchmen. You can count on them every time. Madame Brigitte was banking on that.
“Fool,” Brigitte shot out scornfully, ‘you would kill a woman like me before making love to her? Prayer? I want nothing from le bon clieux but one good roll in the hay before I am to die. What do you say to that, my fine assassin?”
“Madame,” Gaston murmured as her fingers kept busy, divesting herself of the upper half of her dress. “Please—this is most—”
“What would you?” she barked. “If you will not service me then let the man here do it. Damon is a giant among men and it would be very shameful of you not to let me taste him once more before there is nothing left of me to love.”
Alphonse giggled nervously at the wheel. Gaston flung him a look. A question lurked beneath his fancy eyebrows. Brigitte saw the hesitation and capitalized on it.
“Oh—” She batted her eyelashes. “I would like to have all three of you but if I can only have one, let me at least make love to my lover, Damon. You may watch. We will not run away. At least, you will learn the fine art of love-making. How a woman should be loved!”
“Be a sport,” I challenged. “What have you got to lose except a little time? So you kill us a half hour later. Big deal.”
“Be still,” Gaston commanded, his eyes roving over Brigitte’s full and glorious mammaries. “The offer is tempting. I am a Frenchman, Madame. To us l’amour is all. True. I should be honored to serve you. God knows we deplore the necessity of shooting you. One so lovely—” He inclined his head toward Alphonse. “Pull over to the next convenient copse of woods you see. It seems this assignment has taken on curiously pleasing overtones.”
He meant undertones, and Alphonse obeyed him with such speed there was no doubt in my mind how he felt about the whole thing. The Daimler jumped, swerved, found a nearby trysting spot. A lover’s lane probably, where the milkmaids and the farmhands whooped it up at all hours. It was dense, thickly packed with spruce and birch trees and couldn’t be seen at all from the roadway. Madame Brigitte Lebeau was undressed already, save for her shoes. The tight dress was curled down around her shapely ankles. I didn’t look at her, though. I knew what she looked like. I was watching Gaston and the gun and hoping that the one he always carried was taking his mind off the general situation. I was gambling and so was Brigitte, but what did we have to lose?
“Ah,” Brigitte poured it on in her honeyed, bedroom patois, “this is so good of you, my friend. I will allow you to drink your fill of my breasts. See them? Are they not round and beautiful?” She practically held them up for Gaston’s inspection and Alphonse, who was backing the Daimler carefully within the cozy environs of the trees, lost his bearings and ran smack into a hidden birch that was thicker across the middle than death and taxes.
“Merde!” Gastron shrilled. The gun jumped.
“Rod!
” Madame Brigitte Lebeau screamed like a banshee and kicked one shapely gam up at Gaston’s extended pistol.
“Yippee!” I chortled and shot forward from the back seat like a battering ram. I didn’t stay in shape only for the bedroom ballets. My old college days stand me in good stead and I stay fit and trim. There is a decided relationship between Sex and Calisthenics. A trained body helps in both arenas of accomplishment.
Brigitte’s accurate toe sent the gun flying. Gaston cursed and scrambled forward which put his trim jaw closer to my fist. I slammed a five-fingered destroyer at him. A real hard smash. It was a good one. He went flying back, against the door of the car and his body must have hit the handle. The door fell open and he fell out. A tangle of striped pants, morning coat and top hat. By that time, Brigitte was opening her door and flouncing nakedly after him. I forgot about them both and concentrated on Alphonse. What a surprise.
He was coming up with two guns, one in each fist and was really serious about making Swiss cheese out of my face. I ducked just in time. The guns boomed together and chunks of Daimler bounced all around the tonneau. Before he could sight in on me again, I was over the car seat and all over him. He was tall and thin and hard-muscled. I had my hands full. Within seconds, we were asprawl in the roadway, whaling the hell out of each other. He had hung onto the guns, though. Try as I wanted to, I couldn’t get him to release them. So I did the next worse thing. I jumped on him with both feet and his eyeballs rolled and the guns went off again. He screamed just once and then rolled over as quiet as a mouse. A backfire, gun turned in on himself, had caught him a bad one dead-center in the heart.
Birds were racing out of the treetops, squawking like crazy, when I ran around to see how Brigitte was making out.
I should have known.
She and Gaston were locked in a fast embrace. Alphonse’s friend had his lips mashed to Brigitte’s splendid shelf of breast while her left hand was toying with his private weapon. No wonder Gaston had licked his lips at what Brigitte had offered earlier. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Almost a rival for the Les Deuces stud, Fountainbleau. But Brigite wasn’t as nuts as that sounded. She had the fallen silencer pistol in her right hand, pressing the nose of the thing right against Gaston’s left temple.