The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

"It was a room-service waiter bringing in your drink order, or so I thought when I followed him in here."

  "But I never ordered from room service," she said. She pulled herself upright, holding the top of the blanket over her breasts. "I already had drinks here for us. There wasn't supposed to be any waiter."

  "And there wasn't. Somebody came here to kill you. When I saw him in the bathroom, I went berserk." He peered at her. "You're sure you're all right?"

  "I'm alive," she said. "I guess that's being all right." She paused. "Who could it have been?"

  He gave her a lopsided smile. "Apparently a Constant Reader who saw a photograph in the morning paper, someone who didn't like your nosing about in the Nazi past."

  She shook her tangled wet hair with disbelief. "But murder . . ." she said.

  "You know a better way to discourage snoopy people?" He looked down at her again with concern. "Emily, how do you feel?"

  "Still a little scared, but recovering. I'll be fine in a short while. I'm afraid I'm not up to dinner though. I seem to have lost my appetite. You know what? All I need is company, if you can stand being company on an empty stomach. Company and a long drink. Maybe Scotch. And you?"

  "Company and a long drink," he affirmed, "and to hell with ordering dinner. This is cozier. I think we should both celebrate survival and togetherness by getting a little drunk. Let me pour a couple of Scotches for starters." He paused before going into the living room.

  "You know, Emily, I meant to tell you something tonight. I mean, at the first moment we were together."

  "What?"

  "That I think I love you, that's all. Now let's drink to that."

  It was nearly midnight. In the bedroom of Emily's hotel suite, they had been sipping their drinks and talking for close to three hours. Emily had managed to pull on the unbelted robe, and pushed aside the bedcover. She was still sitting up in bed, the robe loosely hiding her breasts. Foster had soon moved from a chair to sit on the side of her bed. She'd had three drinks of Scotch, and he was finishing his fourth.

  In the last hour, their talk had become more intimate. Sleepily, a trifle woozily, she had told him about her brief marriage, her juvenile mistake. And, feeling safe with him, she had related some details of her humiliating affair with Jeremy Robinson. In turn, he had discussed some of his encounters with other women, and his dissatisfaction with them. Finally, for the first time ever, he had volunteered to speak of his fiasco of a marriage with Valerie Granich. Emily had heard him out understandingly. "So we're both casualties," she murmured. "Casualties of—what?—the war between the sexes?" He had smiled. "I would put it more affirmatively. Survivors of bad judgment who've learned what we want."

  Considering this, Emily had wondered aloud, "What do we want? What do you want from a woman, Rex?" Haltingly, he had tried to tell her and then she had begun to tell him what she hoped for from a man. The words closeness and empathy and tenderness were quietly reiterated.

  Now they were silent, beyond the region of words.

  He felt high, trembling inside with wanting her, desiring her, aroused by the natural perfumes of her breasts and skin, but unable somehow to make the transition from verbal to physical intimacy. He decided not to press it, to allow the relationship to mellow, to wait for another time.

  He began to get up from the bed. "I think I'd better go now."

  She stared up at him. "Why?"

  Uncertainly, he answered. "To let you get some rest."

  Her eyes held on him, and she seemed to be making some kind of decision. Deliberately, she set her empty glass on the side table. "I thought you said, long ago this evening, that you loved me. Did you?"

  "I did."

  "You said I shouldn't be alone any more. I hope you mean it. I don't want to be alone, Rex. I want to be with you." She pulled off the robe with which she had been partially covering her breasts. "You've seen me naked—"

  "Well, hardly—" He found speech difficult, his gaze fixed on her small, firm, round breasts, the large brown circles accentuating the hardened and pointed nipples. "I didn't really see you . ."

  She pulled at the robe again and cast it entirely aside. "Now you can," she said. "I think turnabout is fair play. I want to see you naked, too. For Chrissakes, Rex, take off your damn clothes—that is, if you want to."

  "I want to," he said, setting down his drink. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

  "I'm up to it," she said. "The question is—are you?" He had never undressed more quickly, flinging his clothes aside, until he stood before her naked.

  Her eyes never left him, and they both knew that he was up to it.

  She reached out to caress the hardness of his erection. "How lovely," she whispered.

  He felt that his head would dissolve, and his rigid body, too, if he did not have her soon.

  He lowered himself onto the bed beside her, and her slender fingers continued to flutter around his penis. She was staring at it with a half smile. "I like what I see," she said softly. "What I see looks very serious."

  "It's as serious as can be, and it wants company."

  She released him, still with her half smile, and fell back on the pillow. "You're invited," she whispered.

  Rising to his knees, at last he saw her clearly nude. From below the protruding milky white and brown-tipped breasts, her abdomen was flat, her rib cage tautly outlined, her navel a slash, the auburn pubic hair down-thin, a marvelous stretch of triangle that revealed the bud of her clitoris and the pink narrow folds of her vulva and labia.

  She spread her legs wide, and he bent between them to kiss her clitoris with his tongue.

  "Oh, God, darling," she groaned.

  Then he was over her, between her thighs, and sliding his penis deep inside her, feeling the fantastic sensation of the moist parting and the snug clinging and hotness of her vulva and his penis as they held together so deep inside her.

  "Oh, God," she was repeating again and again.

  He tried to find his voice. "I never—never—felt anything like this is my life. Emily, I love you."

  And then he was moving steadily inside her, long, smooth strokes, and then faster ones, harder ones, un-ceasing ones.

  He could see her gorgeous face, eyes shut, her head going from side to side on the pillow, her lips mouthing something he could not hear. He could see the rise and fall of her globular breasts, and feel the circular motions of her buttocks. She was lifting her hips higher, lifting her trembling thighs, and he drove deeper into her unremittingly. Her hands groped for and found his testicles, bunching them together. He sighed and came down on her fully, feeling the give of her breasts, seeking and finding her full lips, her tongue, hearing his heart and her own hammering in unison.

  Her wetness below engulfed him, but he did not slow, driving, pulling, driving inside her slippery passage.

  Abruptly her torso heaved, her buttocks rising, her thighs tightening around him in a vise of flesh in one great and prolonged convulsion. "Oh, darling," she gasped.

  But he went on, and then she had another shuddering orgasm and, moments later, explosively, he came too.

  They lay still in each other's embrace for what seemed countless minutes. After a while, he could see that her eyes were closed in sleep and he could hear her breathing in relaxed slumber.

  Gently, he removed his body from her own, withdrawing his flaccid and sated penis.

  After a while, sitting on the bed beside her, his legs crossed, he sat watching her in sleep. He had never felt more content, fulfilled, at peace with himself. Watching her with love, he could no longer quite remember this woman as she'd seemed when they had first met. He half remembered her as someone too composed, self-possessed, self-contained, forbidding in her scholarship and independence, desirable but seemingly unattainable.

  And now she had bared herself to him totally, surrendered her passion to his own, fused herself to him, become a part of him as he had become a part of her.

  The love he felt for her was almost unbearable. And so wa
s his happiness.

  Drawing the blanket back over her, he realized more than ever how precious she was to him. It gave him a jolt to remember what had happened not many hours before. Someone had tried to kill her. Someone might try again. He must not allow it. He didn't dare lose her.

  Yet, he knew, she could be safe only if she abandoned the quest for Hitler and ignored the riddle of her father's death.

  No matter how much she loved him, wanted to be with him, Foster realized with certainty that Emily would abandon neither hunt.

  Slipping beneath the blanket beside her, he felt her stir slightly, then lay an arm across his chest. He searched her lovely face in repose, reached to put out the lamp, and tried to think what he could do to protect her, them, their future. In the darkness, it seemed insoluble. And soon he was lost in sleep.

  Chapter Six

  When Foster awakened, at midmorning, and focused his eyes on the ceiling, he knew that he was not in his own room, and for a lapsed moment was unsure of where he had been sleeping.

  Instantly he remembered, and reached out for Emily in the bed, but felt nothing. Turning his head on the pillow, he saw that her place was empty.

  He sat up immediately.

  She was standing at the dressing table, fastening a manila envelope. Her hair was loose, uncombed, and she was wearing the terrycloth bathrobe that did not completely cover her breasts. Her legs and feet were bare.

  He began to feel the swelling between his legs. "Emily, what are you doing?"

  She turned, smiling. "I found Rudi Zeidler's unlisted phone number and address. That's really what you came here for, isn't it?"

  Rex smiled. "Who's Rudi Zeidlerr

  "Well then you got what you came for, didn't you?

  Now you'd better go off and find those missing architectural plans, don't you think?"

  "Emily," he said quietly, "I'm in love with you. I've never met anyone like you. I never want to meet any other woman again."

  Her face had become serious. "Rex, do you mean that?"

  "I want to be with you every second of my life from this moment on." His desire for her was all-consuming. "Emily, I want to be with you right now."

  "Right now?"

  "This minute," he said imperatively, making room for her on the bed.

  "Why not?" she said.

  Dropping the envelope, she pulled back her terrycloth robe, shook herself out of it, and let it drop behind her.

  She posed nakedly beside him, her arms limply at her sides, but he could see the increased rise and fall of her breasts.

  Between his legs, he could feel the rigidity grow.

  He threw aside the blanket, and fell back, his arms outstretched to welcome her, and his erection pointed at her.

  With a cry of pleasure, she bounded onto the bed, pinned his shoulders back, and straddled him. Easily, gracefully, she came down over him until the tip of his erection touched her vagina. She adjusted herself, so that her opening met the hardness of his erection. Then she eased herself lower and lower, as her vulva filled with his penetration.

  Now she was riding him up and down, riding and rocking, while they grasped each other, clutched each other, going on and on.

  After many minutes, they gradually rolled to their sides, face to face, and he began to dominate the pelvic movements. Soon he was above her, the rhythm of their intense coupling picking up.

  At least a half hour later he let go, filling her with his orgasm, and as he finished she came, wildly, registering the release from fingertips to toes. After an interval he pushed himself off her and saw that her eyes were tightly shut and her hips swaying, so he reached down and began to caress her clitoris. She came quickly again. And then a third time, and a fourth.

  Then they were done, and he took her in his arms, and she clung to him, head on his hairy chest.

  When she wriggled free, she patted back her long hair, and propped herself on an elbow considering him.

  "You know," she said, "we can go on doing this all day."

  "And all night," he reminded her.

  "But one of us has to be practical," she said. "As the man in the family, you'd better get to work. Go thou and see Zeidler."

  He sat upright. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to have a big breakfast with the man I love. Then I'm going to pack him off to Herr Zeidler."

  "And after I'm gone?"

  "I'm going to have your key, and go to your room. I'm going to gather your things together, and move you into this suite. Two of us can stay here for about the price of one. It's never too early to economize. That is, if you agree."

  "I insist," said Foster.

  "And after I have your belongings down here with me, I'll start my pursuit of Herr Hitler again."

  "But carefully."

  "Very carefully."

  He swung off the bed. "Let me shower and dress. Soon as we're done with breakfast, before trying to see Zeidler, I'm going to tell the management about the man with the knife. I'm taking no more chances with you, my pet."

  She smiled up at him, and he bent down and kissed her and found it more difficult than ever to stop doing so.

  In his fourth-floor single room, using the number that Emily had given him, Foster dialed and hoped that he would find Rudi Zeidler in.

  The male voice answering the telephone on the other end sounded cheerful and young, and Foster wondered if it was Zeidler, since he figured that Speer's associate must be sixty-five years old by now.

  The voice confirmed that he was, indeed, Rudi Zeidler. "Who is this?" he asked in German.

  "My name is Rex Foster, and I've been trying to locate you for some time," Foster replied in German.

  "You have an American accent," said Zeidler.

  "Because I'm an architect from Los Angeles," explained Foster.

  "Very good," said Zeidler, switching to English. "I am fascinated by the early California architecture, especially the Spanish Colonial or Mission style." He coughed. "Why have you been trying to locate me, and who gave you my number?"

  "I obtained your phone number from a British friend of mine, Miss Ashcroft—she and her father, Dr. Harrison Ashcroft, were working on a biography about Adolf Hitler. Dr. Ashcroft interviewed you once."

  There was a pause. "Yes, yes, now I recollect. A clever man. I spent an afternoon with him. So, now you are calling me. Why?"

  "Also to spend a little time with you. I am completing a book on—" Foster hesitated, not wanting to use the word Nazi—"on German—on German architecture during the Third Reich. I understand that you played an important role."

  "A minor one." Zeidler seemed to reconsider his self-assessment. "But, perhaps in its way, it was vital. Ah, it was crazy what I had to do for that lunatic man Hitler."

  "I'd like to hear all about it, meet with you as soon as possible."

  "As soon as possible is today. You are free today?"

  "Anytime that is suitable to you."

  They made a date for lunch.

  Pleased with the arrangement, and grateful to Emily for having made it possible, Foster determined to use the better part of the next hour giving Emily a hand in moving his effects to her suite.

  Humming happily as he thought of Emily and relived their lovemaking together, he emptied the bureau drawers of his few clothes and put them on the bed, took his jackets and slacks off hangers and transferred them to his garment bag, gathered together his toilet articles and placed them in a leather kit, and finally packed the clothes on the bed into his suitcase. Everything was orderly, and he would leave his luggage for Emily, who would have it moved to her suite and unpack.

  Ready to depart, Foster called downstairs to the information desk and said that he would like to meet with the manager of the Kempinski as soon as possible. He added that it was to report an incident of grave importance. Since he refused to say anything more, he was advised to come down to the lobby where he would be met.

  Putting on a freshly pressed plaid sport jacket, Foster took the
portfolio of his architectural book under one arm, and headed for the elevator.

  In the lobby, he found someone already waiting for him before the information desk.

  The short, dapper gentleman, a Swiss as it turned out, proved to be not the manager but an assistant. The manager was in Baden Baden for a few days, but the assistant was temporarily in charge.

  "You have some problem?" the assistant asked. "Yes, and I think you do, too," said Foster.

  Without wasting words, Foster recounted to the assistant manager what had happened in Emily Ashcroft's suite during the attempt on her life last night.

  The assistant manager listened with growing horror. "A waiter from room service with a knife?" he mouthed. "You know it was a waiter for certain?"

  Foster described the attacker's outfit.

  "You could recognize the man if you saw him?"

  "I had only a glimpse of him, it happened so fast. But I might recognize him."

  "Very well, Mr. Foster. You wait. We have identity photographs for all our personnel, including those who handle room service. Let me bring them to you." About to start away, he said, "Do you mind repeating what you've told me to the head concierge over there. Per-haps he saw such a person, someone suspicious, leaving last night. What time did it happen?"

  "Around eight o'clock. Just about."

  "Please tell the concierge. I'll be back in a minute." The assistant hastened off past the information desk.

  Foster crossed over to the counter behind which the uniformed concierge stood, and, in a low voice, repeated the story of the attack on Emily Ashcroft.

  The concierge's ruddy face became ashen. "Terrible, terrible," he muttered. "Actually tried to stab her?''

  "Actually tried."

  "You should have notified us at once."

  "I couldn't," said Foster. "Miss Ashcroft was badly frightened, and I wanted to comfort her." He paused. "The question is—around eight last night--maybe a little after—did you see anyone hurrying through the lobby and leaving? A stocky, youngish man, dark-complexioned, muscular."

  The concierge threw up his hands. "Mr. Foster, so many come and go at that hour—and I am so occupied here when I work early evening—it is difficult to notice anyone. I can't remember anyone last night in a particular hurry or suspicious in appearance, but—"