Kisses From Satan

by George B Mair

  Grant had never moved more gently in his life. He recalled the position of every chair or stool in the room and picked his way without a sound until he was standing behind the American.

  It was vital that he strike cleanly. There mustn’t even be a scratch. Only a pin-point of blood which could be wiped away and which could be explained at an autopsy as the site of an injection. The ideal place would be the upper arm, just over the triceps. And the way Miller was holding the night glasses was almost perfect. He marked the man’s upper right arm and drove the needle home with a short stabbing swing which was three-fourths a right hook. Miller dropped his glasses and jumped to his feet.

  Grant knew that the drug took just on a full minute to work. ‘Hi!’ he said. ‘Thought I’d pop in and see you.’

  Grant’s voice took the American by surprise. He rubbed his arm and switched on a wall light. ‘What d’you think you’re doing in here?’

  Grant made himself sound apologetic. ‘Tripped on the rug.’

  The man was staring at him with open disbelief. ‘The hell you were!’ And then he saw the ring with its vicious little needle sticking out like a rose thorn from Grant’s finger. He leaped for a gun under his pillow and then slumped across the bed. He had begun to struggle for breath and he was beating his chest with his hands as though to force air inside.

  He stared at Grant and his voice was still steady. ‘So you did it?’ He struggled upright and fumbled with the top button of his pyjama jacket. ‘A shocking way to kill a man.’ His face had begun to show strain and his jaw muscles were already tightening as he spoke. ‘When do the Niggers arrive?’

  Grant guessed that he was fighting even in these last seconds to pull something out the hat. The man’s stamina was fantastic. It was taking him every ounce of strength to sit upright but his right hand was edging nearer to the pillow and Grant could see the butt of a revolver dark against the sheets.

  Miller’s eyes hardened and the man seemed to grow in stature as he suddenly dived for it and fumbled with the wood. His finger was searching for the trigger, and then it was over. He slumped backwards. His breathing had become shallow. There were beads of sweat on his brow and his lips were cyanosed to a lilac pallor which rapidly darkened to navy blue as he twitched restlessly for another ten seconds.

  Grant switched off the light, pulled down the Venetian blinds and began to set the scene.

  Pyjamas off and the man in bed.

  He slipped on a pair of fine suède gloves, opened a bottle of Bourbon and lifted out three glasses.

  Stomach contents! There would be an autopsy. How to fill Miller’s stomach with enough Bourbon to make it look like an orgy?

  But this angle had been planned in advance and he had packed a Ryle’s tube in his own baggage.

  Everything was quiet outside as he stepped rapidly back to his rooms. The thin stomach tube was in his dressing case along with syringes and a few other medical items which might have been essential.

  Back in Miller’s house he held the man’s head upright and slipped the length of weighted rubber tubing into his stomach. He had also collected a twenty cc. syringe and loaded it with Bourbon. Five shots were enough. Blood alcohol might still be low but at least they would find plenty in his guts.

  He returned the syringe and tubing to his own room and then faced the trip back to the car. Two sets of headlamps had swept along the main drive since he had left Miller’s place. It was now after two ack emma but there was always the chance that some other late bird might throw him into silhouette as he raced across the lawns to the friendly cover of shrubs.

  He stumbled only once, at the gravel path, and then he was back at the jetty.

  The girls had an astonishing gift of patience. He had been away almost twenty minutes but Sultry was cool as a block of ice as he ushered her out of the back seat and gave her a lift over the low wall into the grounds. ‘You both keep tight behind me,’ he whispered. ‘If there’s a light we drop face down on the ground. You don’t make a sound and you mind your step on the gravel path. Take it easy all the way.’

  Winona was close behind him and he felt her hand on his back. ‘Old Indian stuff this,’ she whispered. ‘Sultry’s right beside me. Get goin’.’

  He paused for a final look round at the edge of the shrubbery before crossing the lawns to the shade of the physiotherapy department. One car eased out of the drive and he heard a window open in the main block.

  ‘Right,’ he whispered, and crouched low as they dived for shadow.

  He could see a boat fishing a few hundred yards off shore but figured that they would still be camouflaged even if someone was watching. The moon was now low and casting long shadows but it was easy to slither along the brick gable to the edge of the broad lawns where their real trouble would begin. He studied every inch of the terrain. The coast seemed clear. Even the main building was now in darkness.

  It was the longest two minutes of his life. He felt stark naked at times and felt that the thing couldn’t go on, that someone would be certain to spot them before they reached the flower beds.

  He forced himself to walk as though on ice. There could be no noise yet. Not even a broken twig since Hancke kept dogs and one of them might still be loose.

  ‘Okay. We made it.’ Winona was whispering with satisfaction as they stopped for a second in the shade of a golden weeping willow at the beginning of the road round to the chalets. The moon was still gleaming on the waters of the pool and Grant could still see the light on in Martinez’ room.

  ‘Last lap,’ he muttered and edged forwards. The place was deserted and Miller’s door wide open. ‘My place first,’ he whispered. ‘Got to clean up.’

  He pulled every blind, drew the curtains and closed the doors. He looked at his reflection in a mirror. ‘And for sure I’m in a mess. We’ve got to get rid of the lot.’

  He stripped to the skin and stepped into the shower. His nails were engrained with filth, and dried blood encrusted the hairs of his forearms. He scrubbed until he was sore while the girls rubbed down his back and he shampooed his hair to rinse out every last vestige of Tyler’s murder. Forensic tests could pick up traces of blood in dilutions of millions, and no one yet knew whether the body was now on its way to Venice or north to Dijon. In either case it was long odds that Tyler would be discovered at the frontier and it wouldn’t take the police long to trace the Maserati. Or its occupants.

  He washed down the shower with detergent, polished it clean and reached for a light-weight suiting.

  ‘Now you.’

  The girls shrugged their shoulders. ‘We’ve got no blood.’

  ‘Check and double check,’ snapped Grant. ‘Strip.’

  They undressed with a slouchy arrogance which tantalised and then he examined every inch of their clothing until he was sure that it was in the clear except for a spot on Winona’s skirt.

  ‘Prob’bly when I jabbed him in the leg,’ she grinned and dabbed it clean with cold water.

  Their skin was bespattered in several places and Grant made them loofa it clear before he allowed them to dress. Then he lifted his own clothes and meticulously cut out every laundry or tailor mark on each garment. ‘Burn these, honey,’ he whispered. ‘Stove in the corner. And poke the ashes to smithereens.’

  He returned to Miller’s chalet and lifted a week-end case from the dressing room. Miller and he were much of a build and he decided to leave the case with his suiting and linen in Miller’s own room. The clothes would give the police something to think about, and at a pinch it might take the heat off himself if they ever got around to trying to trace Tyler.

  ‘Right, girls,’ he snapped. ‘This is it.’

  He eased them along to Miller’s place using deep shadow all the way and then closed the front door. He felt Winona’s hand still on his arm and saw that she was rock steady. ‘Okay. Action stations.’

  The girls moved with smooth efficiency and dropped garments all over the room until they were sitting in next to nothing. Sultry had
swilled Bourbon over the glasses and spilled some on the bed. Winona had smudged Miller’s face with lipstick and doodled on the pillow. The place had begun to look like a second rate call-girl’s studio and Grant handed over a packet of photographs which made Sultry whistle with satisfaction. She slipped a few under a pillow and dropped the others into Miller’s briefcase. And then she turned to Grant. ‘You got anything mo’ to do?’

  He used his parade ground voice. ‘Plenty. Timing is our next problem. And you two have to look half plastered. I want you to drink two Scotch and ryes after I leave, and then you’ve to use the house phone and let the office know that Miller had passed out. Not dead. Just passed out. But you must give me a clear ten minutes, and we’re going to synchronise watches.’

  Winona lifted her forearm. ‘Two-fifteen. So we start workin’ at two-twenty-five.’

  Grant checked and nodded. ‘Then again I’ve taken your own passports, and Miss Stefanie will leave them in Paris, but you’ll tell the police that they are in your room.’ He looked at Sultry and grinned. ‘Until further notice you are Mary James and Winona is Dinah Moses. Got that?’ He repeated the names. ‘Mary James and Dinah Moses. Your new passports are in your rooms and you were smuggled in here by Miller around midnight. He met you at the jetty where we left the car and you’ve been having a party ever since. He was pitching it too strong and had “an attack” but you let the medicine men find out what sort of attack. Just an attack.’

  Winona mixed a double Scotch with rye and raised the glass. ‘Good luck.’

  Grant looked at her curiously. The death of Tyler had left her unmoved and she seemed to be as much at home among corpses as she was in a gown store. ‘We’ll need it. A few more points. You’ve seen me before. In fact we had a word at your digs earlier this evening. But we are just casual friends.’

  Sultry’s teeth flashed pearly white. ‘Casual is just the word fo’ it.’

  ‘And you have never seen me here, in fact you didn’t know that I was here.’

  He thought for a long moment, trying to tie up a score of untidy loose ends. The top Federal boys would get the whole truth from ADSAD and Admiral Cooper, and he was trying only to square things for juniors who had noses like ferrets for anything off-beat. This was going to be an operation with no secrets at top level but with total upheaved chaos everywhere else. ‘I’m going back to the car. I’ll check in with the night boy at Reception and I’ll lay some red herrings which ought to stand up to the test. Then I’ll come down to my own chalet and I’ll be expecting to find trouble. You two are going to be plastered and making yourselves conspicuous. I’ve a phone in my room and can dial local calls without them going through the switchboard so I’ll contact Reuter and Tass and their boys ought to be here within minutes. But you’ve to keep the party going till they can get pictures: savvy?’

  Winona eased her long ebony thighs and stretched out her limbs like a cat. ‘We’ll stall. And the boys’ll get a load of cute pictures. We’ll seem so blame blind drunk that we won’t be able t’dress. Will we, honey chile?’

  Sultry laughed. ‘They won’t ever have found such co-operative models.’ She stared at Miller’s body. ‘We’ve got to remember jes’ one thing. That man’s to leave a bad bad memory.’

  Grant prepared to go. ‘Go on drinking your Scotch. They may take a breath test or a blood alcohol and we want to be sure it’s plenty high.’ He hesitated. ‘But don’t get really drunk. You’ve to keep yourself under control and remember your story; two doubles are the limit.’

  He examined Miller’s arm and dabbed away a minute point of blood. And then he wrinkled the sheets and spilled a bottle of Smirnov Vodka over the floor in one corner of the room. Next he padded swiftly to the toilets and smeared a towel with Sultry’s lipstick, turned on the bath water and emptied an ashtray around the toilet.

  ‘All set.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes as from now you raise the alarm.’ Miller’s body was still warm and he reckoned that the medicals would have a tough job to figure when he died. The room was hot and there wasn’t a trace of rigor mortis.

  ‘You, Sultry, be lying curled up on the bottom of the bed when the cops or newsmen arrive. And you, Winona, do the phoning.’

  The girls stared at him with an odd glint in their eyes. ‘When d’we see you again in private?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not for a week or two. Then we’ll have a party in Paris to celebrate if all goes well but Miss Stefanie will get in touch and give you my address.’

  Winona slinked across and put her arms around his neck. ‘You certainly are one big strong man, David. Even a coloured gal could fall fo’ you.’

  He kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘One day, honey. One day. But after the heat’s been turned off. The Swiss are hot stuff and there’s a lot of fixing to be done.’

  She dropped her cigarette holder and kissed him with a passion which was almost frightening. Her breath was sweet and clean and her lips felt like warm velvet. Her hands were firm against his buttocks and her breasts taut against his shirt. Her eyes had suddenly softened to limpid pools of brown mystery and he knew that he wanted her. He forced himself to kiss her gently and then she stepped back. Her eyes were dead serious. ‘Don’t you worry ’bout anything. Sultry and me will do the rest.’

  Sultry was curled like a cat on a deep armchair. Her body shone yellow orange in the light and the ebony of her skin seemed to have lightened. She stared at him with blatant longing and then slouched across the room. Her muscles rippled like the taut flesh of a lion stalking its prey. And then she kissed him slowly on each cheek. ‘We’ll be seeing you, strong man. Winona was right when she said you looked competent. See you in Paris. An’ what a party that’ll be! Ah don’t generally go fo’ white men but you’ve earned it.’

  He kissed her hands and left the room. Sultry was sipping a second double Scotch and Winona lighting a last cigarette.

  He doubled back through the gardens. The place was deserted and then a dog slinked out right in front of him. It was a huge bull mastiff. The beast was a magnificent specimen and its teeth were bared in a silent snarl of warning.

  Grant loved animals but knew that Hancke’s dogs were trained to stop night hawks in the grounds and he moved with calculated precision. The dog eyed him carefully and then edged forwards. Its tongue was lolling against its chops and there was a deep throated snarl which headlined danger. Grant was still wearing his gloves and he waited until the beast crouched for a spring. It was leaping for his chest when he landed a straight right against its chest and in the same second karate chopped it behind the ear. The dog dropped as though it had been pole-axed and Grant paused only to check that it was still alive.

  He dragged it gently into the shade of a cluster of flowers and then padded at the double for the Porsche. Five minutes later he swept noisily into the parking lot, gave his engine the gun and then switched off.

  Reception eyed him coldly. ‘Not so much noise, sir, people are asleep.’

  Grant laughed aloud and slapped down a ten franc note. ‘Sorry, chum, but I’ve had one terrible night. Did you ever hear of a Maserati breaking down?’

  The night receptionist, alert in electric blue uniform, shook his head. ‘They are like a Rolls, sir. Never any trouble.’

  Grant smacked his hand on the desk. ‘That’s what you think, my boy. But it developed a knock between here and St. Julien. What would you have done?’

  The man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, m’sieur. It is improbable that I shall ever own a Maserati. I have never thought about it.’

  Grant became serious. ‘In my view something in the cylinders. I sent it back to Paris where it came from,’ he added abruptly. ‘My lady friend was going there tomorrow so she took it along and I switched to a Porsche.’

  The man smiled. ‘Then doubtless it will be repaired.’

  Grant laughed. ‘Doubtless. Meanwhile can you lay on a pot of tea?’

  The man hesitated. ‘There has been a tragedy near you
r chalet, m’sieur. Mr. Miller has died and everyone is busy.’

  ‘Does Professor Hancke know?’

  The man shrugged his shoulders expressively. ‘The Professor is in Evian for two days.’

  ‘But you must have had deaths before. What is the problem?’

  ‘Look, m’sieur.’ The man leaned forward confidentially. ‘I must tell you this because you are sleeping in the next chalet. But there is a scandal and a Clinique of this type cannot afford scandal.’

  Grant looked interested. ‘What sort of scandal?’

  ‘Women, m’sieur.’ He raised his hands helplessly. ‘You may see them for yourself. Our night staff says they are uncontrollable, half drunk and ready to fight like wild cats.’

  ‘Sounds interesting!’

  ‘Interesting, m’sieur!’ The receptionist slapped the desk with passion. ‘It could ruin us. Mr. Miller was an important man and now it seems he has been turning a respectable house into a . . . a . . . a . . .’

  ‘Save it,’ said Grant abruptly. ‘Send me tea. I’ve a thirst like the Sahara, and I’ve enough troubles of my own to bother about Miller or his wild women. That Maserati has ruined my night.’

  He could hear shrieks of laughter tinkling across the lawns and glimpsed figures moving against the lights of Miller’s chalet. It was time for more action. Tass and Reuter! The sooner cameras were on the scene the better.

  He walked swiftly past Miller’s door and into his own quarters.

  He had sneaked one glance inside. The nursing staff seemed helpless. Sultry was dancing a Charleston to a transistor tuned to pop music and Winona was squatting on the floor beating a coffee table like a drum.

  No one saw him pass and he snibbed the door of his bedroom before lifting the phone and dialling Reuter’s night desk. He slipped a walnut into his mouth and deepened his voice an octave. ‘Send a photographer to Hancke’s Health Clinique. There’s a dead man and two half-naked women in a chalet near the swimming pool. But you’d better move fast if you want to beat the law.’