A trickling chill of revulsion traversed Bolan’s spine. He was beginning to understand just what sort of museum this was. The next cubicle confirmed his suspicions. It was totally bare except for a pair of wrist-irons set high into the wall. On the floor beneath the irons was a small barrel with a narrow board placed across it. The use was obvious. The “victim” would be forced to balance on the unstable platform or else suffer his entire weight dangling from the harsh irons at his wrists.
A large black whip was coiled about a peg on the opposite wall. Bolan found himself visualizing some miserable wretch trying to maintain a foothold on the barrel with that cat o’ nine flaying into his naked flesh. The museum’s name tied in neatly then. Bolan was not overly sophisticated in matters of kinky sex but he knew of the Marquis de Sade, one of the most famous writers of forbidden literature and the man from whose name the term sadism was coined.
Bolan shivered and moved on out of there and through a succession of similar cubicles containing various of the diabolical torture devices. He was beginning to feel as though he were trapped in a maze when he finally got to another stairway and ascended to still another floor and found a neat duplicate of the club-room below. Ann Franklin was standing near a small desk. She stared at him over the mouthpiece of a telephone. He told her, “Hang up.”
She did so without argument, looking at the pistol in his hand. “You’re behaving badly,” she said, calmly. “We. are only trying to help.”
“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” he told her, moving around the room to study it. “I’m not here to play games. Where’s the guy?”
“Which guy?” she asked quietly.
“The guy with the brigadier’s voice and a peeping Tom’s manners. Where was he talking from?”
“Oh … so you discovered that.”
“Sure I discovered it.” Bolan had completed his reconnaisance of the room and ended his search at the girl’s side. The Beretta went back into the sideleather and he told her, “Well, I appreciate the ride into town. Is there a quicker way out of here other than through the chamber of horrors?”
“But you can’t leave now,” she protested weakly.
“The hell I can’t.” His voice softened as he added, “Look, you did a gutsy thing down there at Dover, and I’m indebted to you. But I didn’t invite you in, you know, and gratitude can stretch just so far. For openers, it won’t cover being locked up in a house of sick sex and watched with a hidden camera.”
The girl’s eyes fell. She said, “Sorry about the security. It is necessary, you know. I mean, don’t imagine that we installed all that expressly for your benefit. If you’re wondering about Charles, he’s in the cellar, the security station. But don’t please go down there bothering him. He’s a nice old love who wouldn’t harm a flea.”
Bolan said, “This is more than just a museum, isn’t it?”
“Of course.” Her eyes met his, almost defiantly he thought. “Every one has a right to sex, even if their outlets are … limited. We provide that outlet here, at de Sade.”
“With whips and racks,” he observed drily.
“Oh, those are just props. Psychological, you know. Our members are not psychotics. Their need is for … stimulative fantasy. It’s rather like pornography.”
“I see,” Bolan said. “A trip through the maze of horrors and they’re ready to swing, eh? Come on now, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“We have … a paid staff,” she explained in a small voice. “Certain … stimulating services … may be purchased.”
Bolan decided the girl was trying to delay him, to keep him there. Until what? He told her, “Well, that’s none of my business. Who are we expecting?”
“What?”
“You’re trying to keep me here until someone else arrives. Who?”
She said, “I told you earlier that I had to ring up the directors.”
“What’s their interest- in me?”
“Permit them to tell you that.”
“No. You tell me. Right now, or I’m walking.”
“They want to help you.”
“Why?”
She moved her shoulders delicately and replied, “They want you to help them, also. But I shouldn’t be discussing this, really. You must wait and let them tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
Her hip swung into contact with his thigh. She quickly jerked it back and laughed nervously, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You Americans can look so fierce and frightening,” she said.
“Do I frighten you?”
“Of course.” Her other arm went up and she pressed full against him with a soft little sigh, then pushed herself regretfully away and turned her back to him. “All right,” she said. “Go on. Start walking. I couldn’t blame you for that.”
Bolan watched her for a moment, trying to read her. Such a lovely thing … what part did she play in the nutty goings-on at this house of kinks? He sighed, deciding there would be too much involvement there for a guy bent on blitzing through.
“Thanks for Dover,” he muttered, and moved quickly toward the door.
A man stood there, blocking the way out, a Hollywood casting director’s idea of a retired British military officer, complete to tidy little moustache and stiff tweed suit. The hair was combed straight back, thin and streaked with gray, and the stiffly erect posture made him appear much taller than his five seven or eight.
Bolan’s hand moved inside his jacket and he said, “Well, here’s Charlie.”
“Wrong,” the man snapped. “Charles is busy replacing a very expensive camera which you destroyed for no reason. Really, Bolan, that was a beastly reaction to an offer of friendship.”
Bolan replied, “Friends don’t lock me up.” The Beretta was in his hand and he was moving toward the doorway again.
The little man stood his ground, blocking the exit.
“There’s no time to explain all that now. The point is, Bolan, that you cannot possibly leave here now. You’ll walk onto that street to certain death. Our mutual enemy is out there in force, waiting for you to show.”
“How do you know that?”
“I saw them as I was coming here. The entire square is sealed off.”
Uneasily, Bolan asked, “Just who are you talking about? The police?”
“Of course not, though I imagine they’re not too far off either.”
Bolan sighed. “You said ‘mutual enemy.’ Explain.”
“The same people who want you are trying to destroy us in quite a different fashion. We helped you get into England, you know. We thought—”
“Okay, that explains one small mystery,” Bolan interrupted. “But Dover was also swarming with Mafiosi. How did they know?”
“Yes, well, that bothers us also, you know. Security leak somewhere, no doubt. Never worry we shall find it.”
“I’ll buy that for now,” Bolan told him. “So what does my presence here mean to you? An executioner for your side?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “That’s putting it rather bluntly but … yes, I suppose that’s it. You’re dedicated to the extinction of certain elements. We have them here, you know, right here in London. We decided … well, we took the vote, Bolan.”
“What vote?”
“We decided to sponsor you for a stay in London.”
“I’m not for hire,” Bolan quietly replied.
“Of course not,” the man said quickly. “I did not mean to suggest … we offer you only cooperation.”
“What sort of cooperation?”
“We’ll provide you with intelligence, and protect you in every possible way.”
Bolan was thinking it over.
“And,” the man continued, “when you’ve finished here, we will help you safely out of the country.”
Bolan had reached his decision.
“No deal,” he reported, in a tone which left no hope for negotiation. “Now stand aside. I’m leaving.”
A strained smiled pulled at the man’s lip
s. “Kipling’s cat,” he said musingly.
“What?”
“I was thinking of one of Rudyard Kipling’s stories, about a jungle cat. ‘He went back through the wet wild woods, waving his wild tail, and walking by his wild lone.’ That’s you, Bolan, a wild jungle beast that walks by himself. Quite admirable, really. I’ll see that it’s carved onto your burial stone.”
Bolan said, “Thanks.” He jostled the man aside and passed on to the stairway.
The girl cried out, “Wait!” and hurried after him. She overtook him at the bottom step and pressed a key into his hand. “Queen’s House,” she whispered, “front flat, upper. Across from the park on Russell Square. You’ll find it easily. It’s safe there, and you’re welcome any time.”
Bolan kissed her forehead, murmured “Okay,” and went on. The key went into his pocket, though a flat on Russell Square seemed the remotest of all possibilities for him at the moment. If the stiff little man had not been trying to con him, a street full of Mafiosi awaited him just outside. He took a deep breath and checked the load in the Beretta.
The cat that walked by himself, eh? Bolan grinned faintly to himself and fingered his spare clips: he liked that. He was going out there to wave his wild tail through those wet wild Mafia woods, and that was okay. Bolan had learned jungle law and how to live by it. All jungles were alike; the same law operated through them all. Kill quick and hard, then fade to return and do it again. Bolan knew the law. It was older than mankind, older than men’s laws. And Bolan himself could quote a bit of Kipling.
“Now this is the Law of the Jungle—as old and as true as the sky.”
Or how about, “Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!”
Yeah, Bolan decided, Kipling had been there too.
He went back through the grim little cells of the second floor and down through the carved labia and spreading buttocks into the harem room. This trip through he noticed the phallic statuary, vases shaped like leather hipboots, lampshades made to look like corsets, and various other items of erotic decor. He shook his head sadly, thinking of the girl upstairs, and passed quickly on through to the clubroom.
Then he found an elderly man kneeling beside an open panel of the wall. The man looked up with a frown at Bolan’s entry, then averted his eyes from the fierce encounter.
Bolan commanded, “Show me a quiet way out”
Charles heaved to his feet and said, “Down through the cellar is the best way, but it’ll only deposit you just across the square. I’d call it a very tiny advantage.”
“Fine,” Bolan said. It was all he needed, one tiny advantage. He’d make it stretch all the way through the wet wild woods.
Chapter Three
DEATH IN THE SPOT
Charles, it developed, was his family name. The given name was Edwin but he preferred to be called Charles. Per Bolan’s earlier voice judgement, he was indeed a former army officer—twice retired he was quick to point out. During World War Two, Charles had been a high-ranking staff officer in liason with the American cloak and dagger outfit, OSS. He’d grown to know the Americans quite well, admired them, and jolly well understood and admired Bolan’s quick reaction to “the security watch” at de Sade.
Bolan would have had a tough time judging the old man’s age; he hung it in at about seventy-five, realizing that he could be five years off in either direction. Judging purely by mental spryness, Bolan would have scaled down the years considerably. Charles was alert and quick, with plenty of fire remaining behind the old eyes. Only the physical gave away his age, and even here only in his movements, for he was tall and straight, slim without appearing bony. He had once been a very powerful man, Bolan guessed. His jaw was long and hard, he was clean-shaven, his hair was thick and wavy, though snowy white. Bolan decided he would have liked to know Charles thirty or forty years before.
The escape route from de Sade had been a sewer at some time in ages past. Charles accompanied Bolan out, proudly pointing out places where they had “restructured” around WW2 bomb damage to keep the old tunnel passable. Not too many years earlier, he added, a secret route of escape from the townhouse had been a must; now the tunnel was regarded as just another museum piece to be carefully preserved, as a link to the past.
“Anything goes in London these days,” the old man told Bolan, his eyes twinkling. “Rather takes the fun out of sin, what?”
When they arrived at the other end, Bolan thanked him, delivered an offhand apology for the shattered television camera, then he climbed an iron ladder and lifted himself to the surface.
Charles, his face dimly illumined in the side glow of a pocket flashlight, was peering up at him with considerable anxiety. “Remember to look before you leap, Yank,” he called up.
Grinning, Bolan replied, “Okay, I’ll remember that, Brigadier.”
“This crackling museum of ours. You should realize that it has a deeper meaning, quite aside from its obvious purpose. It’s a symbol of our times, Bolan. Remember that. Our times.”
Bolan’s grin faded. He gave a curt wave and lowered the door on the concerned face. What, he wondered, prompted a grand old man like this into such questionable activities? He should be sitting out his days in a quiet clubroom somewhere, recounting the glories of days gone by. Instead, he played Secret Agent at a house of kinks.
Bolan shook Charles out of his mind and took up the problem at hand. He was in the basement of another building situated directly opposite the Museum de Sade. The Sades operated this establishment, too. It was a book store and sexprop shop. A dim yellow bulb revealed the basement was a storeroom, with cartons of merchandise stacked about rather haphazardly. Bolan went up the flight of rickety stairs, found a key where Charles had assured him he would, and let himself into the shop. Here was utter darkness, except for a limited penetration of street light through the windows up front.
Bolan moved quietly to the edge of darkness and took up a patient surveillance of activities outside. The fog was gone, except as a faintly visible pall hanging just above the rooftops. A half-dozen regularly spaced street lamps broke the darkness here and there about the square without actually relieving it. After several minutes of watchful waiting, someone just outside the shop but out of Bolan’s range of vision lit a cigarette. Bolan saw the glow from the match and seconds later a puff of smoke drifting past the window. The guy was close.
Some minutes later a large car cruised past, moving slowly. It was an American make, quickly identified by Bolan as a Lincoln. Four, perhaps five persons were inside. Bolan’s attention was drawn to a large spotlight mounted on the driver’s side. These boys were a hunting party.
Shortly after the vehicle moved out of view, a man sauntered into the light of a street lamp across the way, seemed to consult a wrist watch, then he too faded into the darkness.
Yeah, it was a hard set.
The Lincoln returned some moments later and halted on Bolan’s side of the square, out of his field of vision. A large man with thick shoulders immediately strolled past the shop, barely ten feet from Bolan’s position, and disappeared in the direction of the vehicle. Almost at the same moment, the door opened at the Museum de Sade and Ann Franklin came out. Bolan watched her tensely, wondering about her reception by those waiting in the street. She crossed the traffic circle and halted in the small park at the center, standing beneath a street lamp. She seemed to be looking toward the bookshop; Charles had told her, no doubt, of Bolan’s mode of exit.
Bolan fidgeted and watched the girl. What the hell was she trying to do? As he watched, a man came out of the darkness walking directly toward the girl. He made a close pass and went on by, Ann swiveling to watch him out of sight. Had they spoken? Bolan could not tell; it had appeared not.
Seconds later a taxicab eased into the circle and halted alongside the girl. She entered and the cab went on. A moment later another vehicle which Bolan had not seen earlier swung into view and circled around to fall in behind th
e taxi.
No, she had not spoken. They’d made an identity pass, pulled the make, and were now following her. They were missing no bets.
Nor was Bolan. His quiet surveillance had gained him a rather valid impression of the terrain out there, and of the forces arrayed against him. It was a mighty hard set, too hard for any ideas of a frontal assault. So, once again, Bolan’s time had come.
He went back through the shop and let himself out through the rear entrance. The alleyway was narrow, smelly, and densely dark, running along the side of the shop and dead-ending a few feet to the rear. Bolan took the only way out, moving cautiously toward the square, and rounded the corner in a casual stroll. The big man he had noted earlier outside the shop was now standing just downrange, leaning against a building about halfway between the shop and the Lincoln, arms folded across his chest in a stance of tired boredom. He did not see Bolan until they were in an almost direct confrontation, then he started visibly and whispered, “Shit, don’t come up like that. You scared the—”
Bolan told him, “Relax. I don’t think the guy’s over there. I think it’s a bum stand.” He edged in close to the man, keeping a distant street lamp behind him.
“Is that what Danno thinks?”
“Yeh,” Bolan replied. His mind was clicking out the name. Danno Giliamo? Could be. A lieutenant in a New Jersey mob. Bolan probed. “Jersey was never like this, eh,” he said disgustedly.
“Any place is like this at two in th’ morning,” the man replied. He was showing an interest in Bolan’s face and having a bad time at identification in the London blackness.
Probably, Bolan guessed, wondering about rank. People in the mob were very rank conscious. Bolan pushed his advantage. “Go on over and get some coffee,” he commanded gruffly.
“They got coffee over there?”
“I said coffee, didn’t I?”
The man sighed, mumbled something disparaging about “English coffee,” and dug in his pocket for a cigarette. Bolan slapped the pack out of his hand, snarling, “Whatta you, nuts? You don’t go lighting no fires out here!”
Continental Contract Page 17