by Ted Mark
Realizing this, I had nothing to lose by fast action. If I did as he said, I'd surely be dead. By doing what I did, I was just playing the long odds to stay alive.
I reached out as if I was about to wrap my hands around her throat. But instead, my hands grabbed an edge of the carpet on which he was standing and yanked hard. The gun went off just as his feet went out from under him. I heard the bullet whistle over my head. I didn't hang around to give him a chance to shoot again. He was still trying to pick himself up as I bolted past him and out of the room. I ran down the hallway, through the living room and foyer, through the offices of S.M.U.T. beyond, down the stairwell, and out of the building. I didn't stop running until I was safely seated on a subway bound for Manhattan.
Then I unscrambled my thoughts. The way the pieces fit, it looked like the old jealous-husband bit. Somehow Peter Highman had found out what Prudence and I were up to in the locked room. My guess was that he'd meant to kill us both, and that if I hadn't gone to the john when I did he would have succeeded. He must have thought I was there, and whatever it was he'd used to kill Prudence would undoubtedly have killed me too if I'd been in the room. Then, when he saw me in the hall, he must have revised his plans. It probably looked even better from his standpoint. He'd frame me for the murder, shoot me, be rid of both of us and go scot free with no explanations necessary. Only one thing continued to bug me: just how the hell had he killed Prudence?
I shelved that for the time being and thought about whether I should call the cops. I decided against it. It would be my word against Highman's, and at the very least I'd use up a lot of time convincing the police of my innocence. And there was always the chance that I wouldn't be able to convince them. In any case, I had no time to waste. Putnam had made that clear back in London. It was imperative that I work fast to retrieve the defecting Dr. Nyet from the clutches of S.M.U.T.
Still, there was nothing further to be done this night. So I went back to my hotel and caught a good night's sleep. When I woke up I ordered breakfast sent up to my room and told them to bring the morning papers with it.
There was no murder story splashed over the front pages. Evidently once I'd made my escape Highman also had decided not to bring in the police. He must have made up his mind to conceal his wife's murder. I wondered what he'd done with the corpse.
I found the answer in a small news item buried on page three of one of the papers. It said that the body of a naked woman had been found in the swamps of Canarsie early that morning. The body was strangely twisted, but there were no marks on it. Police were trying to identify the victim, but admitted they had no clues. From the description, it sounded like Prudence.
Renewing my decision not to become involved, I put the papers aside. If I was right about Highman's trying to cover his tracks, he wouldn't be in any hurry to tell S.M.U.T. about his wife's fate. And that meant he wouldn't tell them about me. So I ought to be able to start from scratch with my plans to infiltrate them. This time I decided to start closer to the top than a regional chapter. I called the national headquarters in Manhattan and made an appointment to see one of their higher-level execs.
The appointment was for three that afternoon. By three-thirty I had convinced the exec of my sincerity and he was already waxing enthusiastic over how useful I could be to their cause. By four-thirty we were on our way to an exclusive Park Avenue brothel!
"A brothel?" I had raised my eyebrows back in the S.M.U.T. offices when the exec made the suggestion.
"Yes. Surely you have been in such establishments before in the course of your work, Mr. Victor?"
"Well, yes, but -"
"But?"
"But isn't S.M.U.T. sort of opposed to brothels? I mean isn't one of your aims to stamp them out?"
"Precisely. But that isn't as simple as it might seem. This particular brothel, for instance, is but one such establishment being run by a large international vice ring. Getting the goods on such an organization is extremely difficult. It's a long-term project of S.M.U.T.'s to destroy this ring at its very roots. We're hoping that the occurrence planned for tonight will provide evidence toward that end. You see, we have arranged for the place to be raided tonight. However, the police are most lax and most corrupt in such matters. Therefore S.M.U.T. itself has seen fit to take a hand to insure that there will be testimony available which will at least result in the convictions of those who run this particular brothel. Now do you understand, Mr. Victor?"
"In principle, yes. But you'll have to spell out for me just how S.M.U.T. is going to participate in these proceedings."
"Very well. You and I and two other men from S.M.U.T. are going to the brothel, where we will pose as customers. There are already three young ladies from S.M.U.T. who have infiltrated the brothel in a working capacity."
"You mean they're actually selling their bodies?" I worked hard at looking shocked.
"It's a great sacrifice, but these brave young ladies didn't hesitate to volunteer to make it. Actually, I'm proud to say that there were twenty-seven other volunteers from our Manhattan office alone, but these three were chosen because of their physical qualifications. In any case, between what they have learned and the information we hope to secure tonight, S.M.U.T. not only hopes to put this establishment out of business but perhaps also to be in a position to strike at the heinous vice ring itself. I had thought that with your experience, Mr. Victor, your help might be very useful in this endeavor."
"I'll be happy to cooperate," I assured him. "But isn't five o'clock rather early to raid a brothel?"
"The raid itself won't take place until six. We just want to be in position when it does. And as to the time, you're wrong. Their busiest time, according to the S.M.U.T. girls who have infiltrated, is between five and eight. That's when the tired businessmen and commuters stop off for a quick one before catching their trains home."
"That makes sense," I nodded. But there was something else in the back of my mind that didn't make sense, and I puzzled over it to myself. If S.M.U.T.'s real aim, as Putnam had said, was to overpopulate the world, then why would they want to stamp out sex in brothels? I could see why they'd want to stamp out pornography. That provided sublimation for the sex act itself. But in a brothel the sex act was actually performed. So why, since it wasn't sublimation, should S.M.U.T. want to crack down on it?
Then I thought of something, and it all became clear. Strict birth control was always observed in brothels. Sex there was never procreative. Also, sex in a brothel was a substitute for sex in the home, which in S.M.U.T.'s eyes was definitely more apt to result in upping the birth rate. And that's why S.M.U.T. was really anti- brothel.
By the time I'd figured this out, I was in a taxicab with the three men from S.M.U.T. Seated beside me was the exec to whom I'd been talking. His name was Horace Crampdick. So help me! And he looked like his name. He was a short, flabby guy with a perpetual stoop and fat hands that seemed always to be dangling in the neighborhood of his crotch, hands that moved constantly and nervously not so much as if he didn't know what to do with them as that maybe he did and was afraid he might give in to the impulse to do it.
Next to Crampdick was the fellow he'd introduced as Jock O'Steele. He was a mountain of a man, body bulging with muscles and above it a stern red face shiny with determination to stamp out sin. He had the look of a man whose faith in the rightness of his cause is unswerving – but who nevertheless finds it necessary to take frequent cold showers.
The most interesting of the trio sat on the jumpseat. This was Singh Huy-eva, who, according to Crampdick, was an important personage in the New Delhi chapter of S.M.U.T. I had been surprised to learn that Singh Huy-eva was Indian. To me he had looked more Tibetan. In any case, he was being accorded the privilege of a visiting fireman by being taken along to the brothel. He had specifically asked to go along, and this was one of the things that intrigued me about him. You see, Crampdick had confided to me that Singh Huy-eva was a eunuch.
I suppose this would give him a certain
detachment where the brothel activities were concerned. He certainly looked detached – no pun intended. He was a small, compact man with extremely wide shoulders and a broad chest that tapered down to a girlish waist, flat hips, and short legs which looked slightly bowed when he walked. His face was birdlike, the features sharp, the eyes deep-set black dots, watchful but serene. Of all of us, he was the most composed during the cab ride.
Crampdick was playing Dick Tracy, so we got off a block away from the brothel and walked to it. From the outside it looked like anything but what it was. Squeezed between a couple of posh Park Avenue apartment houses, it looked more like an ultra-respectable Victorian mansion than a house of ill repute. Cupids and gargoyles scampered over its facade, their cheeks puffed out with the effort of blowing their heavenly trumpets. Here and there a figure out of Greek mythology stucco'd out and leered lewdly at passersby. Heavy draperies sealed off all the windows from the outside. But Gothic triumphed over all with a gabled roof right out of Hawthorne. The house stood as a monument to how individually artistic elements can be scrambled together to create massive ugliness.
I half expected a footman in livery to answer when Crampdick struck the ornate brass knocker against the solid mahogany door. But I was disappointed. It was a demure maid in a simple black dress and an unfrilly white cap who answered. She nodded when Crampdick uttered the banality which served as a password and led us through the old-fashioned foyer to a large parlor.
Here the furnishings were somewhat brighter and more festive. Snug little couches – loveseats, really – in bright colors ringed the room and a long bar extended the length of one wall. A bartender was looking businesslike behind it. The only other person there was a matronly woman who rose to greet us.
"How do you do? I am Mrs. Vendergash. It's so nice that you gentlemen could come." Her manner of speaking went with her looks. Both were suburban-tea-party style with the ladies' auxiliary waiting in the wings.
The rest of us browsed around while Crampdick made certain financial arrangements with Mrs. Vendergash. "I'm sure the young ladies are impatient to meet you," she announced when they'd finished. "Please excuse me while I go and fetch them."
"I told her we wanted to spend the night," Crampdick whispered to me when she'd gone. "And I arranged to have her send down all the girls so we could make a selection at our leisure. That way I'll be able to contact the three girls S.M.U.T. planted here without being obvious about it. She insisted that if it was done that way we would have to allow the other customers to mingle with the girls too. I told her that would be all right. You're the expert, Mr. Victor. How does it sound to you?"
"Ginger-peachy."
"In a little while, it may be necessary for each of us to accompany one of the girls to a room. That way we'll be in position to supply truthful testimony after the raid. But if we time it right we won't have to actually do anything. The police should arrive in time to save us from that."
"Thank goodness for that," I told him fervently.
"However, we do want to be sure that none of us go off with one of the S.M.U.T. girls," he continued. "So when they come down, I'll point them out to you. After all, there's no sense in duplicating our activity."
"Crampdick," I told him, "you've really organized this magnificently. You're a credit to S.M.U.T."
"Thank you, Mr. Victor." He beamed. "I really do appreciate such praise coming from a man of your wide experience in this area."
At this point, Mrs. Vendergash returned, herding her flock of soiled doves before her. No plumes and feathers for these doves, however. It was much too hoity-toity a place for the girls to be garbed obviously. They didn't bounce around in their underwear or sport filmy negligees. On the contrary, they looked like a smart set of debutantes ready for the cocktail hour. Their hairstyles were subdued, their frocks simple, their bodices demurely high. And they were quiet and well-behaved as they arranged themselves around the room like so many pieces of luscious but still unpeeled fruit.
There were about a dozen of them. While Jock O'Steele and Singh Huy-eva were getting acquainted, Crampdick pointed out the three S.M.U.T. plants to me. One was a tall brunette with Slavic features and impressive hips framing an even more imposing derriere. The second, also a brunette, was smaller, pixie-ish, with a kittenish expression I'd come to associate with European gypsy girls, and a high bosom so sharply pointed it looked capable of piercing a man's flesh should it be pressed against him. The last of the trio was a blonde, medium height, full-lipped, petulant-looking, full and round in the chest, which was perched to accentuate the promise of perfection in the pelvic area.
All three were young. All three were extremely attractive. All three seemed well- suited to the brothel environment. What I couldn't figure out was how three such sensual creatures had come to enlist in S.M.U.T. in the first place.
I turned my attention from them to the other girls. As my gaze traveled around the room, I saw that each of them measured up to the high standards Mrs.
Vendergash must have set for her establishment. There wasn't one who would have looked out of place in a bathing beauty contest.
My gaze settled on a redhead across the room. She returned it and smiled. When I smiled back, she crossed over to me.
"Hello there," she introduced herself. "My name is Adrian."
"Hi. I'm Steve."
"Shall we have a drink, Steve?"
"I'd love one. Scotch on the rocks."
Adrian called out the order to the bartender, and a few moments later he brought the drinks over.
"What's your line, Steve?" Adrian made conversation as we sipped at our drinks.
"Gynecology," I told her, straight-faced.
"Are you a doctor?"
"No." I improvised. "I'm a tactician."
"What's that?"
"I'm an expert in the strategy and tactics of gynecology."
"Oh. Sort of a family planner, you mean?"
"Yeah." I decided to let it go at that. "And tell me, Adrian," I changed the subject, "do you enjoy your work?"
"Oh, very much. It brings me into contact with such interesting people."
"Intimate contact, eh?" I couldn't help saying.
"Oh, Steve, you have a sense of humor." She chuckled brightly. "I like that." She took my hand in hers and pressed it snugly against her breast. "I can see that we're going to get along very well," she told me throatily.
"Sure. It's going to be a real relationship," I agreed.
"Then shall we get started?" she suggested. "Shall we finish our drinks and go upstairs?"
"Okay." I was more than willing. But I noticed that none of the other three men from S.M.U.T. had made a move as yet. "Still, let's not hurry things," I added. "Why don't we have another drink first?"
"Of course, Steve." She signaled the bartender to do it again.
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Every so often my sense of the absurd prompts me to such banality.
I sensed that she was groaning inside, but Adrian was too well-trained not to come up with an answer. "My mother is a widow and she suffers with arthritis," she recited. "I have to support her and I'm putting my kid brother through college, too."
"Through med school, of course," I said helpfully.
"No. Business administration. He wants to open a candy store."
I began to wonder just who was having fun with whom. "I can't help admiring your spirit of sacrifice," I told her anyway. "But I wonder, do you vary the story for matinees?"
"Somewhat," Adrian admitted. "I often throw in a wheelchair and a fine old Southern family background. I even drawl a little if the spirit moves me. Somehow it all comes out so much more pathetic with the scent of magnolias wafting over it."
"If you really want sympathy," I told her calculatedly, "why not say you were kidnapped by a white slave ring and forced into a file of prostitution?"
Her careful lack of response when she answered was a telling response in itself. There was a quick flicker of fea
r in her eyes, a fast-vanishing flicker that made me think Crampdick could be right about the white slave operation behind this bordello. "That's old hat," she said. "There are no white slave rings in the modern world. Girls don't have to be forced or lured into the profession. There's money enough to make it attractive. And in my case I find it attractive for its own sake."
"Meaning you enjoy your work?"
"I do. I like sex," she told me frankly. "Lots of it and lots of variety. Don't you, Steve?"
"Yeah. I do."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
The question was well-timed. Crampdick was just starting for the door with one of the girls. The room was filling up with other male customers and I guess he wanted to be sure he latched onto his "evidence" before the demand could make it unavailable. O'Steele was also getting to his feet with a girl. As Adrian and I followed them out, I caught a glimpse of Singh Huy-eva pairing off in our wake. I guessed that he figured the raid would be pulled off before his eunuch status was revealed. In any case, it was his problem.
For myself, I was half hoping the raid might be delayed. Watching Adrian's derriere wriggle provocatively as I followed it up the stairs, I was in no mood for coitus interruptus – not even pre-coitus interruptus.
She led me into a cozy room with a bed, a couple of chairs, a bureau, and a connecting door to a private bathroom. The blinds were drawn, and she turned on a lamp that shed a very soft light. A stereo set switched on along with it; background music, slow and romantic, something by Tchaikovsky as schmaltzed up by Kostelanetz.
"Does everybody get music to make it by?" I asked her as we started to undress.
"Yes. But it's different in every room," she told me as she wriggled free of her dress. Her figure looked even better in a bra and half-slip.
"Different at random?" I pulled off my socks.
"Oh, no. The music is always picked to go with the girl and the particular taste which would lead a customer to select such a girl."
"That's very interesting." I thought of Crampdick as I stepped out of my pants. He had picked a rather savage-looking girl who was probably Spanish. "As a matter of fact, from a psychological viewpoint, it's fascinating," I told Adrian. "For instance, what sort of girl would you say my friend selected? The short pudgy fellow I came with, I mean."