JENCKS WAS AWAKENED IN the morning by the ring of the telephone. He rolled over and groped for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Steve, honey.”
Instantly he was awake. “Good morning, Miss Cameron.”
“Call me Jenny.” Her voice was a soft, insinuating purr.
“Whatever you wish.”
She paused. “I’d like to see you today.”
I’ll bet you would, he thought. The losing gambler wants to recoup her losses in another round. Well, good luck to her.
“Wonderful,” he said.
He heard her inhale on a cigarette. “Do you have a car?”
“Of course.”
“Has it got any gas in it?” Before he could answer, she seemed to reconsider this remark, and said quickly, “I thought we might take a ride.”
“That sounds fine. Any place in particular?”
“No, I just want to be taken for a ride. Can you arrange it?” Her voice was now frankly seductive. He could imagine her sitting by the phone, smoking and thinking out each line before she said it. He had to give her credit; she was doing a good job.
“I think so. Name the time.”
“Is ten minutes too soon?” She seemed apologetic and eager at the same time.
Damn you, he thought. “Not at all,” he said, already looking across to the closet, deciding what to wear. He would miss breakfast, but that couldn’t be helped. The hard hours that teachers work, he thought. But he was determined to be well paid for his efforts.
“I’ll meet you in front,” she said. “See you then, Steve.”
Her voice lingered invitingly, and the line clicked dead. Jencks got out of bed, and dressed swiftly in a pair of slacks and light sweater. He finished by running an electric razor across his face. As he stared in the mirror, he considered what Jenny might have planned. His habit of anticipating events carried over into his affairs with women, and he found it valuable. He had little patience with men who claimed that they would never understand women. Jencks always understood women.
He finished shaving, left the room, and took the elevator to the lobby. Jenny was waiting for him outside, wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a powder-blue skirt which matched her eyes. She looked golden and healthy and very sexy—tawny was the word, he thought. The blouse was thin, and through it he could see her large breasts, restrained by a lacy half-bra. He was careful not to stare.
“You’re looking good this morning,” he said.
“I’m feeling good this morning.” she said, in a low voice. Her eyes lowered demurely, and she rubbed one thigh through the skirt.
She wasn’t wasting any time.
The attendant brought the car from the garage; it was a Caravelle convertible, white. They rolled the top back.
“Pretty car,” Jenny said, “but feminine and underpowered.”
“I don’t really mind,” Jencks replied, “and besides, it’s rented.”
He shrugged, climbed in behind the wheel, and they started off across the bridge and onto the twisting mainland road that hugged the rocky coast. It was a beautiful day, hot but clear, and the air was redolent of pine. Jenny kicked off her sandals and threw her head back, letting the wind catch her hair. She looked proud, sensual, and stunning, and for a moment he wondered if he would be able to wait until her cure treatment had been finished.
“Sleep well?” she asked, smiling slightly. Her cheeks dimpled.
He knew he could wait.
The road curved in long, twisting hairpins, giving them magnificent views of clear blue water meeting the reddish cliffs of the coast. A gentle wind blew in from the sea, producing small whitecaps. Offshore, a pleasure boat moved south toward Tossa del Mar and Barcelona.
“Where shall we go?” he asked.
“You’re driving. I don’t really care. I wouldn’t have accepted your invitation, except that I had to get away from that idiot Peter.” She paused, remembering her conversation of the morning. “I mean, I—”
“That’s all right,” Jencks said. “I understand your position.” He did, too. She wanted to be seductive, but was unable to keep to her line.
Jenny puffed on her cigarette in silence. The car came around a bend, and a deserted cove lay visible below—a short stretch of white beach, nestled between rocky walls.
“I feel like a swim,” Jenny said. “Why don’t we go down there?”
Jencks knew that she had not brought a suit. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t really feel up to it. But I’ll be glad to stop while you take a dip.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road.
Jenny hesitated, then said, “Never mind. I’ll wait until we get back to the pool.”
Without commenting, he slipped the car into gear and continued down the road. She tossed her cigarette into the wind and shifted restlessly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her unbutton one button of her blouse. The material sprang open, revealing the tops of her breasts. She shifted again, raising her legs and placing her bare feet on the dashboard. Her skirt slid down around her full, brown thighs.
“It’s very warm today,” she said.
“You should dress in lighter clothing.”
She took a deep breath, and her blouse opened further. She reached inside and rubbed one breast, slowly.
“Do I have a good body?”
“Very nice.”
“You haven’t even looked at it.”
“Of course I have. I’ve been looking at it ever since I met you.”
“And what do you think of it?” The skirt slipped still further back, baring the edges of blue lace panties.
“Very nice.”
“Doesn’t it interest you?”
“It would interest any male up to the age of ninety or so. Maybe older.”
She was pushing very hard, he thought. Unbecomingly hard, though it was a good sign. She would crack soon.
“And how old are you?” Her hand ran absently over the firm flesh of her thigh.
“Thirty-eight.”
Go on, he thought. Giggle and say you are, too. But Jencks was surprised. Her approach was different; her voice remained cool.
“Not nearly ninety, are you?”
“I’m wise beyond my years.”
She thought for a moment, then asked innocently, “Are you a queer?”
For shame, he thought. “Would you like to find out?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
He reached over and patted her shoulder paternally. “I’ll wait until you’ve made up your mind.”
She fumed silently.
He decided to take the pressure off. “Are you free for dinner?” He asked the question directly, but his tone indicated that she could refuse if she wished. He knew that he could have been much rougher, could have simply informed her that she was dining with him. By relaxing with her now, he was allowing her to become bitchy again if she wished; he had given her an opening which she might take advantage of. He waited for her answer with interest.
“Yes,” she said. “I am. What time?”
“Nine?” Again, a question, not a statement.
“All right,” she said. Then, grudgingly, “Thank you.”
He nodded, still keeping his eyes on the road. She was more subdued, but some extra sense told him the battle was far from over.
Bryan met Annette by the salt-water pool. She was wearing a white cotton pullover and pink capri slacks, and she looked very fresh and desirable.
“Hello,” Annette said. He noticed that she carried a neatly rolled towel under one arm, and he was glad he had had the foresight to bring along his swimming trunks.
“Where are we off to?”
“Do you mind walking a bit?” He shook his head. “Good. I’ve been here a year, and I know the coast very well. There’s a wonderful little place we can go to, if you don’t mind fighting some brambles.”
“I’m game.”
They walked around to the front of the hotel, across the bridge, and abruptly turned off into the hills. He noticed that they were following a path, narrow and indistinct, but a path nonetheless. It climbed one sandy, red hill, then followed down the other side. The hotel, high as it was, disappeared from view. Birds in the nearby, scrubby pines chirped and twitted; the breeze was gentle and soft. As they continued on, the path disappeared, and soon Annette struck out to the right, toward the sea. Thorny bushes clung to his legs; he could understand why she had worn slacks.
They descended, fighting for balance in the loose earth, and came at last to a small beach, completely hidden from sight from above.
“We’re just around the corner from the hotel,” Annette said. “I don’t think anybody knows about this place except me—and now, you.” Her voice had a hint of conspiracy, like one child showing another his secret tree-fort.
“I won’t breathe a word,” he promised. The water lapped at the pebble beach, and it was very quiet. He had a strong sense of being alone with her, and of being responsible for her in an odd way. She stood next to him, waiting for his reaction. He kissed her, almost unwillingly, very gently.
“How do you like this place?”
“It’s marvelous.” To his surprise, he felt a slight irritation that she was not more moved by his kiss. The whole damned business was annoying and he was filled with conflicting emotions.
She spread her towel on the beach, and anchored it with rocks at the corners. She tossed a green print bikini down on the towel, straightened, and looked at him. Her hand went to the zipper of her slacks. “Would you admire the view?”
“With pleasure.”
She pointed to the ocean. Obediently, he turned his back to her. He heard the sound of her zipper, and the ruffling sound of her pants dropping to the ground. There was a brief silence, then a snapping sound—her bra—followed by another silence. He felt nothing at all, certainly none of the intense eroticism he might have expected. Instead, he felt as if he were far off, looking down on this little beach from a great distance, seeing a man staring at the sea, and a girl undressing behind him. It was a weird vision, lonely and surrealistic.
He shrugged and lit a cigarette.
She came around and faced him, momentarily striking a comic, pinup pose.
“You pass inspection,” he said lightly. “Shall we take a swim?”
“I’ll wait for you in the water.” She ran down the beach and plunged in. He slipped into his trunks, trying to assess his feelings, and got nowhere. With a sense of relief, he threw himself into the water, and swam out toward her.
Later, they lay in the sun, feeling the salt dry on their skin. He was on his side, head propped on his hand, looking at her as she lay on her back, facing the sun. As he watched her, he had a sudden image of Jane, lying in bed as the rain pounded on the window. He had a sudden twinge of feeling, which might have been conscience, but could as well have been regret.
They talked for an hour, and it was productive; Bryan picked up a good deal of useful information, particularly about Mr. Bonnard’s routine, and about the night staff. He discovered that nobody kept watch over the pier and pools at night, and that was of critical importance. Most of the servants lived on the mainland, another important point—Jencks had been unsure how many spent the night on the island. He found out a little about which guests were particularly wealthy.
When they finally decided to go to Gerona for the rest of the day, a certain detached part of him was pleased. Another was depressed, for he had discovered what he had feared all along, that he was growing very fond of her.
By the pool, Miguel pushed aside the leaves of the potted palm and watched Big Brad Allen lumber across the concrete deck. He headed directly for the little lady with the bananas and drew up a chair at her table. He didn’t lack nerve, that was for sure. The two talked quietly for several minutes; then the old lady put down her book and listened with full attention.
Miguel was disturbed. He had awakened late and had found that both Jencks and Bryan were gone when he phoned. Not knowing what to do, he had followed Allen during the morning and had watched him travel unctuously from one group of guests to another, talking, laughing, buying drinks. It looked, from a distance, like a con game, but you could never tell.
Allen finished talking with the old lady and stood to leave. He pointed to her half-empty glass, and she shook her head. He bowed politely and walked off. Soon he was talking with a lanky man in a broad straw hat. Apparently, he seemed intent on meeting everyone at the hotel.
Miguel got up and walked inside to the lobby. As he passed the elevator, he considered visiting Cynthia, but decided against it. He was not in the mood.
He found the manager behind the desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have something terrible to ask.”
Mr. Bonnard looked sorry, too.
“A man checked into the hotel yesterday evening, a big man with a red face. He’s out at the pool now. I’m sure I know him, a business associate from somewhere, but I can’t place him. Can you tell me his name?”
“I think so.” Mr. Bonnard shuffled through the registration forms, found one he wanted, and put it down on the desk. Casually, Miguel looked at it. “Mr. Brady is the man, Alan Brady.”
Miguel frowned, and scratched his head. “Brady, Alan Brady.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “Of course—Al Brady!”
Mr. Bonnard smiled.
Miguel smiled.
He left the desk, still smiling, and returned to the pool. He had read the card, and had the room number—51.
Back at the pool, he found Brady talking to a girl in a blue-and-white checked bikini. She did not seem very interested, and neither did he. Miguel took up his seat by the potted palm and watched. He noticed that none of the guests who had already met Brady paid him any attention; they were oblivious to his wanderings. In a way, that was a sign of great skill on Mr. Brady’s part.
“Oh really?” Jencks said.
“Why yes,” the lady replied. They were sitting in the bar, drinking lemonade. She was American, tall, bony, and aristocratic in a plain way. “I have always taken champagne baths. Not pure champagne, of course—just a bottle or two in the water. If you use dry champagne, it’s simply marvelous. I even induced my friend Gertrude to try it, and she’s so stodgy; if she can do it, anyone can do it, I always say. Gertrude must be the stodgiest person I know. Even her bridge game reflects it. Stodgy.”
Jencks nodded wisely. Mrs. Cleeves continued her discussion of stodginess in the human species, liberally sprinkling it with examples from her acquaintance. She was a middle-aged, wealthy Connecticut bore, but he listened patiently. His occasional questions were sufficient to steer her monologue in the direction he wanted, and she had the fortunate habit of following any thought to its most detailed conclusion. When finally she got around to it, she mentioned that she was traveling alone—separated from Eric, her dreadful second husband—to meet her nephew, who was working for A.I.D. in Afghanistan, a miserable job but you know the pioneering spirit of the young. Still, travel was so strenuous, and she had to worry constantly about her “things.” She didn’t know why she had brought them; jewels certainly wouldn’t be any use in Afghanistan. Force of habit, she supposed. Jencks nodded in agreement. Half an hour later, she mentioned her room number. Fifteen minutes after that, Jencks was desperately looking for a way to break away.
He saw Miguel at the entrance to the bar. Miguel beckoned.
“You must excuse me,” Jencks said. “I have to see this fellow. It’s been very pleasant.”
He left before she could protest.
“Anything wrong?”
“Yes. There’s a crook in the hotel.”
Jencks’ eyebrows went up. Somehow, he knew what was coming.
“A big fat guy,” Miguel said, “named Brad Allen. He’s registered as—”
“Alan Brady,” Jencks said.
“You know him?”
“He borrowed my passport on the plane from Madrid to Barcelona. Looked at it, slipped it back to me. He had me tailed in Barcelona. Is there a skinny runt with him?”
“No,” Miguel said.
“What’s his game?”
“Straight con, as far as I know. Very good.”
“I can imagine.”
Miguel lit a cigarette. “He’s staying in room 51. Should I search it?”
“No,” Jencks said. “Not yet. I want to think about this for a while.”
He wandered off, deep in thought. All his earlier misgivings returned to him; this could not be coincidence, could not be mere chance. The odds against this chain of events were incredibly small. Brady must be following him, must be after something, or afraid of something.
He considered every possibility and drew the same blank he had drawn before. Unless Bryan had talked—and that was very doubtful—Brady could not know what Jencks intended. Therefore, he must be here for another reason. That was the only logical conclusion.
He didn’t like it. His brain accepted that, but his instincts rebelled. There was only one thing he could do. He went out to the pool to make arrangements with Miguel.
“You’re out of your goddamned mind,” Peter said.
“Shut up, and don’t make a scene,” Jenny replied. She jumped off the pier into the water, and slipped into the skis. A short distance away, the boat was idling, its motor putting softly.
“I wanted to talk to you, not water-ski.”
“You can talk to me, but you’re not going to spoil my fun. Are you coming? I can’t wait all day.”
Furious, he dropped into the water, and struggled with the rubber foothold in the skis. He was not a strong swimmer, and he had trouble staying afloat. For that matter, he was not a good water-skier, though he had tried it once or twice. He regarded it as a dangerous sport, like mountain climbing or skindiving in shark-infested waters. You could break a leg—or your neck—water-skiing. It was ridiculous.
“Having trouble?” Jenny laughed.
“No. I’ll be ready in a minute.” He swallowed some water as he spoke and broke out coughing. It was embarrassing.
“Maybe you’d be happier with a life jacket,” Jenny said, observing his difficulties.
“I told you, I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“All right, all right.”
The man in the boat threw them two ropes. Jenny took hers and handed the other to Peter. Their hands touched briefly, but it was cold and impersonal.
“Listen,” Peter said. “I want to talk to you about our engagement. I have to tell you that you are acting in a manner—”
“Ready?” the man in the boat called.
Jenny waved to indicate that they were, then turned to Peter. “You were saying?”
At that moment the boat started, and they were both drawn forward, slowly at first, and then lifted up. Peter felt the wind on his dripping body; it was cold. They began to go faster. He shivered, tensed, and fought for his balance.
“Yes?” Jenny called to him, laughing.
They were drifting apart, he to the left of the wake, she to the right. “I don’t know what kind of a game you’re playing,” he shouted, “but I won’t stand for it. Do you understand?”
“I can’t hear a word you’re saying.” she shouted. He heard her distinctly.
She began to come toward him, and he ducked. Her rope passed over his head. He crossed the wake, bouncing and fearful, and their positions were reversed.
“Whee!” Jenny shouted.
“You’re being insulting!”
“Whee!”
“Childish!”
She laughed. “Isn’t this fun?”
“No!” he screamed.
She shook her head pityingly.
“Don’t give me that shit! I want an explanation.”
“Can’t hear you. Sorry.”
“Then listen!”
“What did you say?” She was cocking her head toward him, an amused smile on her lips. Then she was coming toward him again; again, he ducked, and they changed sides. As she passed him, she said, “Scared, sweetie?”
“Damn you!”
They were moving out from the coast into rougher water. The wind was picking up, and he was bouncing. It was difficult to maintain his balance. Jenny didn’t seem to be having trouble. Where had she learned to water-ski, anyway?
She made a signal to the man in the boat. They picked up speed. She was trying to dump him, waiting for him to fall. She had planned it from the start, with the intention of humiliating him.
“Who do you think you are?” he shouted, but he could hardly hear his own voice in the wind, now, and he knew that she was not fooling when she shook her head.
And then, quite suddenly, his left leg twisted out and up, and he felt himself lifted up, spun sideways, and flung into the water with a hard slap. The cold water enveloped him. When he broke surface, he saw the motorboat circling around, coming back. It passed him, then slowed, and Jenny sank gracefully into the water beside him.
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No, dammit.”
“Don’t be angry, Peter. You should have said you didn’t know how to water-ski in the first place. I wouldn’t have made you go with me, if I’d known.”
“You didn’t make me go with you, and I do know how to water-ski.”
“I must admit, you did well for a beginner.”
“Now you listen to me,” he said. “I can take only so much. I’ll give you another day to come around, and if you don’t, you’ll have to suffer … suffer the consequences.”
She nodded politely.
“Better grab your rope,” She said, “I think we’re about to be taken in.”
“Did you hear what I said?” he demanded, his voice taut with anger.
“Yes, Peter,” she said soothingly. “I heard.”
Jean-Paul knocked on the door and waited. The package, wrapped in a newspaper, was under his arm. He looked up and down the hall nervously, but there was nobody in sight.
Anyway, he had nothing to worry about. Who would know? Who would even suspect?
The door opened, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a dark and beautiful girl. She wore a bulky, shapeless sweater that came just below her hips, but her long, slim legs were bare. She wore no slippers.
“Yes?”
“I am Miss Shaw’s chauffeur.”
“Oh.” Cynthia smiled radiantly. He liked her slanting eyes, her dark skin, her full lips. He particularly liked the long black hair that flowed over her shoulders. “Please come in.”
He entered the room and shut the door behind him. She walked to the dresser, picked up a drink and sipped it. She seemed perfectly at ease and surveyed him coolly. “Not bad,” she said. “But Aunt Elizabeth always did have good taste in men, considering her age.”
“Aunt Elizabeth?”
“Yes. She’s not really my aunt. It’s just an affectionate term. We met in London a while ago. Where did she pick you up?”
“Tangier.”
Cynthia nodded thoughtfully, then waited. “Well?”
“Oh,” Jean-Paul said, remembering the newspaper. He had been daydreaming, staring at her firm legs, with their smooth muscles. He wondered if she was wearing anything beneath the sweater and guessed she wasn’t.
He handed the newspaper to her, and Cynthia took it eagerly. She set it down on the dresser, opened it and took out the gray package. He wandered around the room and noticed the Polaroid camera.
“You have one, too?” he asked, picking it up.
“Yes,” she said.
“You mean, you’re …
“Yes. I’ve gotten quite good with it.”
“So have I,” Jean-Paul said.
He saw that she had opened the gray package, displaying a heap of packed, green, grainy material. With her fingers, she felt the texture, then smiled. “It’s good stuff. Nice and pure. Ever tried it before?” Her eyes were on him; he could feel them gauging him.
“Of course,” he said.
She smiled. “Why don’t you stay a while, and share a couple of cigarettes with me?”
“All right,” he said, trying not to think of her legs.
She sat down on a chair and crossed her legs, then raised one and pointed it forward. The skin was smooth and taut, dark brown, and lightly oiled. “My name is Cynthia,” she said, relaxing the leg.
“Jean-Paul.”
“You look strong, Jean-Paul.”
He shrugged.
“Don’t be embarrassed. I like strong men. Why don’t you make some sticks while I change clothes?”
He nodded numbly, disappointed to see her enter the bathroom. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a packet of Marlboros and began squeezing one of the cigarettes, rolling it in his fingers. The tobacco fell out in long strands. He continued to work it in his hand until it was an empty paper tube.
“You want it straight, or mixed with tobacco?” he called to her.
She opened the door and looked out. “Straight.”
He put the cigarette between his lips and bent over the pile of green marijuana. Inhaling, he sucked the substance into the tube, pausing occasionally to tamp it down with a matchstick. Soon, the cigarette was completely refilled; he twisted the end closed, and prepared a second.
Cynthia came out of the bathroom wearing very tight black slacks and a tight black sweater. Her feet were still bare, and her long hair hung loose. She picked up one cigarette and pinched it gently. “You pack them like an expert,” she said. She looked at him and frowned. “What’s the matter? You seem unhappy. Don’t you like the way I look?”
“You were better before,” Jean-Paul said.
“You mean I was barer before,” she laughed. “But I wasn’t very bare, was I?”
Her laugh was open and earthy. It reminded Jean-Paul of something, but he couldn’t remember what exactly.
“Make up two more,” she said. “I’ll get some water. Kef always makes me thirsty.”
She disappeared again into the bathroom, and he squeezed out another pair of cigarettes, filling them quickly. When she returned, he handed her one and took one himself, lighting both. Cynthia sat down on the bed, and he sat in a chair across from her. They puffed in silence, staring at each other.
“We’ll have to do something interesting,” Cynthia said. “It would be a shame to waste it.”
Jean-Paul smiled slightly. The room filled with acrid, sweet smoke, which reminded him of cinnamon burning, though that was foolish—he had never smelled cinnamon burning. Cynthia smiled her earthy smile once again, and he remembered where he had seen it. It was in a little village outside Madrid. As the marijuana began to take effect, he saw the scene again vividly.
He had stopped for coffee at a roadside cafe, which faced out on a dusty square with a stone fountain where the townspeople came to draw water and wash clothes. As he drank his coffee, a girl came to the fountain, young but full bodied, wearing a faded light blue dress. She had dirty, tangled hair but an open, smiling face and eyes which promised the richness of her body. It was the eternal peasant, earthy and wonderful, and he had desired her for the few moments he had passed over his coffee. Then he had gone on to Madrid and forgotten her.
Jean-Paul began to feel slightly dizzy and cold around his ankles even before he had finished his first cigarette. The stuff was damned strong, he thought. Cynthia was now lying on her back on the bed, gently massaging her stomach.
He had not noticed her lie down. It was taking hold; the stuff was beginning to work through his lungs to his brain. He could almost feel it coursing through his bloodstream, up to his cars.
“Nice,” Cynthia said, to nobody in particular.
Jean-Paul closed his eyes and saw the world drift gently. He was in a warm, damp jungle surrounded by green ferns. The scene faded to one of a blizzard and a gray sky over the prairie, and then a forest, very chilly and still, and then a desert, where the sand blew endlessly. The visions passed, and he looked across at Cynthia.
“Bonjour,” she said. “All the French I know.”
“I know you,” he said, feeling very high indeed.
“You want to watch me undress,” she replied, in a slow, heavy voice. She spoke interminably slowly, the words stretched and twisted like taffy in the air. Why taffy? He was off in his dream world again, tumbling like a yo-yo falling down the stairwell, spinning end over end, side over side.…
Cynthia got off the bed and stood before him. It was all slow-motion. “You can undress me,” she said.
“All right,” he agreed, thinking he was speaking so slowly, like a tape at half speed.
“And I can undress you.”
“All right.” It was a stupid answer, sluggish and uninterested, but he could not help it. He was concerned with himself, feeling his body drift and spin, slowly, pleasantly.
She stood before him, guiding his hands to her buttons and snaps. The slacks burst open, slowly like a flower opening, and he pulled them down her legs; her groin was right before his eyes, and he could sense the heat and desire radiating from it. She turned around, and he reached up to unzip her sweater. It was so far to reach, it took hours for his hand to get up there.
Cynthia stepped back and allowed him to look at her. She was lovely, beckoning, tensing the muscles in her thighs as she stood, hands on hips, smiling.
For many hours, he did not say anything.
“You’re incredible,” he said finally. He felt his eyes, running and feeling like hands, look down her body, to the clean collarbone, to the firm, small, tense-nippled breasts, to the neat waist with the large navel, to the narrow hips, to the quivering thighs.
He stood up, slowly, dreamily.
She moved close to undo the buttons on his shirt. She slipped it off his shoulders and ran her hands slowly across his chest, while her almond eyes, wide and bright, pierced his face. He could smell her perfume, now; her whole body glowed with desire. Her fingers were at his belt, then his pants and zipper, and they dropped to the floor. Her hands moved to his shorts, caressing him lightly before pulling them down.
She lay back on the bed and watched him standing before her. He did not move for a long time. “This will be perfect,” she said. “I can look at you, and you can look at me.” She gave a throaty laugh. “Because I want to look at you. I want to do a lot more than look.”
“You can look later,” Jean-Paul said, and stretched out beside her. His hands ran over her breasts and stomach; her body glowed like coals, a blazing fire fanned. She drew him over to kiss him.
He slid on top of her and felt her heart thump against his chest. He let himself into her with soft gentleness, savoring each exquisite instant of penetration. Her legs were wide for him, quivering and open. He pressed himself home to the hilt, and felt her thrust up her pelvis to meet him.
“That’s good,” she said, kissing him and locking her arms around his neck. Below she felt him in her, plunging and withdrawing.
“Slower, darling.” she whispered. Her voiced dragged. It took days to finish the sentence. “Keep it beautifully slow. Like a long, slow pendulum. Very long, swinging … swinging.”
Jean-Paul heard her as if from a distance. She was speaking from the end of a dark tunnel, but some corner of his mind told him that she was high. Her voice told it all, even from a great distance.
He slowed his stroke and felt her sex ripple and clutch at him. She had muscles in there, and she knew how to use them. It was a delicious, tightening, sensual feeling. Like a boa constrictor, like squeezing a rubber ball, like flexing a bicep. Her legs came around his, and she pressed her heels inside his knees, getting better leverage for her hips, which moved in slow sure time with him.
Her breasts strained against his chest. Her legs tensed against his. “Oh, it’s going to be so good … so good. Yes, that’s it, very slow, oh yes that’s it.”
In himself, he felt the coiling; the snake was preparing to strike, the spring was growing tense, until it would burst the mechanism.
“That’s it, lovely. It’s lovely, yes.”
So slow, so slow.
Endless.
Continuing.
And then she was pressing herself to him tightly, straining as he pierced her. And soon Jean-Paul felt himself carried on a wave, then it was a tram railway up a mountainside, then a rocket, up and up, and she screamed slightly and pressed forward like a thirsty mouth to water, like a sucking clam.
Time passed.
She got up and walked around the bed, surveying him from all sides. Around and around she walked, his eyes following. He smiled.
“That,” she said, in a drawn-out whisper, very hoarse, “that was the slow one. Are you ready for the fast one?”
He did not understand, until she grinned wickedly and floated down beside him. She stroked him, lingering, gentle.
“Surprise,” she said. “You seem ready to rise to the challenge again. Or is it just my exciting body and not your sense of manhood?”
It seemed to Jean-Paul that they had been in this room for years. Years and years, just the two of them, together.
She was stopped in front of him now, running her hands up her sides, finally reaching her breasts, which she held out like fruit for sale. Her hand rotated them, and then she took her hands away. The breasts continued to rotate, slowly; they moved by themselves, beautifully, obscenely, excitingly. The nipples were tensed and firm.
Cynthia’s face was calm, almost peaceful. Her hands were running up and down her thighs now, caressing her pubis. Her body was leaning slightly back, so that her loins were forward. He could smell her heat, the body smell of desire. He felt himself stiffen.
For Cynthia, the world was a calm boat, rocking on a placid sea beneath milky clouds. She was moored solidly, but still rocking, lulled but happy, anticipating with pleasure the darkening of the clouds, and the final deluge of the storm. The air was warm and moist with the coming thunderbolt; it was still, fetid, waiting.
Dimly, she saw Jean-Paul, lying naked on the bed watching her. His eyes were bright, and in a few moments his member began to rise. She watched with unabashed interest; it was always such a marvelous thing to see, this strengthening which would bring her appeasement. She wanted to reach forward and touch him, to feel his hardness. Her own body was ready to receive it. Her thighs were already flexing rhythmically, as she would if he were already there.
She put her hands to her breasts once again, and stretched. Then she felt Jean-Paul’s hands reaching for her. She was aware of every sensation, each individual fingertip. She began to see colors, passing one after another … indigo blue … fire red … a blazing orange … a hot yellow.…
Her boat was rocking hard now, and the sky was the color of smudged chalk. The first white-hot bolt of lightning cracked across the heavens. Soft drops of rain pelted her face, soaking her hair. It was still a warm rain. Lightning cracked again, and the sky split in a jagged crease, then folded shut. It was like a clam shell which had been pried open for a brief glimpse before clamping down. Clam clamping. Clamped down on a clam. Clammy hands and feet.
Alternate waves of heat and cold blew across her. Jean-Paul was driving her, pushing her, splitting her with loud smacks. Exquisite pain began, a nugget at first, then suddenly exploding like a single kernel of popcorn. She saw white light, and her boat was lifted on a tidal wave. She was being carried toward the shore, where she would be dashed to pieces against jagged rocks, white in this lightning glare. She was coming down now, off the wave, up to the shore.
With a small scream, her storm broke, and she was safe.
“You look bored, dear fellow,” Miss Shaw said.
“I am,” Georges Dumas said. “Very.” He was here at the hotel alone, having been deserted by his mistress a week ago for—he shuddered at the thought—a circus tumbler. And while it was true that Louisa had cabled she was coming down from Paris to meet him here, he put no faith in her. Louisa was always cabling something. He sighed. Very, very bored.
“You need something to cheer you up.”
“You are right.” A horrible thought occurred to him. Was this desiccated old thing offering her services?
“Something unusual,” Miss Shaw continued. “Unconventional. Out of the ordinary.”
“Yes,” he said slowly.
“Daring.”
He nodded.
“Exciting.”
Georges Dumas looked at her. “What do you have in mind?”
“A draught of pleasure,” Miss Shaw said airily, waving her pale white hand. “A potion of dreams.”
“You have this?”
She smiled slightly, and sat back in her chair. “Are you interested?”
“LSD?” He had tried it once, in Stockholm. Marvelous stuff—heady, but exhausting. He remembered the experience with pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Shaw said. “I did have some, but I’m out at the moment. How about some nice marijuana?”
He stopped and looked at her quizzically. Was it possible that this sweet powdery old thing was selling kef? “Well,” he said, “as a friend I would be happy to relieve you of—”
“I’m most dreadfully sorry,” Miss Shaw said, “but I do have an overhead to look after, that sort of thing. It is painful to be a businesswoman at my age, but one must try, mustn’t one?”
“How much?” Georges Dumas said, his mouth tightening.
“Well, I look upon myself as a sort of doctor,” Miss Shaw said. “I take care of people, relieve their depressions. Naturally, my fees are scaled.”
“How much?”
“Oh, you men can be so nasty about business.” She patted his hand reassuringly. “Six thousand pesetas.”
Six thousand pesetas was five hundred francs, one hundred dollars. “I do not want much,” he protested.
“I assume so.”
“All right,” he said, “I’ll give you a check.”
“As a superstitious old lady, I must tell you that I’ve never put much faith in anything but plain money. You understand, of course. The whims of a senile mind.”
“As you wish.”
He got up to leave.
“I’ll stop by your room later,” Miss Shaw said. “Around six?”
“Fine.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Dumas. By the way, are you any relation to the author?”
“None,” Georges Dumas said. “None at all.”
As he left, he heard her giggling softly.
Jencks walked into the bar shortly before six. Brady was there, hunched over his drink. Jencks sat down next to him.
“Well, hello there,” Jencks said. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Brady looked up. For a brief moment, there was surprise, almost shock, on his features. It quickly disappeared, replaced by mindless cheer.
“Damnation!” he said, slamming his palm down on Jencks’ knee. “If it isn’t my Detroit friend. How’s Spain treating you?”
“Can’t kick. Buy you a drink?”
“You twisted my arm,” Brady said, laughing. “What brings you to the Reina?”
“Curiosity,” Jencks said. “I heard it was a spectacular place.”
“And isn’t it? I think it’s downright fabulous. Have a good time in Barcelona?”
“Very fine.”
“Meet your girl okay?”
Jencks allowed himself to appear uncomfortable. “I didn’t, actually. She was supposed to fly over from Munich, but—”
“Little German number, eh?”
“That’s right, and—”
“Little heine, as we say.” He roared with laughter.
“Yes,” Jencks said, looking still more uncomfortable. “But you see, she found out—”
“Hmmm?” Brady stopped laughing.
“I’m married.”
“Say no more,” Brady said, raising a beefy hand as if taking an oath. “Say no more. I understand just how the hell you feel. Goddamned shame—all these modern communications backfiring. Problem of the modern age.”
Their drinks came. Brady lit a cigarette, and raised his glass in a toast. “Well, here’s to better hunting.”
They drank. Jencks was drinking vermouth, Brady, bourbon. He finished quickly, and they had another round, then another. Jencks played a troubled man, Brady the fountain of bubbling encouragement and cheer. After half an hour, the liquor was beginning to show. His hand lingered when he slapped Jencks’ knee or shoulder. His words slurred slightly. His eyes had a wandering, mildly vacant look. It could be an act, of course—he was a big man—but Jencks decided to take a chance.
“You know, Al,” he said, “I have a small confession to make. You see, when I was coming over on the plane, I didn’t want word to get back to my wife, so—”
“I know,” Brady said, in a tut-tut voice. “I know just how it is.”
“So I made up this little story.”
“Sure, baby. I know just how you feel.”
“About being an automobile designer, and all.”
“Of course,” Brady said sympathetically.
“And actually I’m not. I’m in industrial counterespionage.”
“A cop?” Brady did not seem surprised, though he pretended it.
“Yes,” Jencks said sadly. “A cop.”
“Detroit?”
“Yes. I have to make sure nobody steals design drawings, all that sort of thing. It’s security.”
Brady nodded slowly, sluggishly. He seemed to be thinking this over. Finally he sat straighter, and said, “This calls for another round.”
“Really? Why?”
Brady motioned for the bartender. “Because we’re in the same business.”
“Is that right?” Jencks said, astonished.
“Damn straight. I have to tell you, I thought you might be a cop, when I met you on the plane. I had that little feeling, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’re pretty good, Steve boy, but you can’t fool an old pro like me. How long you been doing this work?”
“Five years. I began low down, cleaning out the locking wastebaskets, doing night duty. Now I’m running security at the test track.”
“Which one?” Brady asked, casually.
“Near Flagstaff, Arizona. We have five, you know. Different climates.”
“Then you must be used to this weather,” Brady said.
Another round arrived. They pushed their empty glasses aside.
“I’ll tell you,” Brady said, “a little confession of my own. On the plane, I did something kind of bad.”
“What’s that?”
“I fingered your passport and had a look at it.”
“You did?”
“Ummm. Sorry, really. I had to do it, though. I also had you followed in Barcelona.”
“Followed?” Jencks hesitated here. An industrial security man wouldn’t have much experience with tails. On the other hand, he wouldn’t want to admit it “Oh sure—you mean that tall guy with the moustache.”
“That’s the one,” Brady said, not batting an eye. “I can see you’re a sharp operator.”
“Well now, tell me,” Jencks said, sipping his drink. “What’s your game?”
Brady looked furtively around the room, then leaned over and whispered, “CIA.”
“CIA?” Jencks said, very loud.
“Shhh.”
“Oh, sorry.” Now Jencks looked around. “I hope I didn’t get you into any trouble.”
“I think I can handle anything that comes along,” Brady said, breathing deeply. “I had quite a rough posting in Shanghai, a few years back.”
“Pretty exciting.”
“Damned tooting. Lots of snatch too, baby.” He slammed Jencks’ back and roared.
“This is terrific,” Jencks said. “Both in the same business. How long are you here for?”
“Just a couple of days. I leave Saturday morning.”
“Listen,” Jencks said. “You can tell me. Are you here on vacation, or is it … business?”
Brady looked reluctant. “I’d rather not say.”
“Sure, sure. I understand. I don’t want to compromise you.”
“Speaking of compromises,” Brady said, “will you look at that.”
Jenny had just walked into the room, looking very cool and tanned in a white evening dress.
“All mine, I’m afraid,” Jencks said getting up unsteadily from the bar.
Brady clutched his sleeve. “You shitting me?”
“Nope. I’m going to dinner.”
“Je-sus Christ,” Brady said. “Would I like that. What’s her name?”
Jencks winked. “I’d rather not say.”
He went over to Jenny, took her hand, and walked out of the room with her.
“You’re drunk,” she said.
“I’m not.” He straightened, and smiled. The sappy look was gone from his face, the slouching, tentative walk replaced by a firm, direct step. “Just a minute,” he said. “I forgot to pay the bar bill.”
He left her and returned to the table. Brady was looking at the bill, one hand in his pocket. He seemed very unhappy.
“Thought I was going to stick you with that?” Jencks said. He took the bill and signed it. “Not a chance. Listen, I need something from you.”
“Anything,” Brady said, smiling expansively.
“You got a room facing the ocean?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re leaving Saturday, could I take it? My room isn’t so good.”
“Sure thing. I’ll speak to the desk about it.”
“Don’t bother,” Jencks said, “I’ll do it.” He rubbed his fingers together in the universal sign. “I doubt that speaking alone will do the job.”
“Haw,” Brady said, and punched Jencks in the arm. “You old devil.” He laughed, and Jencks went out to Jenny, and took her to dinner.
Jencks sat alone in his room, thinking. He did not know what to make of Brady or their conversation. In all, he thought that it had gone rather well; he had stopped at the desk after dinner and asked if he could have Mr. Brady’s room when he checked out; Brady was indeed scheduled to leave on Saturday. It all seemed to be on the up-and-up. Of course, the business about the CIA was garbage, but that didn’t matter. Men in bars always lied, whether their motives were sinister or merely ego-boosting.
The telephone rang. “Room 205,” he said.
“Can’t make it tonight.” Bryan’s voice.
“Sorry to hear that,” Jencks said. It was necessary to conduct a normal conversation, since the switchboard might be listening in, but he managed to convey his strong disapproval. “Where are you now?”
“Gerona.”
“Having a nice time?”
“Very nice.”
“What’s the problem?”
“A bird. I can’t get out of it without looking funny.”
So he was busy with the receptionist. Well, that was excusable. “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ll stop by at noon.”
Spending the night with her. “Fine.”
“I can tell you what I’ve got. Ten offs, and half a dozen Q’s. Okay?”
“Have a nice time,” Jencks said.
He sat back in his chair and sipped the dry vermouth which had been delivered to his room a few minutes before. His thoughts wandered from Bryan and the receptionist to Jenny. She was beginning to get under his skin. He recalled their conversation at dinner; at one point, he had asked, “Is your hair naturally that color, or is it dyed?”
“Natural,” Jenny had replied. “Why?”
“Curious.”
“There are more interesting ways,” she had said, “of finding out than asking.”
“Really? You’ll have to explain.”
On the surface, he had come off well, as usual. But she had somehow cut deeply into his growing desire. She was a bitch, all right, but such an attractive one. It was irritating.
A knock on the door, and Miguel entered.
“What did you find?”
“His room’s pretty clean. Nothing obnoxious, like a gun. Just a straightforward tourist—who happens to have three passports. American, name of Alan Brady; French, name of Alain Bernet; Italian, name of Marco Bernino.” Miguel shrugged. “Other than that, nothing. Clothes from every capitol of the world, but that’s hardly a crime.”
He sat down.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve been thinking. We want to get him out of the way, right? If I pushed him down some steps, just easy and inconspicuous, we’d have him in the hospital for the next week. Nothing to it. What do you say?”
“He’s leaving Saturday,” Jencks said.
“Does he say that?”
“Yes. But I checked at the desk. It’s true.”
Miguel lit a cigarette. “Then it’s no sweat.”
“That’s what I think. We leave him alone.”
“I still wish I knew why he’s here.”
“So do I,” Jencks said, “but I can’t worry about it now. Did you bring the list?”
Miguel produced it, and Jencks ran his eye down the two columns of numbers, one for rooms which could definitely be skipped, and one for possibilities—or Q’s, as Bryan had called them. Each of the three men had prepared such a list.
“Where’s Bryan?”
“Busy. I’m getting his information in the morning.”
Jencks ignored Miguel’s lewd, knowing look, and placed the list alongside his own. He ticked of all the certainties on a master sheet, and noted the question marks. Then he burned the small lists in the ashtray.
“How many?” Miguel asked.
Jencks tallied quickly. “Twenty-one to pass over, nine to check again. Bryan says he has ten checks and six questionables, which raises our total—assuming no duplication—to thirty-one and fifteen. That’s not very good.” Jencks rapped the desk top with his pen. “We need more rooms. Unless we come up with at least 60 by Saturday morning, we may have a little trouble. The program calls for a 20% write-off.”
Miguel nodded, and stepped to the door. “Do my best,” he said. “See you.”
“Good luck.”
The meeting was over. Jencks looked at his watch. It had taken two minutes and five seconds. That was better than he had expected, though, of course, Bryan was absent. He glanced down the master sheet, frowning. They really were behind schedule; he had hoped to cross off more than forty rooms at this meeting, and they hadn’t come close. Supposing they only came up with fifty rooms by Saturday? In his mind, he reviewed the computer printout. He looked down the memorized page of numbers.
Chances of success fell from .87 to .77. That meant that they’d have to choose a number of rooms at random to skip, in order to get the full 20% required to keep the probabilities up. It would be easy enough, but it might cut into the total profit. That prospect was unappealing.
Bryan Stack came out of the phone booth. She was waiting in the car.
“Did you get through all right?”
“Yes, fine.”
He started the car and drove in silence. They had spent a pleasant day in Gerona, the peaceful inland capitol of the Costa Brava, wandering through the hilly, narrow cobbled streets. Gerona had a good cathedral and an excellent Romanesque cloister; like a pair of goggle-eyed tourists, they had seen each sight with a kind of innocent wonder. He had enjoyed himself, enjoyed being with her, and had relaxed—though a part of his mind still prodded her, directing the conversation.
There had been just one bad moment, when they had plunged into the cool, arched interior of the old Moorish baths. Bryan had tossed a coin into the large, mossy fountain and had made a wish. She had teased him, trying to discover what he had hoped for, and that depressed him. He had hoped that this would be the last time, that he would never do anything like this again.
They had eaten dinner in a small restaurant off the main square, a hectic place which served wonderful paella and produced, after a little coaxing, an excellent bottle of local white wine. Stuffed and happy, they had walked along the river, watching people take in the day’s laundry from their balconies. The sun had set, turning the river molten gold. Then Bryan had made his call. Now they were going back.
As he drove, he tried to conjure up an image of Jane and failed. That disturbed him. Annette reached over and took his hand, she brushed it lightly with her lips.
“Are you happy?”
“Yes,” he said.
He wanted to let it go at this, to take her back and send her to bed alone. It was enough; he had found out enough; he had intruded enough into her life. It was not necessary to go further—except that, perhaps, she expected it He sighed.
“Something the matter?” She curled up in the seat and put her head on his shoulder.
“No, just tired.”
“I feel very safe with you,” she said, kissing his shoulder. “You must think I’m very foolish.”
“I don’t,” he said.
They drove on, through the sleepy little town of Cassa de la Selva. The road was deserted.
“Are you going to try and interest me in a nightcap,” she asked.
“I was just about to suggest it,” he lied.
“Thank you. I accept.”
Hell. He tried again to think of Jane, and again he failed. He decided he wanted a cigarette, and at that moment Annette sat up, lit one with the dashboard lighter, and placed it between his lips. Her fingers were cool. She stroked his cheek.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” she said. “Just lucky, I guess.” She curled up against him. In a few minutes she was peacefully asleep.