Climbing upward to... what?
Morgan Wayne didn't know. Probably to an apartment she shared with Hake Derr. Quite possibly to meet Hake himself.
It didn't matter. Right now, it didn't. There were the two of them climbing a narrow stairway. There was the smell of her, and the proud tilt of her head, and the small movements of her buttocks so close to his face.
They reached the top of the stairway, and still without a backward glance or a spoken word Priscilla unlocked a door and crossed the threshold. Morgan Wayne followed her without hesitation.
Chapter Three
Priscilla Endicott stopped in the center of the long room and stood there without turning her head. Wayne closed the door quietly and stood with his back against it, taking in vague details of the pleasant warmth of the room while his gaze was riveted on the tall, gingham-clad figure standing so utterly motionless before him.
Priscilla's hands hung limply by her sides. Somehow, there was hopelessness and uncertainty in her stance. She was waiting—and Morgan Wayne waited. He felt his pulse leaping uncontrollably, and was suddenly aware that he was holding his breath.
It was Priscilla's room, warm and alive with color and pattern. Chartreuse draperies hung low to the floor from a wide window at the far end. The room was thickly carpeted from wall to wall with a pattern of dull reds and yellows, and not cluttered with furniture.
But it was cluttered with a man's white shirt lying rumpled and conspicuous just inside an open door leading into the bedroom. Hake Derr's shirt! A mute reminder to Wayne that he was alone here with another man's woman.
Past the rumpled shirt and through the open door, Wayne could see half an oversized Hollywood bed with the covers thrown back, one pillow and the sheet wrinkled. Past the bed was a low, glass-topped vanity almost bare on top. Cut-glass stoppered flagons and powder container on one side; a pair of silver-topped military brushes on the other.
Another mute reminder of Hake Derr. And there was a third. From where he stood, the large oval mirror above the vanity reflected its glass-topped surface. There was a light sprinkling of powder over the center area and the mirror reflected the four letters of an obscene word evidently scrawled by a blunt fingertip in the powder; scrawled on the top of Priscilla Endicott's dressing table by a man with the puerile mind of a nasty adolescent who has just learned a new word. You see it furtively scrawled sometimes on city sidewalks and on the white walls of a latrine.
Morgan Wayne felt sudden and inexpressible pity for Priscilla.
Priscilla still stood motionless with her back toward him. But the fingers of both hands began to tighten into fists by her side. They relaxed and tightened again. Then they were lifted savagely to both sides of her head, fingertips thrusting into the silken strands of her incredibly lovely hair and mussing it as Wayne's fingers longed to muss it.
She turned to him like that, and her face was pinched and bloodless, haunted with terror and with passion. Her breath came fast between tight lips and her breasts rose and fell rapidly.
She stared at him for a long moment as though it were the first time she had seen his face.
She said, “Are you going to take me?” and it was spoken as casually as though she had asked, “Would you like a drink?”
Wayne moved toward her across the heavy carpet, his eyes searching her face. When they were close enough he saw the perspiration of excitement wetting her temples, the pulsing tremors in the rounded softness of her throat beneath the lifted chin; could feel the hot breath coming to him from slightly parted lips.
Morgan Wayne put out his hands to grip her shoulders. He drew her toward him and she did not resist. He looked down into her eyes and knew that if he kissed her he was lost. Not yet. There was something more important than this woman, but it was difficult to remember what it was. Damned difficult. Almost impossible. Every cell in his body leaped in response to her, every fiber of his being strained to get closer.
His teeth were set together so tightly that his jaws ached and he exerted every atom of will power he possessed to turn his head slightly from her and look down at the rumpled shirt on the floor. He didn't realize the strength of his grip on her shoulders as he demanded hoarsely, “What about Hake Derr?”
That name broke the spell. He felt the rigidity of Priscilla's body go away under his fingers. She turned her head also and looked where he was looking. His hands fell away from her shoulders and she moved listlessly to pick up the shirt. Over her shoulder she said:
“You were right downstairs. It is too late.” She moved into the bedroom, balling the shirt up in her two hands and then tossing it casually into a corner.
Wayne followed her to the doorway. Every sense was alert now. Every moment was important. He had to re—capture some of the essence of the moment before, yet not enough to be trapped by it. God knew, a man could be trapped by it easily enough. For one moment back there...
She stopped in front of the low vanity. From across the room, Morgan Wayne heard the swift intake of her breath, saw the swift movement of her hand that wiped out the four letters on the powder-strewn glass. She turned to face him, leaning back with hips against the table edge, supporting herself with hands on both sides of her. She looked tired now, almost contemptuous.
“Why don't you get out, Morgan Wayne? Of course it's too late... for you.”
“You lie, Priscilla,” Wayne told her. “You lie most foully in your beautiful teeth. You asked me a question a while ago. You didn't have to ask it. You already knew the answer. You knew it when you looked at me as you stood at the piano and I was at the bar. The only question is when. For us it has to be right.” His voice was insistent. Urgent and demanding. Speaking with a quiet logic and a certainty that again ripped away the barrier that had risen between them. “You know that, Priscilla.” Wayne began to move across the bedroom toward her.
She didn't respond. Not yet. She still looked tired, but the expression of contempt was beginning to be replaced by one of speculation. She lowered her lashes and ran the tip of her tongue around dry lips.
“Who are you?”
He halted two feet in front of her. “Morgan Wayne.”
“Butwhat are you?” Her lashes remained lowered but the words burst from her lips as though long pent up.
“Ask Hake Derr.”
“He doesn't know. Only hints about you here and there. Rumors that you're this and that. For God's sake,” she pleaded wildly, and she lifted her lashes and showed actual wetness in the limpid green eyes, “go away from here. Stay away from Hake. I'll follow you. I'll come wherever you say. Whenever you send for me.”
The wetness was tears. They streamed down her cheeks unashamedly. Wayne took one step forward and put his arm about her shaking shoulders. She twisted her face away from him. Her teeth were chattering and she crushed the knuckles of one hand against them.
Wayne pulled the hand away roughly. He twisted her head so her mouth came up to meet his. It was a savage kiss. Her breasts were crushed against him and both arms clung desperately about his neck and a low moan escaped from her set teeth. Her head fell back away from him limply and her eyes were closed, her face peaceful now with a strange look of content.
She said, “Yes, darling. Yes! But hurry. I have no shame left. No fear. Nothing. Hurry, my dear. Oh, God!Hurry.”
A shudder traversed the length of her body. She opened her eyes to his gaze and there was a little-girl pleading in them. A surprised and almost virginal look of ecstasy.
Wayne turned to lower her unresisting body onto the unmade bed. She lay back limply and closed her eyes again. A tremulous smile fluttered across her lips. Wayne lay beside her and lowered his face within inches of hers. She lay with eyes closed, quiescent and waiting, only the gradual increase in the tempo of her breathing betraying the inner excitement gripping her.
Wayne kissed each eyelid gently. He moved his mouth down a tear-wet cheek to the slightly parted lips and across them. She began to shudder again and her hands reached for him.<
br />
Wayne drew himself back from her seeking hands. He said huskily, “Where is Hake?”
“He doesn't matter,” Priscilla murmured, still with closed eyes. “Kiss me, Morgan Wayne.”
“He does matter.” Wayne's voice was guttural with desire and with the driving determination that was in him. “Suppose he comes back... to get his shirt?”
Her fingertips caressed his cheeks gently. “He would kill us both.” Her voice was still a murmur. Without inflection. Uncaring and unafraid. “Are you afraid of death? They say you're not. They say...”
“What do they say about me?” Wayne demanded roughly as her voice trailed off.
“Many things. And I believe them now. I've lived in fear so long, my dear. You can't know. Hake Derr isn't human. He loves death... for the sake of killing. Ugly and lingering death. He tells me at night. Gloats over it.”
“That,” said Wayne harshly, “is what I thought. Do you want to die, Priscilla?”
“I don't think I care. Take me in your arms.” Her voice was dreamy now, languid and peaceful as the sea after a violent storm has abated.
Morgan Wayne sat up angrily. He made his voice even more harsh. “Come out of it, Priscilla. I might be willing to trade my life for half an hour in bed with you, but by God, I want to be assured of that half hour. Where is Derr at this moment?”
“Where it would take him more than half an hour to get here. Do you have to waste time with questions?”
“Yes,” he said savagely. “Until Iknow.” He reached forward and lifted the French telephone from a low stand beside the bed and held it close to her face. “Here.”
“What's that?” She opened her eyes and looked dazedly at the phone as though she had never seen one before.
“A telephone,” he said patiently.
“What for?”
“To check on Hake Derr. If he's where you think—if we have got that half hour—then we'll have it.”
She sat up slowly, as though emerging from a hypnotic trance. “Suppose Hake isn't there?”
“Then we get the hell out of here—fast.”
She sighed and took the telephone. She suddenly seemed to come alive to full awareness of the situation again, and gave him a nervous smile that was almost a hoyden's grin.
“I guess that does make sense. What'll I say?”
“Anything. Just to make sure he's there.”
“I'll have to say something about your being here. Willie will tell him.”
Wayne shrugged and reached for a cigarette. “Play it straight. Tell him I was here and frightened you.”
Priscilla Endicott drew in a deep breath and dialed a number. Wayne was lighting his cigarette and appeared uninterested, but he watched her finger with concentration and etched the numbers in his mind.
She said, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece, her voice unconsciously becoming hushed and guarded. “That you, Al? Priscilla. Let me talk to Hake.”
She listened a moment, then said forcibly, “I know all that, but this is important. Put Hake on.”
She cradled the mouthpiece hard against the valley between her breasts and told Wayne in a low voice, “He's there, all right. I'll tell him you've already gone and—”
There was a rasping sound from the earpiece and she lifted it swiftly. Morgan Wayne drew deeply on his cigarette and attempted to look at her dispassionately. How much of all this had been an act? How much of it honest emotion? Before God, he didn't know. Was she aware that when you pressed the mouthpiece of a telephone against your diaphragm and spoke even in a low voice, the words were transmitted over the wire by vibration just as clearly as though you spoke into the mouthpiece?
If she was aware of that, then she might as well have shouted to a jealous man that there was someone else in her bedroom with her and he'd better get there fast.
If she didn't know about that vibration thing, of course...
Her voice was dulcet in the mouthpiece: “Hake, honey. Listen. A man named Morgan Wayne was here looking for you... Iknow, honey, I've heard you mention him. I suckered him upstairs here thinking I might hold him till you came, but he got cagey and beat it. Thought I'd better call you right away... Sure, honey. See you tonight.” She cradled the phone and turned exultantly. “He won't be here for hours, so let's—”
She broke off with a swift intake of breath as Morgan Wayne swung to his feet. He had what he needed now, and his face was grim. Whether Priscilla knew it or not, Hake Derr knew there was someone in her bedroom with her while she phoned. Besides that, every moment was precious now. Letty was just a youngster. Anything might be happening to her, and he had a telephone number.
He stood looking down at her and Priscilla shrank from what she saw in his face.
“Believe it or not, my sweet, I just remembered a date with my secretary. It can't wait, sowe'll have to.”
He swung on his heel and strode away fast, carrying with him the memory of the stricken look on the most beautiful face he had ever seen.
He didn't look back at Priscilla. He knew he might turn back to her if he did.
He heard her swearing at him as he went through the living room. He slammed the door behind him and went down the stairs two at a time, slowed as he reached the bottom, and moved casually out into the club, which was beginning to fill up now and hum with evening activity.
He didn't see Willie Sutra, and passed by the bartender swiftly with face averted. The hat-check girl leaned forward expectantly when she saw him, but Wayne waggled two fingers at her and kept going.
His convertible was still at the curb and without a parking ticket. The doorman was busy helping a tipsy party of four from a cab, and Wayne went behind his back and pushed out into the traffic.
He drove expertly and swiftly to the first empty space at the curb in front of a blue telephone sign. He sprinted in and used a dime to dial a certain number. When a gruff voice answered, he said:
“Morgan Wayne, John. Get me an address to match this telephone number fast.” He repeated the number Priscilla Endicott had dialed and said impatiently, “It's goddamned important. Of course I'll hang on.”
He waited with the receiver to his ear, blue eyes hooded and hard as they stared out of the booth, seeing Priscilla's face floating before him, hearing her voice again in his ears.
Then the gruff voice was speaking over the wire, and he memorized the address that went with the telephone number. He said, “Got it, John. Thanks,” and hung up. He hurried back to his car and slammed out into New York's evening traffic again.
Chapter Four
Hake Derr lowered the telephone gently to its cradle. He stood without moving for a moment, thick shoulders hunched forward slightly, straining the seams of his carefully tailored tweed jacket. He had smooth, chubby features with a deep cleft in his chin that gave him a deceptive look of almost innocent boyishness. Until you looked into his eyes. They were neither innocent nor boyish. Nor were they cold or lifeless like Willie Sutra's.
Hake Derr's eyes were round and slightly protuberant. They were such a light gray as to appear almost white— an effect that was heightened by fragmentary brows so close to flesh color that they were practically invisible. The result was curious and somehow frightening.
You looked into Hake Derr's eyes and saw mirrored there such depths of depravity that you shuddered involuntarily. They were old with sin and with hatred for his fellow men. More than mere hatred, for that can be clean; there was bitterness and revulsion that encompassed all of humanity.
Derr pursed his thick lips and made a faint sucking sound as though he tasted something good. This was it. Morgan Wayne had finally come into the open. So he was real. All those vague rumors that had come to Derr's ears recently had a solid foundation.
Letty Hendrixon's snatch had forced Wayne to make an overt move. It was all right now. There was no great hurry. Wayne would keep all right. Set up for the kill in Priscilla's apartment. Those whispered words that had vibrated over the wire to Derr's ear were assurance that
Morgan Wayne would be with her for some little time, at least. “He's there, all right. I'll tell him you've already gone and—”
Yeah, Priscilla was all right. And smart, too. Pressing the mouthpiece hard against her chest while she lured Wayne in a passion-laden voice to take his time and pleasure with her after checking to be sure her lover wasn't likely to interrupt for a few hours.
Sure. Priscilla was O.K. But was she as smart as he was thinking? A tiny doubt gnawed at Hake Derr's mind.Did she know that trick about bone conduction sending words over the telephone when the instrument was smothered against your body?
Wait a minute now. Maybe not. It wasn't common knowledge. If she hadn't done it intentionally, it meant she was actually two-timing Derr instead of Wayne. It meant she was up there in bed with him right now—and liking it, goddamn it. Not setting him up for the kill, but painting a large pair of horns right on Hake Derr's forehead.
That made a difference. One hell of a difference. Derr could accept and applaud the idea of a woman taking a man to bed with her to hold him until her lover could get there to handle the situation, but a wave of red-hot jealousy swept over him with the other thought. He didn't mind how many men she had as a matter of business, but not, by God, for any other reason.
He turned away from the telephone slowly, and Al, who was lounging in the bedroom doorway after taking the call, caught a glimpse of that jealousy in the momentary spasm that contracted Derr's face.
Al was slender and dark and foppish, and now he smirked knowingly. “That Gingham Gal! She really does go for you, Boss, but sometimes I get to wondering if you really do get it all.”
Ordinarily Hake Derr would have shrugged off the remark. But ordinarily he was sure he was getting it all. Now that tiny doubt was gnawing at him.
His smooth, boyish face was blandly impassive as he neared Al. He smiled faintly and said without rancor, “You shouldn't ought to think dirty like that.” His left hand came out of his coat pocket with brass knuckles over the fingers and they smashed cruelly and without warning into the middle of Al's grin. He staggered back with blood spurting from his mouth, choking over half a dozen front teeth driven back into his throat.
The Avenger Page 3
