But right now she was standing in front of him and he had to do something. It was a hair-trigger moment. God knew how she would react if he spurned her now. She was capable of anything—screaming for help and then swearing that it was he who had originally kidnaped her and brought her here for vile purposes of his own.
He crushed out his cigarette and got to his feet slowly. He hated himself for it, but his heart began to pound rapidly despite his resolutions as he approached her. Under other circumstances, goddamnit, he would give her the lessons she wanted and needed. So it wasn't so difficult to pretend and to make his voice sound husky with desire when he put his arms about her slim waist and felt the soft flesh beneath his palms quiver and the lush breasts pushing against him. He lowered his head as her mouth strained up to him, again hating himself fiercely for the surge of passion that went over him.
He muttered thickly, “All right, darling. You win. Go in there and take a fast shower and fix yourself up a little.” He patted her shoulders and turned her about and opened the bathroom door and pushed her gently inside. She turned her head to look searchingly at him over a bare shoulder and he nodded reassuringly and said hoarsely, “Hurry it up. What do you think I'm made of?”
She said simply, “I'll hurry as fast as I can,” and closed the door.
Morgan Wayne stepped back and let go a long withheld breath and dragged out a handkerchief to mop at the sweat streaming down his face.
He went swiftly to the telephone and dialed Julius Hendrixon's number. He got a busy signal and replaced the receiver. He stood for a moment with a frown, listening to the cheery swish of the shower from within the bathroom. It might be difficult to reach Hendrixon by telephone, he realized. After the kidnaping became known there would be all sorts of consultations and telephone calls, both incoming and outgoing. There would be police swarming all over the place. He became rigid suddenly, his face hardening to a mask of self-anger.
The police! Of course they'd be swarming all over the place, monitoring the phone calls, checking back on every incoming call before it was answered. They could arrange a busy signal easy enough. Right now his call was being traced. It would be only a matter of minutes before they knew where it had come from. Then a matter of seconds to alert the nearest precinct police and put a call on the radio for a cruising car in the vicinity.
What a fool he had been! That was the one thing he must avoid. If the police found him with the juvenile delinquent now making merry in his bathroom, there might easily enough be hell to pay. He had to get to the family first. Once his story was told, his position made clear, Letty could tell any damn-fool story she wished.
A matter of minutes was all he had. He moved swiftly and silently to the bathroom, grinned ruefully as he heard the shower still running. She was making a thorough job of her bath. Getting her young body all clean and fresh and fragrant for whatever sort of weird orgy her unhealthy mind anticipated.
He turned the outside lock slowly and carefully on the door so that it made no sound, whirled, and headed for the outer door. That would do it. He had complete faith in the efficiency of the New York police force. They would be here in a matter of minutes to discover her in the bathroom. Even before she tried the door and found she was locked in, perhaps. To make the job easier for them, Wayne left the outer door standing wide open as he went out and hurried back along the corridor to the elevator leading directly to the garage. He managed a grin and a chuckle as he envisioned the scene that would soon take place in his apartment. Grim-faced police officers entering cautiously and with drawn guns, finding her torn garments lying on the floor in front of the bathroom—and then the girl herself stepping out to confront them....
He wondered fleetingly what sort of story Lettywould tell the police. It didn't matter now. The only real danger to him since he had snatched her from Derr's mob had been the chance that some cop would find him with her and start shooting before Morgan Wayne could identify himself. He stepped out on the concrete floor of the basement garage and Bill nodded incuriously at him as he went across to the Hudson sedan that assured him safe transportation to Julius Hendrixon's house.
Chapter Seven
On this attempt, Morgan Wayne reached the West Side Highway without incident. It was dark now, and the heavy traffic was flowing in to the city instead of outward. Behind the wheel of the smoothly purring Hudson sedan, Wayne held himself to a careful sixty miles an hour in the outer lane, slowing decorously for first one toll bridge and then the next, then watching carefully for the Rontead Road exit, which he knew led directly to the Hendrixon estate, less than a quarter of a mile from the parkway.
He was relaxed behind the wheel, his thoughts racing as fast as the humming motor as he went back in retrospect over the events of the last few weeks, and particularly the bizarre happenings of the afternoon just past. All in all, he decided, things could be a lot worse. His information had proven correct, and Julius Hendrixon wouldn't be disposed to laugh at him now. It was probably the best thing in the world that the kidnaping had actually taken place as he had warned the drug tycoon it would. In a sense, Wayne's vigil in the improvised office overlooking the Flushing yacht basin had been wasted time because they hadn't brought the girl to the boat after all, but that was a minor detail. There had been no way of foreseeing that development.
Thoughts of the office and the long hours spent there, brought him up with a jolt to serious consideration of his latest in a series of secretaries making a one-week stand. Since hastily reading her “letter” to him late that afternoon, there hadn't actually been a single moment of respite for thoughts of Lois Elling and what he was going to do about her.
He grinned wryly in memory of the typed words as he tooled the sedan smoothly along the winding four-lane highway. Had the other secretaries felt that way about him and about the job? If so, they hadn't shown their feelings. He frowned as he thought back over each of the three and tried to guess how they might have felt. It wasn't any good. He didn't really remember much about any one of them. Girls whom he had employed sight unseen from agencies to sit at a desk eight hours each day waiting for a telephone call. He hadn't paid any attention to them. He couldn't even recall what they looked like. A pretty colorless trio, they must have been, he thought. Not at all like Lois Elling.
Then he corrected himself. Maybe that wasn't fair to her predecessors. Until this afternoon he had scarcely noticed Lois, either. As a person. Right now, he couldn't recall any actual details of her features and coloring.
But her personality was something else. What Lois Ellingwas behind the veneer that civilized people put up between themselves and others.
Oh, yes. He knew all about Lois Elling now. As much, he thought, as a psychoanalyst after a year of treatments. And the hot fever of desire rose swiftly within his body as he reviewed all the things he knew about Lois Elling.
She must be waiting for him in her apartment now, damn it. Soaking up the warmth of a hot bath while she waited for him and anticipated his coming. He savagely cursed the circumstances that were keeping them apart, and unconsciously trod the accelerator closer and closer to the floor boards as he recalled the words she had typed while sitting not more than ten feet from him only a few hours ago.
A man would know where he stood with Lois Elling. There'd be no artifices or sham. She would be as straightforward and honest about sex as a man. There would be no fumbling between them. No false modesty or silly attempt to hide from the truth.
In that sense, there was a strong similarity between Lois and the Gingham Girl. The way Priscilla had first looked at him across the room. The flame that had been ignited and which they both recognized and accepted as he moved toward her. A man knew where he was with Priscilla Endicott, too.
Or did he? Either she was blatantly honest or else she was one of the most devious and dangerous females he had ever encountered. He wanted desperately to believe that her phone call to Hake Derr had been on the level—that she had no idea Derr would hear her whispered
aside to Wayne while she waited. He wanted desperately to believe that the flame lighting the translucent depths of her green eyes had been honest passion of such intensity that it could not be denied.
But he couldn't be sure. Not yet. But he would be sure. And soon, he promised himself. After this night with Lois Elling he'd be in just the sort of shape to take Priscilla's lovely white body in his two hands and tear the truth out of her.
Right now there were other things to think about. The coming interview with Hendrixon was all-important. Every sense was alert as he saw the exit sign in front of him and slowed for the turn. A state police car was discreetly parked on the grass at the exit where the two troopers could look over any car that turned from or sought to enter the parkway at this point. Wayne gave them a levelly incurious glance as he drove past in his borrowed Hudson and they made no move to stop or follow him.
That was only the beginning of the police gantlet he would have to run before reaching Hendrixon, he knew, and he drove along the macadam slowly, prepared for the signal that didn't come until the gravel turnoff leading upward to the baronial structure he sought.
There was a businesslike roadblock here. A county police car and another state cruiser with two smartly uniformed troopers. One of the troopers and a man in plain clothes stood side by side in the driveway with flashlights that blinked on and off. Wayne rolled up to them and they separated to let him stop opposite them. The trooper leaned against the door on Wayne's left and casually flashed his light over the back seat, then brought it to bear on Wayne's face. “Mind giving us your name and business, mister?”
Morgan Wayne said, “Not at all,” with a smile. His right hand was ready in his trousers pocket and he brought it out with a small gold medallion cupped in the palm. He held it for the flashlight beam to bring out the inscribed words and waited patiently while the trooper studied it with care.
The man pushed his broad-brimmed hat back from his forehead and studied the driver with interest and respect. “I've heard of those do-jiggers,” he drawled, “but this is the first time I ever had one flashed on me. You're Morgan Wayne?”
Wayne said, “If you want further identification...” His hand moved upward toward his inner coat pocket, but the trooper said hastily, “That'll be O.K. Straight up the drive and park behind the other cars so there's room to get by.” He stepped back and fingers went up to touch the brim of his hat in a salute.
Wayne said, “Thanks, Officer,” and drove on in second gear up the steep grade to the huge hilltop mansion that spilled light from every window.
There were at least a dozen cars parked bumper to bumper in the wide circle in front of the house. Wayne slide in behind the last one and got out to make his way past half a dozen of them, noting that every degree of officialdom seemed to be represented, from a parkway police car to a sleek blue sedan with modest insignia indicating a high official in the New York Police Department.
He turned under a porte-cochere and went up a wide flagstoned walk protected by an awning to the front doors, which stood open. Another state trooper stood there beside a cadaverous butler in a black suit with a stiff wing collar and string tie about his gaunt neck. The trooper was young and personable. He stepped in front of Wayne negligently and inquired, “Whom do you wish to see?”
“Mr. Julius Hendrixon. Tell him Morgan Wayne,” he said past the trooper to the butler.
The trooper's face showed interest and he nodded. “Mr. Hendrixon has given orders to admit you. Take Mr. Wayne into the small library, Dillon,” he added to the butler.
Wayne followed the black-clad figure down a wide hallway with rosewood paneling to double sliding doors that stood partially open. He entered and announced, “Mr. Morgan Wayne,” and stood aside for Wayne to enter.
The “small” library was a room some sixty by forty feet, with quartered oak flooring and a fieldstone fire place at the far end large enough to have roasted a yearling whole.
Both side walls were solid bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and there were heavy tables and leather chairs scattered about. Four persons stood in a group near the center of the room and turned their heads to look at Wayne as he entered. He recognized only one of them.
With his heavy body, shaggy mane of dark hair, and a last-generation British mustache, Julius Hendrixon had something of the look of a water buffalo. His heavy features might have been hewn from granite by an inexpert hand, and the heavy torso was hunched forward a trifle as though almost too heavy for the bowed legs beneath.
He swung away from the others and advanced toward Wayne, booming aggressively. “Wayne! I've been wondering, by God, where you were. It's no good new, you see. We just had a flash from New York that Letty has been found by the police. Unharmed.”
Wayne said, “That's very good news.” He didn't voice his fears for the safety of the police detail who had found her. “Better than you deserve,” he went on dryly, “after the way you shrugged off my warning of this very thing last month.”
“I admit my mistake.” Hendrixon's voice lost some of its booming aggressiveness and became shaken and worried. “And that's what I want to talk to you about now. How you knew it was planned. Why you refused to give me any credentials or proof.”
“And how, Mr. Wayne,” came a cold voice from behind him, “you were aware of the fact practically as soon as it happened.”
“That's right,” Hendrixon put in heavily. “The call from your secretary came before we were aware that Letty was gone.”
Wayne made a gesture of dismissal and said shortly, “I've had a man on Miss Hendrixon day and night ever since you gave me the brush-off in your office. He witnessed the snatch this afternoon and phoned me at once.” He moved forward past Hendrixon toward the other three people in the room, a woman and two men.
The woman was tall and thin, modishly gowned and about forty. Letty's mother, Wayne knew at a glance, though this anemic socialite with her thin lips and haughty manner and high hair-do was a far cry from the impetuously carnal youngster he had left in his bathroom. A vague memory of something Letty had said or implied about her mother tugged at his mind as he neared the trio. He studied her through low-lidded eyes as he approached and decided he had misunderstood Letty. Certainly this sterile product of an unhealthy, hothouse environment had never known an honest emotion in her life.
He jerked his thoughts back to more pressing matters as he looked the men over coldly. One was young and foppish in a velvet-lapeled fawn-colored smoking jacket, pleated slacks, and patent-leather pumps, with a weak face that had the double disadvantage of a receding chin and protruding upper teeth. The other man was middle aged and ruddy faced, wearing a conservative business suit and chewing on half of a dead Perfecto.
Behind Wayne, Hendrixon said, “This is Letty's mother, who has asked to meet you, Wayne. And her brother, John Durtol Third.”
He paused momentarily and the young man said limply, “I've been telling Julius that all this furor is utterly absurd. I'm convinced this so-called kidnaping was engineered by Letty herself just to get what she would call a thrill. You see, I know something about my charming niece's proclivity toward—”
“John!” Wayne was mildly surprised by the vehemence of the thin, high voice that came from Mrs. Hendrixon's lips. One would not have guessed such spirit lay hidden behind that cold exterior. “We'll listen to no more of your filthy insinuations about Letty,” she continued almost breathlessly.
He shrugged elaborately and moved aside to sprawl in a big leather chair and stare at the polished tips of his shoes.
“I'm Elliot Carson,” said the big, ruddy-faced man, extending a fleshy palm and gripping Wayne's hand firmly. “Attorney for the Hendrixon estate,” he added. “Blair, Carson, and Withers. This may not be exactly the time for a full explanation from you, Mr. Wayne, but I assure you that I am prepared to take any necessary legal measures to force you to divulge the sources of the information you offered Mr. Hendrixon a month ago.”
Wayne shrugged his bro
ad shoulders and said blandly, “And I assure you, sir, that any legal steps you may take will be utterly wasted. You fools!” he went on angrily. “Standing around here driveling about legal measures when you didn't even have brains enough to protect a young girl from what Letty went through this afternoon.”
“Just what did dear Letty go through this afternoon?” drawled John Durtol Third insolently from his leather chair.
“And how much do you know about the details?” demanded Hendrixon. “Do you realize your phone message is the only one we've received concerning her?” One huge fist thumped resoundingly into a meaty palm. “No demand for ransom. No nothing. I'm prepared to swear out a warrant—”
Wayne interrupted him harshly. “What you had better do is start listening to me instead. This thing has just started, and God knows where it may end. It may not be Letty next time, but it'll be something else.”
He was looking into Mrs. Hendrixon's cold eyes as he spoke, and he sensed an inexplicable change in them. Not a warmth, for he felt it impossible for them to show that, but a flicker of interest or of excitement. An almost avid awakening as though something within her responded to his harshness.
“To hell with this,” Wayne said abruptly. He turned to the lawyer. “Who is the highest police officer in the house?”
“Inspector Hibbs from Manhattan. He drove out with me as a personal favor.”
“Will his O.K. satisfy you as to my integrity?” Wayne demanded with savage force.
“Why... yes. Certainly. If you can convince the inspector...”
“Take me to him,” Wayne said.
As he turned to move away with Carson, his gaze touched Mrs. Hendrixon's again. She was wetting her thin lips with the tip of her tongue and her nostrils were flared at the base. There was a peculiar intensity about her staring eyes that gave Wayne a momentary queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. He followed Carson out into the hallway again, striving to recall what Letty had said about her mother.
The Avenger Page 6
