by Troy Conway
“Yeah, but what’s this all about? You’re not going to keep me here just so I can get you laid, are you?”
“Never mind why I’m keeping you here. Just do what I tell you. Now, favor number two: I want some of the best grass you can get your hands on—kief or hashish if you can manage it; if not, marijuana’ll do.”
“Jeez, what the hell is this? You playing games with me, or what?”
“Never mind. Just get the grass. Can you?”
“How much of it?”
“An ounce.”
“Only an ounce? For Chrissakes, I can give you that now—top grade hash, straight from Morocco.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Okay, what else?”
“Just one thing more. I want you to show up at the orgy. And before you show up I want you to make the rounds at The Safari Club and all your other old haunts, and let everybody see you.”
“That’s suicide. If Michaelson and his guys see me, I’m a dead man.”
“You’ll have three bodyguards—three United States agents who’ll make mincemeat of Michaelson and his boys if they even try to get near you.”
“But why, Damon? For Chrissakes, why?”
I grinned. “I’ll tell you all about it some day in San Francisco, Blaine. Meanwhile, just do what I say.” Winking, I added, “It’s either that or take your chances alone with the Commies.”
He looked at me for a moment as if trying to make up his mind. Then he tossed me the key to the safe deposit box. “You want the hash now or later?” he asked. “Now,” I said. While he was getting it, I added, “Line the girls up for me on the phone, if you can, or send your friend here for them. I don’t want you to leave this apartment until my bodyguards come for you. They’ll get here in twelve to twenty-four hours at the latest. Meanwhile, keep Diane here while I check out the safe deposit box. If everything’s all right I’ll be back for her in about an hour, and I’d have her on a plane an hour or so after that. One more thing: Don’t let her have even a sniff of grass or anything else. I want her as sober as she can be for the trip.”
He gave me a small pouch of hashish, which I tucked into my jacket pocket. Hesitantly he shook my hand. “I hope you’re playing straight with me, Damon,” he said softly, “if you aren’t. . .”
“I am,” I smiled. “You can count on it.” Then I gave Diane a goodbye peck on the cheek and scooted out the door.
“He’s groovy,” I heard her say as I exited. “He talks just like Paul Newman.”
Out on the street, I hailed a cab for the American Express office. There I placed a long-distance call to my contact number with The Coxe Foundation back in the States. I couldn’t get to Walrus-moustache personally, but I was sure my message would reach him soon enough.
The message was straight and to the point: “Andi Gleason dead. Diane Dionne will be on a plane to the States this afternoon. All ready to wrap things up, but need a little help. Have a dozen of the best men you can find report to my hotel room at the Eros as soon as possible. They should be heavily armed.”
From American Express I went to Blaine’s bank. Sure enough, his safe deposit box contained the negatives of Smythe and Whelan frolicking with Andi and Diane. But those negatives weren’t nearly as interesting as the others in the box —all of which were clipped to four-by-five prints, which made it very easy for me to recognize the people involved.
One of the people was Rumpled Suit. He was sixty-nining with Diane.
Another was Crew Cut. He was going at it doggie-style with Andi.
Another was Mod Type. He was doing the missionary position with Diane.
Another was my one-time tablemate with the monocle. He was doing a double-shot with Andi and Diane. On the back of this print Blaine had written: “Michaelson.” How about that!? He was the leader of the gang!
There were a few more photos of guys I didn’t recognize. Evidently the Commies had half their London crew working on the case. From the looks of it, they were really enjoying their work.
But then, who wouldn’t? It sure as hell beat searching through newspaper files and tailing leads, which was the way the average spy spends most of his time.
I put the negatives and prints back into the safe deposit box, locked it, pocketed the key, and hustled back to my hotel room. Mod Type was on duty outside the hotel, and Rumpled Suit was in the lobby. No question about it; the pressure was really on.
In my room, I unlocked my suitcase and took out a doctored American passport. It contained a photo of Diane, along with a bogus American name and identification. Walrus-moustache had included it among the dossiers so that I’d be able to hustle Diane out of England on a moment’s notice without any difficulty at the customs office.
Tucking the passport inside my jacket pocket, I left the Eros. Mod Type and Rumpled Suit picked up on me naturally enough, but the noontime pedestrian traffic in Piccadilly Circus was frantic and I managed to lose myself in the crowd. Just to make sure that they weren’t still with me, I did a few turns through the underground and a few double-taxi dodges. Then I headed back to the apartment where Blaine and Diane were holed up.
Diane still hadn’t come down from her high, but she was in a lot better shape than she had been when I left. I rode out to Heathrow Airport with her and got her on a flight for Dulles International Airport in Washington. After phoning the flight number and projected time of arrival to The Coxe Foundation contact number in the States, so that a Coxeman would be sure to meet her, I took another cab to the Brice-Bennington mansion. Lord and Lady B-B were just sitting down to tea when I arrived, and they promptly invited me to join them. Needless to say, I just as promptly accepted the invitation.
“Pity that old Smythe did himself in, isn’t it?” observed Lord B-B, sipping his tea.
“I didn’t realize you were fond of him,” I replied.
“I wasn’t, old man. As a matter of fact, I thought he was quite a cad. But, don’t you see, he’s ruined our wager. One obviously can’t win an election if one is deceased, can one?”
“No,” I admitted, “one obviously cannot.”
“Unless,” he put in quickly, “you’d be willing, Damon, to let the bet stand with whichever candidate his party picks to run in his place . . .”
“Sorry, Brice,” I said, smiling, “the bet’s off.”
“I’d consent to a reduction of the odds. Say six to five?”
“Sorry, Brice.”
“Then perhaps some other contest? There’s a devilish lot of candidates seeking one office or another, you know.”
“Sorry, Brice, No bet.”
“I thought so,” he said, scowling. As an afterthought he added, “Damned unstable people, committing suicide and whatnot.”
I chuckled. “But cheer up, old man. I’ve got a wager in mind I think you’ll find interesting.”
His eyes widened. “Really!”
“Yes. A wager at odds I think you won’t be able to resist. Say five to one on each of four contests. Or if you like you can improve the odds by parlaying a bet.”
He all but jumped out of his seat. “Do say! What sort of contests?”
“Well, let me put it this way: You’ve bet on horse races, haven’t you? What I have in mind is something like that, but infinitely more difficult to predict the outcome of.”
“Well, stop shilly-shallying and tell me about it!”
“All right. I’m talking about a sex race.”
He stiffened. “Did I hear you correctly, Damon? Did you say ‘sex race’?”
“My exact words, Brice. My exact words.”
“Damon, I told you before, there are four subjects I positively refuse to discuss: sex, religion, politics and—”
“Literature. I know. But I’m not asking you to discuss anything, Brice. I’m just asking you to bet, just like I asked you to bet on the Smythe-Whelan election. What I have in mind is this: A few friends of mine are planning an orgy, and I just figured that you and I might—”
“An orgy!”
He as aghast. “Damon, how dare you suggest—”
“Odds of five to one, Brice. On each of four contests. And you can improve the odds by choosing to parlay one bet. All we’ve got to do is go to this orgy and—”
“Damon!” He was white as a sheet. “Lady Brice-Bennington is present!”
“Don’t worry about me, dear,” Lady B-B put in quickly. “If it amuses you, I don’t object to your going to the orgy with Damon.”
“Penelope,” he replied tartly, “I think you’d better leave the room”—pause—“lest I offend your sensibilities when I tell Damon in the strongest possible language what I think of his indecent proposal.”
“Whatever you say, dear,” she smiled, exiting gracefully.
When she was gone, he turned to me with clenched jaws. “Damon, I don’t take kindly to your unspeakable crudity. Penelope is my wife, and—”
“Brice,” I interrupted, “I’ll cover all bets up to a thousand pounds. That’s four contests at a thousand pounds each. With odds of five to one, if you win all four contests, you can win twenty thousand pounds—that’s forty-eight thousand American dollars. All on an investment of four thousand pounds.”
“Unthinkable!” he whispered. “Imagine! Betting on sex! I’ve never heard of anything so indecent in my life!” But something in his voice told me he was weakening.
“Or you can improve your winnings by choosing to parlay on one bet of a hundred pounds,” I reminded him. “You pick the order of finish—one through four. Your winnings if you get number one right will ride on number two and so on. If you win all four, you’ll win—let’s see—one times five is five, five times five is twenty-five, twenty-five times five is one twenty-five, and one twenty-five times five is six twenty-five—sixty-two thousand five hundred pounds. Brice, that’s a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and all on an investment of only one hundred pounds.”
“You couldn’t cover that,” he snorted.
“My League for Sexual Dynamics could. And I am my league.”
“No!” he said firmly. But he was sitting on the edge of his seat, “I wouldn’t dream or Dotting on sex! why, I’ve never imagined—” He suddenly leaned toward me. Speaking in a whisper, he said, “Understand, Damon, I’m not going to participate in this proposed wager, but tell me, just out of curiosity, do you people in America bet on these things as a matter of course?”
“All the time,” I grinned
“Do say! And precisely what does the contest involve? Not that I’d dream of betting, you understand, but, after all, I am a gambling man—as, evidently, you are—and I must confess that I’m a bit curious. What preciesly do you bet on?”
My grin broadened. “Well, there are five men and five women. The men are in one room and the women are in another. The bettors are in the same room as the women, and the women are nude to give the bettors an opportunity to assess their sexual properties. Now, the person who is placing a bet estimates which of the women, based on his assessment of her sexual attractiveness, will bring her partner to orgasm first, which will bring her partner to orgasm second, and so on. When the bets have been made, the men come in and choose their women at random and on a signal they begin copulating with them. The man who has an orgasm first naturally stops copulating, as does the man who has orgasm second, et cetera. Every one called right in individual betting pays off. In parlaying it you win only if you call the first four right.”
“Indeed! Why, that’s fascinating! Not, you understand, that I’d consider betting on such a contest. But I’ll admit, Damon, it is one deuce of a wager. Why, if a chap guessed four right on a parlay, he’d win a small fortune. And the investment would be almost negligible.”
“Negligible indeed, Brice, but, as you say, you wouldn’t consider betting on such a contest . . .”
“Absolutely not. Why, even if it didn’t violate my moral code, the fact is that I know next to nothing about sex. You see, I’ve always preferred more intellectual pursuits. As a matter of fact, I’ve never even—but that’s another story, and I’d-rather not go into it. Suffice it to say that in a wager of the sort you suggest, I’d be a complete novice. Despite the odds of five to one, you’d be in a position to take merciless advantage of me.”
“Not really. True, I’m a sex expert. But there’s nothing in my background or training that gives me the edge on a novice. Attractiveness is a very subjective thing, and the girl I find most attractive might not necessarily be the girl my opponent finds most attractive. Moreover, neither my opponent nor I can guess which girl each of the men will find most attractive. Consequently, a sexual novice—indeed, even a male virgin—has just as good a chance of winning as the most jaded libertine.”
“Do say! Put that way, it makes sense.”
“Furthermore,” I pressed, “if you decided to bet, it would be up to you to pick the four girls you think will bring their partners to orgasm first. So, even if my expertise gave me an advantage, which it doesn’t, I couldn’t enjoy the advantage—because you could pick any four girls you chose. I’d have no choice but to cover your bet.”
“By Jupiter, you’re right! When’s the orgy? Not that I plan to attend, you understand, but just for argument’s sake, if I did decide to attend, when would the orgy be?”
I smiled mischievously. “Are you free tomorrow night?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“That’s when the orgy is.”
He drained his teacup, took out his pouch of tobacco and his package of cigarette papers and nervously rolled himself a smoke. “I must say, Damon, the idea appeals to my instincts as a gambler. Not that I’d attend the orgy, mind you. A man must stick to his principles.” He lit the cigarette. “And my principles are, never discuss“
“You wouldn’t be violating your principles,” I reminded him. “We wouldn’t be discussing sex; we’d merely be betting on it. The circumstances would be identical to those of our bet on the Smythe-Whelan election.”
“A valid point, Damon. A valid point. Still, there are other considerations. As you might well imagine, it just wouldn’t do to have me walking into an orgy somewhere. Not that I’m concerned with what people would think of me. But, after all, I must thin If of Lady Brice- Bennington and the Friends of Decency. I couldn’t risk blemishing my wife’s reputation.”
“I could arrange to have the orgy take place right here in your mansion,” I interrupted. “Everyone knows that I’m conducting a sex study under the sponsorship of the Friends. Anyone who saw the orgiasts arriving would assume they were merely coming to be interviewed by me.”
‘True! By Jupiter, it’s true! And I really wouldn’t be participating in the orgy; I’d just be betting on it! Of course, there’s always the matter of how I’d explain things to Lady Brice-Bennington.”
“She just said a few minutes ago that she wouldn’t mind if you attend the orgy.”
“So she did! So she did!” He puffed excitedly on the butt of his cigarette, then ground it out and eagerly rolled another. “What time tomorrow night, Damon? Early, I hope. I like to get to bed before midnight.”
“Brice,” I promised, grinning wickedly, “you’ll be in bed long before midnight.”
He chuckled. “And maybe—heh-heh—I’ll take a small fortune to bed with me.” He patted me fraternally on the shoulder. “Go for broke, Damon. That’s what I always say. Gad, does gambling excite me! Gad!!!”
I spent another half-hour with him, drinking tea and smoking a few of his hand-rolled cigarettes. Then I excused myself and headed back to the Eros—but not, of course, before I tipped off Lady B-B and Robbi Randall about what was coming up.
Crew Cut was on duty in the Eros lobby when I got there. Studiously ignoring him, I went up to my room and phoned Peter Blaine. I reported that Diane was safely on her way to the States. Then I asked how he had done with the orgy girls. All five, he replied, were ready and waiting. I told him to have them show up at the Brice-Bennington mansion the following evening at seven. I also told him that he c
ould expect his three bodyguards to arrive at his hideaway sometime during the night. Then, urging him to keep a stiff upper lip, I hung up.
My wristwatch read seven fifteen. I was hungry enough to eat a horse—success always whets my appetite—but I didn’t want to leave the hotel because I knew that The Coxe Foundation’s dozen men would be calling on me very shortly. So I phoned room service and ordered a steak with all the trimmings. Then I lay back on my bed and, in a move which Lord B-B certainly would applaud, made a little bet with myself as to what would arrive soonest—the steak or the first of the Coxemen.
The bet ended in a draw; the steak and the first Coxeman arrived at exactly the same time. The second Coxeman showed up a few minutes later, and the third arrived just as I was finishing my meal. I told the three of them precisely what I wanted them to do, then dismissed them.
Four more Coxemen came within the hour. I gave them other instructions, then sent them on their way. They were followed by two others, then three more—all of whom were likewise instructed and dismissed.
The dozen men having now been dispatched, I poured myself a stiff Johnnie Walker Black. Then, sitting in my armchair looking out the window, I sipped it. For the first time since I landed in London, I was able to drink with pleasure.
As I sat in my room getting very comfortably high, the Communists undoubtedly were going nuts. The Commie who was on stake-out duty in the lobby couldn’t have helped but notice the parade of men coming up to my room. He undoubtedly had informed his headquarters of the development and had been told to tail the first man that left. Meanwhile, the Commie high command had undoubtedly sent more tails into action, so that each of the subsequent Coxeman who left me also could be followed.
Now all twelve Coxemen were galavanting around London, accompanied by a Commie tail—if the Commies had that many men capable of being pressed into service on such short notice. The first three Coxemen had been instructed to shake their tails, then hurry to Peter Blaine’s hideout to serve as bodyguards. The others had been told to lead their tails on a wild goose chase all over town.
