by V. J. Banis
Jackie lowered the limp body to the floor and brushed away the tears that had clouded his eyes. B.U.T.C.H. was adding rapidly to the score he had to settle with them.
CHAPTER TEN
Jackie dressed quickly, forcing aside the numbing sadness that threatened to engulf him. He had to think clearly now. There was no time for grief. Later he would be able to think about Bruce and cry for him, but now he had other things to occupy him: Dingo Stark and the diary which he had at least managed to repossess, and B.U.T.C.H. More than ever he was determined to put an end to that evil organization.
He left the apartment, taking the diary with him. On the street he was wary lest Fred still be around, waiting for an opportunity to seize the diary again. He saw no one and managed to flag a cab quickly. Once, looking out the back window of the taxi, he thought he recognized the car behind him as the same one he had followed from Golden Gate Park to Chinatown, but he was not certain and when he looked again it was not to be seen.
Back at his hotel he paused in the lobby and called the police from a pay phone, to inform them of Bruce’s death, hanging up before there was time to trace a call. When he reached his room he placed a call at once to Dingo. Once again it was Steve who answered the phone.
“Did you get it,” Steve asked anxiously.
“I got it,” Jackie said grimly. And so, he thought silently, had Bruce.
“You sound angry,” Steve said.
“I am,” Jackie answered. “But I can’t explain just now. Is Dingo there?”
“He’s out again,” Steve answered. “But he should be back shortly. Can you bring the diary over now?”
Jackie hesitated briefly. The safest place for the diary, he knew, would be with the local office of C.A.M.P. But Steve had a right to be concerned and want to see the book himself.
It was puzzling and even annoying that Dingo, who had so much at stake, did not seem concerned enough about the diary’s recovery to be on hand for the call, but that, Jackie reminded himself, was his privilege.
“I’ll bring it over,” he said aloud into the phone.
“Oh, by the way,” Steve said almost as an afterthought, “We’ve changed rooms.”
Jackie repeated the new room number before hanging up. Then, still carrying the diary with him, he headed for the hotel in which Dingo and Steve were staying.
He was delayed briefly in the lobby of their hotel by a procession of lovely ladies in Eastern garb, their multi-colored saris brilliantly conspicuous. He remembered vaguely reading of the visit of a woman from India, a Princess of some importance in her country’s political life. No doubt she was staying in the same hotel and this was her entourage. They were surrounded by a circle of guards who were at pains to see that the ladies were protected from reporters and curious bystanders.
The group took over the elevators, leaving the other guests to wait until they had been delivered to their floor.
Jackie made it at last to Steve’s room. Steve answered his knock quickly, his dark eyes wider than ever with excitement. Jackie handed the diary over to him.
Steve stared at it for a moment and even thumbed through a page or two as though unable to believe his eyes. Finally he looked back at Jackie, beaming with happiness. Jackie’s bad mood melted somewhat in the radiance of that smile and the muscles in the pit of his stomach began to tingle.
“Oh, Jackie, I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me,” he said. He raised his arms and stepped forward. Jackie took him into an embrace willingly, his blood racing as the delicate body melted against his.
I shouldn’t be doing this, he told himself silently, Dingo will hate me. But he was doing it and when he found the ruby lips near his own, waiting to be conquered, he could not prevent himself from burying them under his own mouth.
Far from protesting or withdrawing, Steve returned the kiss with the same ardent enthusiasm, his slender hands clinging to Jackie’s shoulders. Whatever resistance Jackie might have had out of deference to Dingo was weakening rapidly.
They ended the kiss at last. Both of them, as their faces separated, were shaken by the emotion they had touched in one another.
“Dingo’s still out.” Steve whispered breathlessly. “We’re alone here.”
Jackie stared into the depths of the dark eyes. It was like plunging into a smoldering volcano. Steve might look fragile and delicate but beneath that milk white skin was a raging tempest of passion waiting to be set free.
“Is that a suggestion?” Jackie asked.
“I want to show you how grateful I am to you,” Steve said in that throaty voice that sent shivers up and down Jackie’s spine. “I know Dingo would want me to please you.”
“Is that your only reason?” Jackie asked. Eager or not, he liked to think that he could arouse something more than gratitude in the lovely creature in his arms.
Steve laughed softly and shook his face. “I want you,” he whispered, pressing his body tightly against the welcoming hardness of Jackie’s. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you.”
It was the sort of answer that left no room for argument. Jackie kissed him again, all but bursting his seams with desire. His hands made their way down the graceful curve of Steve’s back, grasping at the gently rounded orbs below.
“I want to see you,” Steve hissed. “I want to see all of you, please.”
“Always happy to oblige,” Jackie said. At the moment he would have stood on his head if that was the way Steve wanted it.
He stepped back and began to undress, peeling off his clothes rapidly. He was impatient to be done with the preliminaries, aching with desire to explore Steve’s maddening body.
Steve watched him with wide eyes, a faint smile playing upon his lips. The shirt went and then the T-shirt. Jackie kicked off his shoes, tugging at his socks. His trousers fell to the floor and he stood, finally clad only in his briefs, the fabric stretched ludicrously where Jackie’s arousal was evident.
“The shorts too,” Steve insisted. Jackie complied, rolling them down over his hips and bending to pull them down. He heard the scrape of a drawer opening as he stepped out of them and an ominous click. He raised his eyes and found himself staring down the barrel of a .45 automatic.
* * * *
He groaned and started to pull his shorts back up.
“No, take them off,” Steve snapped, waving the gun warningly.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to do anything with this now.” Jackie said, indicating his conspicuous arousal. “Guns tend to cool my passion anyway.”
“Take them off,” Steve insisted. Jackie shrugged and did as ordered. There’s nothing sillier, he thought glumly, then to stand naked in this condition and talk about anything but sex.
“Don’t tell me you’re working for B.U.T.C.H.?” he asked when he had kicked his shorts aside.
“Not at all,” Steve assured him. “Although I did do some business with them. They came to me a while back to see if I could give them any dirt about Dingo. They were offering a generous price, so I told them about him and me.”
It was logical of course, and a glaring fact that Jackie had overlooked altogether. B.U.T.C.H. could only have known about Dingo and Steve from one of two sources and obviously they hadn’t gotten their information from Dingo.
“But why?” he asked aloud, bewildered. “He was your friend, more than that even. Why would you sell him out like that?”
Steve sneered, his pretty face turned vicious and unattractive. “My friend? Oh sure, he was crazy about me when we lived in those lousy tenements and I was the best lover he could get. Things were fine then. But what happened when he got his big breaks? It was good-bye to little Stevie then; he couldn’t afford to be my friend. He’s the big star and I get a trip to this country and a few dollars a month. Well, it wasn’t enough, if you want to know the truth.”
“Okay, so you got back at him,” Jackie said. “You sold him out and made yourself some money. Why not leave it at that? Why give B.U.T.C.H. the diary as well?”<
br />
“Not B.U.T.C.H.,” Steve corrected him. “I’m taking this for Dingo. He was willing to pay them if you hadn’t gotten it back and he’ll pay me too.”
Jackie felt sick as he contemplated what a shock this would be for Dingo, betrayed by the one person he had most trusted.
“What about me?” Jackie asked. “Or don’t you have any scruples about murder either?”
“Oh, I won’t murder you,” Steve said with wide-eyed innocence. “I just want to keep you out of the way until I get in touch with Dingo and make a deal. That’s why I wanted your clothes off.”
As he spoke he stooped and began gathering up Jackie’s clothes, keeping the gun carefully trained on Jackie as he did so.
Jackie saw the logic. He could scarcely go out into the crowded hotel in downtown San Francisco in the raw, without getting himself arrested. And it would take him quite a while to convince the police of his story, long enough for Steve to put his plans in action.
Steve had crammed the clothes into an empty suitcase. He snapped it shut and set it by the door, putting the diary next to it. “Just to be sure you don’t get yourself rescued,” he said. He went to the telephone and, grabbing the wires, yanked them free of the wall. “I left your keys and your money,” he said, indicating the small pile of things he had left on the floor. “So that things won’t be too difficult for you later.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Jackie told him, too angry to think of caution. “Dingo will be coming back here eventually.”
“Not to this room,” Steve said, unperturbed. “I forgot to tell you, when we changed rooms we took separate rooms, just to be cautious. And I left a message at the desk that they were not to disturb me in this room until morning. So you see, you’ll be very much to yourself until the maid comes in the morning. I trust you’ll be able to explain things to her.”
He tucked the diary under his arms and picked up the suitcase. “It is a pity,” he said, casting his eyes up and down Jackie’s naked, although no longer excited, body. “You are lovely. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I wanted you. Maybe the next time….”
“Don’t count on it.” Jackie snapped. Steve only smiled and blew him a kiss as he slipped out the door.
Jackie seated himself morosely on the edge of the bed and contemplated his situation. It was dark outside, but the streets of San Francisco were too well lighted to allow him to wander about in the raw, even if he could get out of the hotel without being noticed. If Steve had left the phone intact he could have called someone to bring him clothes. As it was, he was in a state of isolation as surely as if the doors and windows had bars on them.
Without much hope he stood and went to the closet, peering inside. There was nothing left in the way of wearing apparel. He stood and surveyed the room, studying it sharply for any ideas.
His eyes fell upon the drapes, brightly colored and striped, and a glimmer of hope sprang into his mind as he remembered the entourage of women from India he had seen in the lobby. After all, he thought, a smile spreading across his face, Scarlet O’Hara had dressed herself in her draperies. Of course she had been able to sew them up a bit, but with a little effort he should be able to produce something similar to the saris he had seen earlier.
Working rapidly, he pulled the chair to the window and removed the drapes, spreading them out on the floor. At least there was plenty of material to work with. It was a wild gamble but it was his only hope of getting out of the hotel and back to his own room, where his other clothes waited for him.
He began draping the material around himself. Without pins or thread he would have to depend upon a few well tied knots and a lot of luck to keep the costume together. But, the Romans, he reminded himself, had used no fastenings in their togas. Of course, they had not had to face the crowds of San Francisco either.
He wrapped one panel about his body, under the armpits and continued wrapping until he had produced what appeared to be a cross between a sari and a mummy covering. The other panel he draped over his head, allowing it to fall about his shoulders as a combination headdress and blouse. Finally he tucked one end of the headpiece over the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.
The result, as he studied it in the mirror, was far from setting fashion trends, but it was not so different from the costumes the women had worn through the lobby. He tucked his billfold and his keys into a loosely formed pocked in the folds of his skirt. It was now or never.
With a silent prayer for luck, he opened the door and stepped into the hall. It was empty and he walked hurriedly to the elevator.
Unfortunately, the elevator was occupied. Worse, Jackie recognized the tall, bird-like woman at once. Greta Romney was from his own city of Los Angeles, a well known gossip columnist and notorious newshound. He knew at once, without question, that she was here in the city for one reason: to interview the visiting Princess from India. And he knew too that her nose for news would catch the scent of an interview with one of the Princess’ traveling companions.
He half stepped back from the elevator but it was too late. Greta Romney’s eyes had grown huge with surprise and delight as she saw him. With a feeling of despair, he stepped into the elevator.
“Oh, you’re with the Princess’ entourage aren’t you?” Miss Romney asked quickly.
Jackie nodded his head; at least his costume was a success. If only he could feign ignorance of the language and somehow escape from Greta Romney before the situation grew any worse.
“I’m Greta Romney,” she said rapidly. “And I’ve been trying so hard to get an interview with the Princess. If I could even talk with you for a few minutes…?”
Jackie’s mind was racing. Perhaps he could ditch her by getting off on the floor where the Princess was staying. But which one had it been? Hopefully, he pushed a button and the elevator whooshed to a stop.
“Oh please, if you could only spare a minute or two. My suitcase is upstairs.” Greta Romney followed him from the elevator, close at his shoulder.
In his eagerness to escape from the woman Jackie failed to notice the train that had come loose from his skirt and was trailing behind him. The doors of the elevator glided shut, catching the fabric. The material tore and the sudden jerk sent Jackie off balance and nearly caused him to fall.
“Damn,” he exclaimed angrily under his breath.
The exclamation brought an expression of shock to Miss Romney’s withered face, followed by one of glee. “Oh, you do speak the language?” she exclaimed happily.
Jackie groaned inwardly. Things were getting out of hand. Ahead of him a door opened and someone paused to finish a conversation in a foreign tongue. He had picked the right floor for the princess, but now he was in danger of being exposed as an imposter.
“Of course,” he answered Miss Romney in a falsetto voice that he had used with success in the past when a case had necessitated his impersonating a woman. “And I’ll be happy to grant you an interview.”
If Miss Romney was surprised by the reversal, she was also quick to seize the opportunity. “How wonderful,” she exclaimed, piloting him deftly back into the elevator. “It won’t take but a minute.”
As the doors of the elevator closed behind them Jackie had a glimpse of one of the Indian entourage staring after them in bewilderment.
Miss Romney’s suite was on the top floor of the building. As they entered it, Jackie wondered briefly if he might be able to exchange his costume for one of Miss Romney’s, but he quickly discarded the idea. He would hardly have an opportunity to make such a change and get away from Miss Romney without some alarms being raised by her. Even so, changing into a Western style costume would leave him in need of a wig and other items to conceal his masculinity.
“Can I offer you a drink?” Miss Romney asked when they were in the living room of the suite.
“Yes, thank you,” Jackie answered in his falsetto.
“I’ll order them sent up,” Miss Romney said, going toward the phone. “They
’re very quick here.”
“Sherry for me, please,” Jackie said. As he spoke, he crossed the room quickly. Miss Romney’s back was to him as she dialed the phone but she was nearer the door than he and he could hardly bolt down the hall with her in pursuit.
The second room of the suite was a bedroom but there was no door opening into the hall. Jackie glanced about wildly. The only other exit was the open window. He stuck his head out that and peered down. Fourteen stories below, the street was alive with evening traffic. He shuddered as he imagined falling that distance.
Only a few inches below the sill of the window, however, was a narrow ledge that encircled the building. It was not the safest looking means of escape but it was the only readily available route.
Miss Romney was still on the phone, her back to him. Jackie yanked his skirt up and hoisted himself quickly up and over the sill. Balancing himself precariously, he inched away from the window. As he made his way slowly and cautiously along the ledge he could hear Miss Romney behind him ordering drinks from room service.
His trembling hand touched the glass of another window and he examined it stealthily. It was open and the room inside was dark. Steeling himself for any encounter, Jackie raised himself to the sill and scramble over, dropping into the room. He landed, not on the floor as he had expected but across the width of an obviously occupied bed. Two figures jumped to sitting position.
A girl’s voice gasped. The man croaked hoarsely, “My God, we’re caught red handed. It’s my wife.”
“Excuse me,” Jackie whispered in his feminine voice, trying to free himself from the tangle of limbs. “But I’m not your wife at all.”
“You’re not?” The voice was doubtful.
“No, I’m not, and I must say, I’m glad of it.” He managed to get one foot to the floor and struggled to free his hand, which had somehow become pinned beneath a rather heavy posterior.
