The savage salome

by Brown, Carter, 1923-1985

  "Right, Boyd?" Benny asked solicitously.

  With both hands clasped around my stomach, I started to bend forward in an effort to ease the pain.

  "He won't answer, Mr. Harvey." Benny sounded disappointed. "I hate a guy who's just plain rude, don't you, Mr. Harvey?"

  The side of his hand chopped down across the back of my neck, and sent me sprawling face down on the carpet.

  "Maybe he's a little nervous," Benny suggested. "But I guess he knows now not to bother you with his problems, Mr. Harvey."

  The shiny toe of his right shoe thudded viciously into my ribs. "Right, Boyd?"

  "Right!" I mumbled into the carpet.

  I waited a full minute because I couldn't have moved anyway until the pain eased a little, and I also wanted to be real sure Benny had finished the lesson. Then I got up slowly onto my hands and knees, even more slowly to my feet, and grabbed hold of the nearest chair for support.

  Benny adjusted a pleat of his fancy pocket handkerchief carefully, then nodded encouragingly. "You got that straight now?" he asked. "Mr. Harvey don't want to be bothered with your problems, he's got plenty of his own. So you don't ever worry him again. Right, Boyd?"

  "Right," I mumbled, then started the slow, painful walk toward the door.

  "You might mention to the Lynn dame the way I feel about people with problems, Boyd," Earl Harvey said in a nasal whine. "Tell her how Benny takes care of them for me, huh? Like if she figures Chase is tough, how would she feel about Benny?"

  "I'll tell her," I said from between clenched teeth.

  "Fine," he said approvingly. "You're a smart boy!"

  "You got it wrong, Mr. Harvey," Benny said softly. "Mr. Boyd is a real big operator—I'm the smart boy, remember?"

  As I closed the door, I heard a rasping sound like somebody was scraping a wire brush over sheet metal. It took a Uttle while to figure out it was Harvey laughing.

  Nobody in the next ofi5ce seemed to care that I'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes—maybe they figured I was a television comic just caught up with this week's ratings. But the receptionist appreciated the dijfference when I finally made it to her desk.

  She looked at me almost eagerly, her thin lips spread in a sly grin.

  "That's funny," she said acidly. "I would have sworn you were a much younger man when you went inside, Mr. Boyd. Now you look kind of stooped—stomach-ache, maybe?"

  "Tell me something. Marge," I said, still bent carefully forward so my insides wouldn't drop out onto the floor. "That Benny—what does he do around here?"

  "He's a researcher," she said throatily. Her eyes devoured me hungrily with a glint of pure pleasure showing. "He's got a real interesting job."

  "Yeah," I grunted. "You can see he's crazy about it."

  Five minutes later I shufiied into the nearest bar and eased into the nearest chair. I told the waiter to bring me a double cognac—in a balloon in case I decided to drown myself. Twenty minutes and two more cognacs later, I

  figured Fd live—crippled maybe, but alive. The waiter looked pleased when I told him my big decision and brought some more cognac. After that I managed to get on my feet and to a phone.

  Fran answered the office phone like always and reminded me it was lunch time and she shouldn't be working. The thought of food sent a sudden spasm of pain through my stomach again.

  "I'm sick," I said in a hollow voice. "I am about to die —and you give me union talk!"

  "I'll send flowers," she answered crisply.

  "There's a baritone called Rex Tybolt," I said. "Find out his address and caU him. Say I want to see him alone and it's urgent. Try and make it this afternoon, Fran. If he's not home, try the theater."

  "O.K.," she said easily. "Better make it an evening appointment, lover-boy, your afternoon is shot already."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "By royal command," Fran giggled. "At three P.M. precisely, Mr. Boyd will present himself at the Towers suite."

  "Donna Alberta?"

  "Who else? You're getting the treatment, Danny—she even called in herself."

  "You figure she wants to audition my voice?" I said dreamily. "I always knew eating that pizza pie would pay off someday!"

  "My guess is it's more like a matinee," Fran said coldly. "Or maybe a one night stand?"

  Chapter Five

  I USED THE FIFTIETH STREET ENTRANCE

  and spent the time in the elevator dreaming how nice it would be to call the northern spire of the Waldorf-Astoria home. Like when you walked an old buddy from out of town along the other side of the street, lifted a negligent finger to point, and said, 'That's my pad."

  Reality clobbered me real hard when the door of the suite opened and Helen Mills stood there. Her hps were pursed together in downright disapproval and there was no glitter to her blue-framed glasses. Her whole attitude said clearly this was garbage day and how come they were delivering now instead of removing it?

  It had been a rough day already and my insides were still twitching a little—a ghoul like Helen Mills I didn't need.

  "How about I go out and come in again?" I snarled.

  "Come in, Mr. Boyd," she said in a colorless voice. The corners of her mouth turned down sharply. "You're expected!"

  I followed her into the living room and she gestured for me to sit down.

  "Miss Alberta won't be long," she said in the same dreary voice.

  "That's fine," I said. "We can bridge the gap with a little conversation. Keep it bright—I've had a bad day."

  "We have nothing to talk about, Mr. Boyd."

  "You've changed, Helen," I said brokenly. "I can remember the time when you'd rush right over to my apartment even if you only had fifteen minutes."

  "Stop it!" she said tightly.

  "Ah!" I sighed with the nostalgia of it all. "The fun we used to have, Helen! The high-spirited, healthy fun we had—like you'd haul off and hit me and I'd—"

  "Shut up!" she hissed violently. "She'll hear you!"

  Right on cue. Donna Alberta walked slowly into the room. I came to my feet in a spontaneous gesture of ap-prec'ation. She'd let down the thick, silver-blonde hair so it hung four inches below her shoulders, adding the final touch to the Wagnerian portrait.

  She wore a heavy silk negligee that rustled sibilantly as she walked, outlining the curved arch of her strong thighs. The silk was a glowing amethyst color and clung tight to her majestic breasts, revealing their outline with shattering frankness.

  I could sense the impotent fury raging inside Helen Mills next to me, but I couldn't take my eyes away from Donna Alberta. Her negligee still whispered urgent, intimate secrets as she came closer, and again that triumphant arch—the ultimate strength and ultimate weakness of all women—sprang into sharp outline. She was a goddess— a Valkyrie sent to choose those destined to die in battle —and right then I was almost a volunteer.

  She stopped maybe two paces from me and smiled brilliantly.

  "Mr. Boyd." Her voice was husky, bubbling with a liquid quality. "How nice of you to come."

  "My pleasure. Miss Alberta," I almost stammered.

  "Please sit down." She gestured toward the couch, ignoring the chair right in back of me.

  A faint hissing sound came from Helen Mills, like the safety valve just blew. I sneaked a look and saw her face was drained of any color—drawn tight so the naked pain showed in every feature. Her magnified eyes had a raw look like they were bleeding.

  Donna Alberta turned her head slowly as if for the first time she realized her secretary was in the room.

  "I don't think we'll need you, Helen," she said lightly. "Mr. Boyd and I are going to have a long chat and you know how bored you get when I talk business."

  "I'm—I'm not going!" Helen stammered defiantly. "You can't make me. I'm not leaving you alone with—"

  "Helen!" The prima donna's voice cracked like a whip across her secretary's face. "Leave us."

  Suddenly Helen Mills's face crumpled and tears streamed down her che
eks as she turned and stumbled blindly out of the room. She looked back at Donna Alberta once and cried out sharply—a few moments later a door slammed shut leaving a silence that vibrated with the desolate lonehness of that cry.

  "Poor Helen!" Donna Alberta said in an almost gloating voice.

  I looked up quickly and caught the leering, triumphant look in her eyes in the split second before it vanished.

  "Sometimes I wonder about her," she went on calmly. "Am I doing right by keeping her as a secretary, do you think, Mr. Boyd? Do you think she'd be happier doing social work in a corrective school for delinquent girls, or something similar?"

  She sat on the couch and gestured again for me to sit beside her. Her hand rested gently on my knee once I was sitting down, and the clustered rings on her second and third fingers sparkled brilliandy.

  "Why should we talk about Helen," she purred, "when we have so many other important things to discuss? Mr. Boyd—I feel we've known each other a long time— may I use your first name?"

  "Danny," I said.

  "Danny!" Her fingers gently squeezed their approval. "I like that—and you must caU me Donna."

  "Fine," I said.

  "First of all, I have to apologize for Kasplin's unspeakable behavior, Danny." She sounded genuinely shocked. "He told me he'd dared to dismiss you without even consulting me!"

  I watched the deep, indignant breath and waited for the silk to split, but it didn't.

  "That's the trouble with all managers," Donna continued angrily. "They think they own a singer, body and soul, and they can do anything they like. Well, I corrected Kasplin's mistake this morning and he's not likely to do it again."

  "What did you do?" I asked interestedly. "Steal his snuff?"

  She laughed shortly. "Better than that. After I'd told him exactly where he'd be without me, I gave him an ultimatum—either he apologized to you in person or I quit the production!"

  "Wouldn't that be kind of hard—^with contracts signed and everything?" I queried.

  "Poof!" She snapped her fingers disdainfully. "That for contracts! Don't worry, Danny, Kasplin turned green at the thought—he'll be here later to apologize."

  "It was nice of you to go to all that trouble," I said nervously. "You shouldn't have."

  She smiled brilliantly, showing the strong, perfect teeth, while her grip on my thigh tightened.

  "Nothing is too much trouble if it's for you, Danny," she purred. "I still want you to find the fiend who murdered my poor Niki!" She wiped her eyes with a fine linen handkerchief as if the thought of the late lamented Pekingese was too much; but the handkerchief came away dry, I noted.

  "I must be brave," she murmured softly. A carefully portrayed effort restored the brilliant smile to her face. "So now everything is the same as before, Danny. You're still working for me, but only for me—Kasplin is nothing! I hope it makes you as happy as I feel?"

  "Thanks a lot," I croaked. "You went to a lot of trouble for me. Donna, and I appreciate it, beheve me. There's only one little problem. Yesterday morning KaspUn fired me, and last night someone else hired me to find Paul Kendall's murderer." I shrugged helplessly. "The way I figure it, the same person killed both your dog and Kendall, so you see how it is. I can't work for two cUents at the same time."

  There was a polar coldness in her blue eyes as she stared at me for what felt like a long time. Then it slowly thawed and the brilhant smile flowered again on her Ups.

  "I understand, Danny," she said softly. "Why shouldn't it happen?—hov/ could you know Kasplin had acted without my authority?"

  "You're being very nice about the whole deal," I said cautiously.

  "Why shouldn't I be?" She laughed gaily. "I should feel sorry for this other client, but I don't."

  "Huh?"

  "When you tell whoever it is that you're working for me again," she explained casually.

  "I'm sorry," I told her, "I can't do that."

  Sheer disbeUef showed on her face as she stared at me again, then the cogs meshed inside her head and came up with unfailing gambit.

  "Danny?" She moved her shoulders so the top of her negUgee parted down the middle, then leaned toward me. "I saw you watching me when I came into the room," she whispered. "There was a spark that set you on fire—^I felt it, too."

  Short of dislocating my neck, I couldn't avoid seeing the deep cleavage between her jutting breasts, exposed by the parted neghgee, I was bruised enough without adding any voluntary masochism, and I was beginning to understand the mountain climber's enthusiasm for unconquered peaks.

  "I know how it is for all you virile men!" Her soft laughter sounded tolerant, almost maternal.

  "Look," I said desperately, "Fm real sorry, Donna—"

  The palms of her hands pressed softly against the sides of my face, making further conversation impossible.

  *'Danny!" She pulled my head down until it rested against the sudden, breathtaking expanse of moulded whiteness. The subtle fragrance of her perfume was a sensuous time bomb with the time running out fast.

  My hands gripped her waist for a Uttle while, then sUd down over the generous swell of her hips, feeling the heavy silk whisper responsively against my fingertips. They spanned the curved arch and continued downward, eagerly exploring her heavy thighs until they stopped abruptly when they discovered bare skin where there should have been heavy silk—lots more heavy silk.

  Donna's hands pressed my head tighter against her bosom so I could feel the quickened response of her body. Then my head was jerked upward savagely to face the molten look in her eyes, the moment before her moist red lips were crushed against mine.

  If it started with a spark between us, like she said, it was going to finish with a volcanic eruption. She tensed her body against mine in a desperate and losing battle

  inside herself which I guessed was part of the whole deal for her—each time she'd have to resolve the physical and mental conflict first—and each and every time her flawless body would win.

  Suddenly she went limp and her hands pushed me away with impatient force.

  "I'm sorry, Danny," she panted softly, "the door."

  "Door?" I croaked stupidly.

  "I'm not sure it's locked."

  I pushed myself up from the couch and walked four, maybe five, steps toward the door, then stopped and turned around. Donna lay on the couch, breathing quickly but softly, her face flushed a glowing pink. The negligee lay in heavy folds around her hips, so the top half of her body looked to have been sculptured by some genius out of white marble. There was almost the grandeur of marble columns in the curving sweep of her legs from ankle to hip, and a careless fold of heavy silk partially revealed the last small and defenseless curve on the inside of her thigh.

  I closed my eyes against the sudden intensity of desire which swept over me, then fought against the paralyzing grip on my nerve ends.

  "Danny?" Donna's voice was lazy-soft. "The door—^remember?"

  My eyes opened reluctantly and I looked at her again, concentrating desperately on her face.

  "Donna," I said hoarsely, "'there are a couple of things you should know. I'm staying with my other client—and her name is Margot Lynn."

  She didn't believe it and I didn't blame her—I had a hell of a job believing it myself. For maybe thirty seconds, she just looked at me vacantly, then she got the full impact.

  Her face darkened swiftly from warm pink to a fiery scarlet; her arms and legs began to twitch spasmodically, and a film seemed to spread rapidly across her eyes. She moaned, softly at first, then in an ever-increasing volume until she shrieked in the ear-shattering crescendo only a prima donna can achieve.

  Her whole body shuddered convulsively as she thrashed around on the couch until she rolled off onto the floor.

  She lay on her back with her heels drumming wildly for a time; then she threw herself over and lay face down, while her fingers tore at the thick tufted fibers of the deep pile carpet.

  Around then I found the kitchen and filled an outsize,
cut-glass vase with cold water, went back to the living room, and poured the contents over her head. It cured the hysterics in one shot and for a frantic couple of seconds I wondered if it had killed her. I should have known she was indestructible.

  There was the kind of uneasy quiet that follows newspaper columnists all over Europe. Donna slowly lifted herself onto her hands and knees, rested for a moment, then climbed wearily to her feet. The negligee had fought gallantly, above and beyond the call of duty, but it knew when it was licked. With a rustling sigh, it slid from her hips and piled in a reproachful heap around her ankles.

  Donna turned her head dehberately and looked at me. The drenched, silver-blonde hair was matted to her scalp, and there were dark blotches across her swollen face. Her blue eyes shone with a malignant hatred I could feel.

  "I just hope you get the goods on your murderer, Danny," she said shakily, "and her accomplice. She needed someone to call Helen about the dog, remember, and she needed someone to call the police about Paul's murder."

  "What makes you so sure it was Margot?" I asked.

  "You don't know much about women!" she said scornfully. "Or the opera—where the prima donna is the queen of the company. Her commands are obeyed before anything else, Danny. By tradition she is demanding, and hated by all the rest of the company, but even more so by the other principal voices, the contraltos, the mezzo-sopranos."

  "It's fascmating," I said. "But it doesn't prove anything."

  "Margot is the only other principal woman's voice in the company," Donna went on coldly. "So she determined to beat the prima donna by throwing herself at Kendall. That way, she thought the producer would listen to her more than me." She laughed harshly. "She needed a lesson

  and I gave it to her—I took Kendall right out of her bed. I allowed him one small taste of ecstasy and then he didn't even know Margot existed.

  "It was driving her crazy. I could see each day it was worse—the jealousy eating away her insides. And Tybolt —that fat, pompous idiot! Drooling at me the whole time with his httle pig's eyes bloodshot with lust—^his sweaty hands pawing at me whenever he could get close. There was a scene the first time we rehearsed the dance in costume. I spat in his face—^traced his ancestry back to an illegitimate swineherd and a Neapolitan whore!"