For some time I lay on the rug, watching the two of them, having retrieved my automatic from the floor where I had put it well out of their reach. Nobody spoke. Olsa, eyes closed, cheeks wet, body flopped in exhaustion; Jaswant, eyes fixed on me, with a look of hatred, almost disbelief, occasionally glancing towards Olsa's heaped nudity with a look of possessive horror.
After a while I got up, re-arranged myself and poured myself a drink. I sat back in an armchair, automatic resting handily on the arm and let the fierce, hot, liquid course through my veins, warming me, bringing me back to myself from lassitude. I poured another, munched a couple of biscuits from a bowl on a table and swigged the drink.
I looked at Olsa's lush curves, the slim tapering of her body from shoulders to waist as she lay, the broader sweep of her hips and the tapering again to her slim ankles.
"Always as well to let passion reassert itself unforced," I said to the room at large as I crumbled another biscuit. "Let the desire come naturally."
Jaswant's eyes flickered towards me and held mine for a moment with the intensity of-so I imagined-a witch doctor's.
"That," he said hoarsely, "does not apply to the woman."
"Don't you believe it," I answered, cheerily. "Olsa's a hypocrite. She enjoys this like hell really. You should have seen her performance the night before you came back. I thought I wouldn't be able to satisfy her. But, of course, being a hypocrite, little Olsa has second thoughts and makes trouble."
Olsa stirred and raised herself, tears of rage in her eyes.
"You filthy liar," she cried. "If Douglas doesn't kill you, I shall."
A streak of annoyance shot through me. The effrontery of the tone after ordering such a cold-blooded beating up for me and violating of Monique!
I stepped over to Olsa, turned her over and slapped her hard across her recently raped buttocks.
"Don't give me any of your twisted hypocrisy," I snapped.
From where he lay, Jaswant tried to spit at me and Olsa lashed out with her feet, catching me a crack on the shin with her heel.
The slight, bruised pain brought back to me the pain of the bruises sustained in the wood clearing, the truncheons, the kicks, Monique's face as she was thrust brutally to the ground. I walked quickly around the room, jerking open drawers and cupboards until I found what I wanted. I strode back to Olsa, yanked her to her feet and flung her face downwards over the arm of an armchair. I held her in the small of the back with one hand, while I swished in trial the riding crop I'd taken from a drawer. I looked down at Olsa, kicking vainly, buttocks raised over the arm, torso declining on one side, legs on the other.
"You have a bottom so delightful it just calls for punishment of one kind or another," I told her, through gritted teeth.
Close on my words the riding crop whacked down across her rump, sinking into the soft flesh. Olsa shrieked and wriggled furiously and vainly. I covered her buttocks with thin pink weals, lashing down each stroke with all my strength, watching her buttocks flop loosely relaxed and then tighten furiously to meet each stroke.
"Oh, please, Harvey! I can't bear it!"
She had used my christian name in an effort to move me, regardless even of Jaswant, cursing on the floor.
I brought the crop down a couple more times into the firm flesh of her thighs and then flung it from me. Overcome with a sort of sadistic passion I turned Olsa over. Her face was white, her mouth hung open exhaustedly. I gave her face a couple of sharp slaps and her red-rimmed eyes pleaded with me.
From my trousers, I produced, once more, my rampant penis and with her head hanging down on to the seat of the chair, her thighs drooping from the arm on the other side, I thrust it into her vagina. Olsa uttered a long-drawn "Aaaaaah!" But, I imagined she preferred to be skewered in the normal way to either of her previous fates. I pressed my thighs against hers, forcing her legs into practically a standing position on the floor, while her head flopped like a puppet upside down on the seat of the chair. I forced her legs apart and looked down at where the lips of flesh cleaved open revealing the wet pinkness of her opening. I turned my head to Jaswant, to whom the cleft was well-displayed. "It's a fine specimen," I sneered, before ramming in again before the movement of his very eyes.
Jaswant struggled madly with his bonds, calling me all the names under the English and Indian suns. Olsa simply groaned. Her bound hands flopped behind her head onto the seat of the chair. She had given up the struggle.
Her smooth hips were lifted to me, the highest part of her, offered as if she were pushing them up at me and I glutted up into her belly in resounding jerks which must have seemed to her as if they would split her body in two.
My penis thundering once more, I caught her thighs, her knees and pulled them up around me, wrapping them around my waist. Entering into her to the hilt, I swung her off the chair, her long hair grazing the carpet and carried her to within a foot of Jaswant There I dropped her on the floor and fell on her, forcing her legs back almost over her head a few inches from the Indian's horror-glazed eyes. In that position-our two organs, mine dominating, filling, hers yielding, containing, within inches of his eyes-we made the orgasm. My sperm, shooting up into Olsa's belly, her juices-excited, doubtless by her whipping-descending in a flood on my rod, following it as it dripped from her vagina.
Pouring myself another drink, I sank comfortably into the chair which had just proved so useful. Olsa lay exhausted, her white body heaving. Jaswant lay regarding her with a mixture of pain and anger, as if the whole thing were partly her fault. It occurred to me that he might suddenly have decided there was some truth in my suggestion of her cooperation in our previous liaison.
Physically I felt tired, mentally, satisfied. I thought Jaswant had suffered enough. I doubted whether he'd ever feel the same about Olsa-whatever he felt about her before.
I pocketed both automatics, stood up smiling and addressed myself to the two bodies on the floor.
"Well, I'm off now," I said. "Thanks very much for having me and I hope not to see you again. I have no doubt there are plenty of knives in the kitchen so when Olsa has recovered from her pleasure, she can doubtless manage to set you both loose. In her state, you should have fun, Jaswant."
I walked to the door and the Indian shouted: "I'll get even with you for this Crawford. Your life won't be worth living. I'll see that you're afraid to go out alone." A hysteria at his frustrating helplessness seemed to seize him.
"Wherever you are you won't be safe," he cried. "There'll always be me or the police. You'd be better off with the police. You swine!"
Swiftly I stepped over to him, raised my shoe and kicked him, hard, but not too maliciously up the behind.
"Tell that to the marines."
I shut the door behind me, leaving Jaswant mouthing oaths and threats, Olsa lying in a silent huddle. Whatever their feelings toward each other after the night's events, I would certainly be a friend to neither.
Briskly I strode back to St. Germain-des-Pres, keeping to side streets just in case Olsa was a bit quicker getting into the consoling arms of her boy friend than I expected her to be.
I popped into a little tabac for a hot coffee to wash the whisky down and realized once again I'd got to do something in a hurry.
It was very probable, I knew, that Jaswant would contact the police, most likely anonymously, at the first opportunity, informing them that I was in Paris, living somewhere in the St. Germain-des-Pres area. Even if he had some fear of reprisals from me regarding his "business" it was probable that he'd take the chance. He and Olsa could always disappear quickly, or, failing that were in a much stronger position to bluff and deny. Anyway was it likely that I should go to the police on any matter?
On the whole, although I was satisfied at having gained some revenge-and very satisfying revenge at that-I was only too aware that they held the whip hand.
Jaswant would give the police an opportunity of finding me first and would probably employ his toughs at the s
ame time. At least, I now knew what they looked like-unless, of course, he had an entourage of such cut-throats.
My immediate problem was to decide where to go. I still had quite a lot of money, but I thought it would be unwise to attempt to fly or sail to any far distance place. I might be caught on the boat without any possibility of escape. Certainly, I should be too obvious a target.
Walking the remainder of the distance to the studio, I decided my best course was to travel-perhaps hitchhike-down to Marseille or some south coast town, where I should be well away from the field of search operations and might, if followed, be able to get a small boat to take me, unobtrusively to the coast of Africa.
Not until I was on the point of entering the apartment did Monique occur to me. She was going to be pretty upset, I supposed, but I didn't fancy taking a woman with me: too costly, too much of a nuisance in emergencies, too many complications altogether. My line was fairly obvious and I went into the apartment looking stern and a little worried.
"What's the matter. Harvey? Where have you been?"
Monique was anxious at the first sight of my face. It was clear she'd been waiting in a fidget of worry for my return.
I came straight to the point.
"Listen darling. I'm afraid I'll have to go away for a week or two," I said, drawing her to me.
She caught her breath and was silent for a moment, seeming unable to speak. When she did, she leaned away from me, her eyes filled with tears, staring anxiously into mine as if she were trying to read my thoughts.
"Harvey, Harvey! What's happened?" she begged.
"Nothing too serious," I replied, calmly. "I've just settled our account and I think I'd better disappear unless you want me to be fished from the Seine some morning."
She buried her head in my chest, holding me very tight.
"Have you ... have you...?"
"No, I haven't killed or maimed anybody," I said. "I've just given a thorough going-over to those who were responsible for our little outing."
"You ... you're not hurt?" She drew back to look at me.
I laughed, touched by her concern.
"Not a scratch." I said. "Put me on level terms and I'm not so bad."
I had already told Monique that the horror she'd been through was the result of an old enmity between myself and a man I'd exposed who'd been living on the "immoral earnings of women." She asked no further questions about my vengeance.
During the next hour we drank coffee and packed my few belongings, having decided I'd better leave early in the morning. Monique was very brave about it after I'd promised to return in a few weeks' time. I even began to think I might keep my word in this respect. Monique had been very charming to me.
When all was ready we went to bed and risked dawn exhaustion in a last sensitive twining of bodies, made all the more acute by the imminent parting.
We were up, however, soon after the sun in the morning and Monique, face tight, came with me to the Metro. She wanted to come with me to the outskirts of the city from which I intended to take a bus until I was far enough away from the built-up area to hitchhike with hopes of success. But this I prevented. There was no sense in prolonging her misery and once I'd gone she'd feel better, I knew, and settle down to a little routine of activity to await my return.
I left her at the entrance to the underground Metro, where a handful of bedraggled clochards were beginning to stir from the newspapers and sacks which had been their beds for the night. Neither of us liked train partings. Films, books and life itself had made such a tearing away too classic for it to be taken calmly-at least by Monique-and we kissed hard and quickly on the verge of humanity's dreg-ends stirring on the steps and then, with Monique's broken "Au r'voir cheri" I had passed through the swing doors out of her sight.
With my travelling bag swinging lightly beside me, I was soon leaving Paris in my wake, striding, after a short bus ride, along one of the main roads to the south. I remembered the times when, as a student, I had hitch-hiked to all sorts of places for the fun of it. I felt a little embarrassed at the wads of 10,000 franc notes which packed my wallet, the fact that I could easily have travelled first class. My slight feeling of hypocrisy was heightened by my first two lifts: the first by an old farmer, whose dilapidated old vehicle was packed, for some reason, with bags of cement and bits and pieces of equally dilapidated farm implements; the second by a young couple who were profusely apologetic, when they discovered I was English, because they couldn't take me very far as they were turning off a little way along the road.
But the third lift, which arrived at a more respectable time for people on vacation to be stirring, was a different proposition. The great, grey car with its bright red tourist plate came sleeking along the road at such speed that I raised my thumb with little thought of success. The speed didn't slacken and I caught a glimpse of a little plumpish figure crowned by a shielding homburg staring indifferently ahead from behind the wheel, a woman's slim brown face, glancing out at me from beside him.
Some twenty yards farther on the car began to slow until it pulled to a rubbery standstill on the hot, sticky road and waited in lordly style for me to approach.
I ran the few score yards to the car and bent to look inside. A woman's brown, attractive face smiled up at me through the open window. Behind her, in a shadow, a fleshy, uninterested face loomed, staring vaguely in my direction.
"We're going to Cannes. Any help?" the woman asked.
"Too good to be true," I laughed. "I'm going just there."
The woman's slim, brown arm reached over and flicked open the door of the back for me, and I climbed in onto a seat big enough to accommodate at least three, lightly strewn at the moment with books, magazines and a couple of casual bags.
"Shift those things up to the end," the woman said. "There's nothing breakable."
The car swept into movement again and by the time I had settled myself the point of embarkation was lost in the dusty distance. The woman turned, wriggling round in her seat so that she could sit half facing me. "We like to have someone for company. A long drive can become very monotonous when you're by yourself."
I found her very slightly American accent, her soft tone most attractive. One could imagine it purring warmly in one's ear. Her tanned face bespoke long sojourns in warm places, its firm, oval cut a force of character. Somewhere in her hazel eyes, I could feel a flicker of invitation, a subtly suggested readiness to flirt. Not surprising, really. I imagined she must be some 10 or 15 years younger than her husband somewhere around the right side of 35. One brown hand moved a fair, straying curl into place as she looked at me, and I hoped I would be able to break some of the monotony for her.
"When do you hope to reach Cannes?" I asked.
"Oh, some time in the evening," she replied airily as if it didn't interest her in the slightest. "Did you want to get there by some particular time?"
"I've got all the time in the world," I answered, smiling at her. "But you'll have to go at a pretty powerful speed to make such good time-although I can well imagine it's not beyond the possibilities of a car like this."
"Given a good road she'll leave everything behind her." It was as if, encouraged by their favourite subject, the words had materialised, brusquely, from the back of the man's head. He hadn't moved and it was difficult, after the sound had faded, to realise that he'd spoken.
Recovering from a slight surprise, I made haste to reply: "I can believe that. I must say I didn't think you'd be able to stop after you'd overtaken me on the road."
"Fine brakes. Pull you up dead in no time. Remarkable acceleration, too."
The voice was unexpectedly thin, the accent much more pronounced than the woman's, and after each reluctant sentence a lack of interest in any reply could be sensed. Nonetheless I replied in warm, interested tones.
"Do you know Cannes?" the woman asked politely. "This will be my first visit," I told her. "Then we must tell you the best places to eat and dri
nk," she said. "I know the town like the palm of my hand."
I wondered if I was mistaken about the invitation in her voice. It was certainly a suggestion only a very attentive listener would notice.
"That would be very kind of you," I replied.
"I used to do a lot of hitch-hiking when I was at college," the woman went on. "It's really the most interesting way of travelling. I think if I weren't so lazy and self-indulgent, I'd still do it."
It was clear that she'd taken me at my fairly prosperous looking face value and was searching-very politely-for an explanation of my mode of travel. I rose to the bait.
"I completely agree with you," I said. "As a matter-of-fact, I'm a writer and I find this a most useful way of meeting and studying people-particularly in a foreign country. Although I have to fight against the qualities you mentioned, too."
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