by Troy Conway
He permitted himself a smile. “She is what we French call a garçonniere, the woman free with men, a nymphomaniac. She would have killed the general long ago, if she had concerned herself with him alone. Sometimes I think he goes off on these missions to give her a chance to get rid of her joie de vivre. She does, and with a vengeance, anywhere she travels. She has a way of finding sympathetic souls who are only too happy to indulge her and their own passions. But this you will discover for yourself.
“Naturally, we don’t expect you to walk in with your loaded Luger and shoot her down dead. Mais non! We enjoy finesse in this as in any other facet of life. You are to be permitted your own method of assassination.”
“As I was with Henri Planget?”
He flushed. “I begin to think that whole affair was a mistake, from its inception. No, no. You are on your own in this affair. There is no hurry. Madame Bree is not going anywhere in her Copenhagen retreat, except perhaps from one bed to another. You will pick and choose your own time.
“However, you will be watched. We shall have a girl spy on hand to keep her eyes on you, to make sure you do what you’re told.”
“When do I leave?” I asked.
“Tomorrow morning from the Orly Airport. Your tickets will be furnished you at the desk. Adieu, Professor.”
I stood up, I made a little bow.
Then I went to find Jeannette Lons.
She made a face when I told her the news. I tried to console her by telling her we would have the night together, but she shook her head.
“It cannot be. I have been transferred to the night shift. You will have to sleep alone.” Her lips quivered into a smile as she added, “I hope?”
I kissed her cheek as if it were a promise.
Next day at this same time I was sitting in a window seat staring down at the French countryside. The big S.A.S. plane was over wine country, the vineyards of which made a soft carpet of green through an early morning haze. I lay back and thought about Denmark, Copenhagen and Madame Bree.
Most Americans think about Denmark, if they think about it at all, as being the home of the Vikings who came and conquered England, first under Sweyn Forkbeard, secondly and more permanently, under Canute the Great. Few know that as late as the early nineteenth century, Denmark held Norway as one of its possessions. Or that during the Napoleonic Wars, suffering defeat at the hands of England—after England had bombarded Copenhagen for three days while peace existed between the two countries—she lost Norway and other rich territories.
Denmark made a remarkable comeback. From the near-bottom despair of 1814 by hard work and determination, Denmark rose again to be among the world powers, in a commercial sense. Today, its bacons, hams, cabbages and carrots form part of its biggest industry, which is the production of food. One hundred thousand tons of Danish butter finds its way into the world market annually.
An infant linen industry stands close beside the much older business of making boats. The Dane is born with the salt sea in his nostrils; it is no wonder then that it enters into his blood. The Danish fishing fleet, that numbers more than twenty-two thousand ships, brings in great catches of cod, haddock, lobster and other delicacies from the North Sea, the Baltic, the Skagerrak and Kattegat.
We circled over Kastrup Airport. I caught a glimpse of the harbor with its little bronze mermaid, and the line of parks that stand where, in medieval days, the moat had been. I looked forward to my stay in Copenhagen; I’d never been in this city, which has become the most important seaport in the Scandinavian countries and is fast getting a reputation as a swinging city to rival that of London.
Of course, I had no idea as to how I was to avoid killing Sabine Bree, or how to escape getting killed myself by the HECATE agent keeping an eye on me. I would play that by ear. I have found that some of my best ideas swing in out of left field when I’m in a jam. Like with the autohypnotism by which I’d managed to let Henri Planget live.
I recovered my luggage from the baggage section of the Scandinavian Airlines System, passed through Customs without incident, and managed to flag down a taxi. I had reservations at the Kongen af Denmark Hotel by the Homens Canal. Since the Danes enjoy food, sex and song just as much as I do, I was not worried about a thing.
All I had to do was contact madame le general.
Meanwhile and until then I was going to have fun. After settling my luggage in my hotel room, I took off on a walking tour of Copenhagen. I dined at the Stadil, a kind of chop house where the food just about melts in your mouth. Then I strolled on toward the Tivoli Gardens, not far away.
The Tivoli Gardens threw open its gates in the summer of 1843, on the site of a great battle between the Danes and the Swedes. Today the only fighting that goes on there is an occasional elbow in the ribs as people move toward where the action is. Tivoli boasts a small lake and a veritable maze of gorgeous gardens. There is a theater, a large concert hall, and outdoor amusements that draw people here during the months of July, August and September.
The world calls Copenhagen the Paris of the North, and a good bit of this reputation has been earned by these Tivoli Gardens. Under the shadow of the towering City Hall spire, its dance halls, restaurants and carousels attract four and a half million people annually. At night, its glittering lights form part of a fairyland that would have delighted Denmark’s native son, Hans Christian Andersen.
I stopped for a Tuborg beer and watched the girls go by. They were slimly curved, attractive blondes with their golden tresses falling about their shoulders, pert brunettes, ditto, and several voluptuous creatures with glossy black hair and provocatively moving bodies. Unfortunately from my point of view, each girl was accompanied by a husky male on whose arm she leaned. Oh, well! I could look like the cat at the queen in the nursery story.
I got tired of just looking, after a time, but I was too tired to get me a pick-up date. I promised myself another night or two at the gardens, and headed for a taxi stand.
The first thing I did in my line of work next day was rent myself a Volvo. Madame Bree was living in a rented villa not far from the Elsinore beach, about thirty miles north of Copenhagan. I needed wheels to make the trip.
I slipped swim trunks on under slacks, I pulled a thickly woven sweater over my bare chest, shoved my feet into sandals, and set off. The Volvo handled sweetly, I had a picnic hamper of sandwiches prepared by the hotel cook; it was as if I were on vacation.
The Elsinore sands are almost pure white. Three miles away, across The Sound, lies Sweden. Beach attire is very informal. I simply spread a blanket, slipped out of my slacks and sweater, and I was all set for a swim.
The girls on the beach wear bikinis that show off their marvelous figures. They lie on beach towels to sun themselves and if they attract male eyes—as they know very well they do—they turn not a hair. They expect admiration as their due.
There was a brunette I might have struck up a conversation with, had I not been on duty, so to speak. With a last regretful glance at the plump tanned behind revealed by her bikini drawers, I waded out into the water.
I swam toward the Bree villa.
I had no idea of what to expect. The actuality was something out of this world. I found myself goggling at a white stucco building that occupied several levels, with a railed patio before each level, and a flight of stone steps leading to the beach. Three girls were sunning their soft flesh on that strip of white sand as I side-stroked past. As far as I could make out from across fifty yards of water, they were stark naked.
As if she had caught my thoughts, one of the girls turned over and sat up. She was bare-breasted to the sun, and when she lifted her long black hair out of her eyes, I could see the swing and bobble of those heavy orbs.
I guess she saw me then, because she got to her feet, never taking her eyes from my head as it slid through the water. There was a little black triangle at her loins that might have been a g-string or pubic hair. She started walking toward the water.
I slowed my swim pace. Sh
e came straight out toward me in a fast crawl. I stopped swimming to tread water.
In a matter of seconds, she was five feet away, kicking slowly to maintain her head above water. She said something in Danish and I hadn’t the faintest notion of what she was talking about.
So I said, “Hello. Fancy meeting you here.”
Her laughter was a key to unlock strangeness. She told me what she had said, in English this time, and I agreed with her that I would, indeed, like fun. Of any kind.
“I went to Tivoli yesterday, but it isn’t any good without a friend along. A friend like you.”
“Poooh! There are a thousand unescorted girls in the gardens. I know, I have been one of them from time to time. A nice American, unmarried—you are unmarried aren’t you?—ought to have himself a ball!”
“I really wasn’t trying,” I admitted.
“Come ashore. I want you to meet Hannie and Kaija. Me, I’m Agnete Stralsund. You’ll like them. They’re secretaries during the week but over weekends they become fairy princesses like me.”
“You’re fairy princesses all right—if you live there.” I nodded at the many-tiered villa.
“Oh, that belongs to Sabine. That is, Sabine Bree. She conies here every year with some friends of hers, all married women out for kicks. She hires the villa each time. It is quite lonely here so close to the beach, there is nobody to bother us if we want to go swimming without clothes.”
We had been swimming toward shore while we had been talking. There was sand underfoot now, so we walked the rest of the way. The sun was hot on our backs, it reflected off the water, which was quite clear, so I could see that the black badge below the gently mounded belly of my companion was quite natural.
She said amusedly, catching my downward glance, “As you can see for yourself. No one disturbs our little pleasures, since we disturb no one by them.”
“How does one get invited to be a part of such pleasures? I had a good plane trip from Paris, and a fine sleep last night. I’m in a very healthy condition.”
She gave a full laugh. “Good! We can add you to the list of candidates.”
“Candidates?”
“The lady of the villa arrived only yesterday. We girls know her from other years when she has come here for a month, on what she calls her vice vacation. Nobody knows her in Denmark, though she is quite well known in Paris.
“You mentioned that you flew from Paris. Perhaps you know General Bree? This is his wife.”
“I’ve heard of him naturally,” I admitted guardedly.
“Well, since she isn’t well known here, and since nobody cares one way or another what she does with her title here, she amuses herself by having contests. Sex contests.”
“Ah,” I breathed, understanding now why Roger-Viollet and Matelot had picked me for this job.
“She rewards the winner of the contest with a week here at her villa. The sky’s the limit. If the winner wants some special treat—gastronomic or genital, it makes no difference—he is afforded what he asks for.”
“And you girls supply the young men who are the contestants. A sort of labor of love. I assume she pays you well for your troubles?”
“Very well. The girl who comes up with the winner gets a nice bonus. I have never come up with a winner yet. Kaija has provided three winners. Hannie has come up with two.”
“Maybe this is your lucky day,” I grinned.
She was quite serious. “I hope so. I am in need of money right now. The five thousand kroner that would be my prize would pay some debts and leave me a Utile over.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promised.
The sound of our voices had alerted Hannie and Kaija. They turned over and sat up. Their bodies were perfectly tanned and their skin looked as richly smooth as café au lait. Their eyes studied my nearly naked body with the efficiency of beauty contest judges. I guess I looked all right to them, because they gave me dazzling smiles.
“He’s mine,” said Agnete warningly.
The two girls moved apart, offering me part of their blanket, but I felt I owed it to Agnete to sit down beside her. Hannie and Kaija made little frowns with their red lips, but Agnete looked pleased.
Kaija said, “I feel so underdressed alongside your man, Agente. Why don’t you tell him to get comfortable?”
I grinned, “I’m feeling quite healthy at the moment. I might embarrass you by my reaction to so much loveliness.”
“Embarrass us,” smiled Hannie.
I glanced at Agnete, who shook her black head. “It would not be fair to him. He must remain strong for the contest.”
“When is this contest?” I asked, visualizing a long period of unrelieved abstinence.
The girls giggled. Hannie said, “Tomorrow night. It begins at six in the evening and lasts—well, as long as it can.”
Kaija added, “We are all working girls, we have to be in our offices next morning. Except Agnete, that is. She is on vacation.”
I smiled at Agnete, saying, “Marvelous. So am I. We can do things together. You can show me the sights around town while I’m here. If that’s all right with everybody? I don’t want to be accused of stealing you away from anyone.”
“It will give Agnete the opportunity of making sure you remain chaste until tomorrow,” pointed out Kaija sweetly.
I was thinking that since Agnete Stralsund was on vacation, it might mean that she was taking time off to do her job as a HECATE spy. She might be the one who was to kill me if I didn’t kill Madame Bree. Looking at her now, in her warm nakedness, I could not believe it.
“Why not drive back to Copenhagen with me?” I invited. “We could eat somewhere, go to the Tivoli Gardens, perhaps dance at some discotheque you know.”
“First I must introduce you to Madame Bree. She has to pass on your acceptibility as a contestant.”
Since she probably would want to make love with the winner, it might be a good idea. I was a little curious as to what my intended victim looked like, anyhow.
We chatted for a while, then Agnete said, “I’m hungry. Come along, Rod. It’s time for lunch. Sabine will be awake by this time.”
It was close to one o’clock in the afternoon. “She certainly takes good care of herself,” I commented.
“She is a very beautiful woman,” murmured Hannie. “If sleeping makes her so glamorous, maybe I should spend more time between the sheets.”
“How could you, darling?” wondered Kaija cattily. Hannie sniffed and tossed her brunette locks. “I meant sleeping,” she snapped.
Agnete reached for two bits of cloth that made up a Riviera bikini. She turned her tanned back to me as she fitted the demi-cups to her abundant breasts. I snapped the backstrap. Then she got to her feet and slipped one foot after the other between the thin spaghetti straps of the pantie portion of her suit, then wriggled it up about her creamy hips.
“He likes you, Agnete,” giggled Hannie.
My bulging manhood was the target of six female eyes.
“He likes you very much,” contributed Kaija.
Agnete studied me like a connoisseur, then nodded delightedly. “Maybe I will be the winner after all,” she announced proudly.
I followed her long, tanned legs and switching rump up the stone steps to the first level. Sliding glass doors opened from the patio onto a stone-flagged bar room and kitchen. It was furnished in lavish taste. Its metal cabinets were tinted a light bronze, its sink matched the bronze enamel, and its bar was made of mahogany. Agnete assured me it had designed by none other than Jacobsen himself.
“I myself shall prepare your sandwich,” Agnete announced.
Denmark prides itself on its open-faced sandwiches. There is a competition every year as to who can make the tallest, yet still have it within mouth-reach of the average face. Agnete set to work with pumpernickel, sliced cold cuts, pâté and fish, and thinly cut lengths of Danish cheese. She sprinkled chopped truffles across its top.
“You should have an egg too, and a glass of milk,” s
he murmured, studying her creation.
“Aphrodisia in three dimensions,” I said.
Her smile showed her even white teeth. “Of course! I am going to train you like they do a race horse. You will be in good condition when I am through.”
“Could I maybe have a beer?”
She studied my lean middle, the ridges of muscles across my torso, then giggled, “All right. But just one!”
There were iced beer mugs in the refrigerator. She filled one with beer and put it on the eating counter next to the sandwich. Then she leaned her elbows on the other side and watched me eat with fond affection. I felt like a prizefighter at the training table. The fact that her position afforded me an almost perfect view of her mammaries in the cloth cups which were far too small to hold them may have added to my appetite. She dimpled when she saw where I stared, but she did not change position.
“My bosom will stimulate your libido,” she murmured.
When I was done, she came around the counter, took me by the hand and led me to the stairs. She informed me that I must meet Sabine, that she would leave me alone with her while she went back to eat her own sandwich.
The second floor contained a big living room, one wall of which was gray stone that held a huge fireplace. There were modern chairs and divans scattered all about on top of two big Persian carpets. It murmured tastefully of money.
We bypassed all this magnificence to ascend to the third level, where the bedrooms were. Outside a wide pink door Agnete paused to knock. A soft voice invited her to enter.
My first view of Sabine Bree was a stimulating one. She was wearing a thin black negligee under which she was absolutely nude. I hesitated at the door, despite the hand with which Agnete was urging me on. The negligee hung open from her throat to her dimpled knees.
Madame Bree smiled genially. “And who is this?” she asked in French.
“An admirer,” I smiled, and bowed.
Her gray eyes glinted with amusement. She might be on vacation, but her Gallic soul appreciated the niceties of the male-female relationship. Sabine Bree was a blonde, one of those French types who have the barbarian blood of long-dead Gauls in their bodies, although here and there one might espy a gray thread or two. She was youthfully slim, mature at her heavy breasts and rounded hips, and her thighs were somewhat plumper than those of a fashion model.
