(A) The written text in the original pocketbook began by dividing sections into chapters, and then into sections within the chapter. However, that practice was discontinued after only the first chapter, and there are no numbered sections after the first chapter.
(B) The original pocketbook initially named one of the primary characters as "Ilsa." However, at various points, the name was shown as "Ilse." No attempt has been made to reconcile this difference.
* * *
The hot July sun was making Ilsa very uncomfortable. Stepping out of her shorts, panties and halter, she stood boldly in the sun-drenched veranda. She laughed at the bell-like jingling of her breasts. "You see darling the trouble with too many men is they treat love as if it were like golf or tennis. A nice pleasant relaxation that is a change from the office. Or the shop. But you can't treat love like that. If you do it escapes you," said the Duke de Broccoli.
"Well how do you treat it then?", asked Claire.
"How? You pretend you're under water. That's it. You pretend you're swimming under water. When you're under water, you have no distractions, no noises. You don't worry about music, or food, or picking up the groceries, or calling the office. You don't worry about the boss, or the stock market. Or even the weather. You concentrate on one thing only: swimming and holding your breath. Reaching your goal. It's all that counts.
"Well that's how you should treat love. As if you were swimming under water. Nothing else matters except love and making your love happy. No distractions, no interruptions, no nothing, just love. As if there were nothing else in the whole world. There you are swimming under water. You see what I mean? It's really quite simple."
"I have news for you Duke," Claire sighed. "What you've told me is the biggest secret in the world. Nobody seems to know about it."
* * *
This story really began the day a million G.I.'s stopped fighting the Germans with guns and began conquering their women with candy.
For a while the set-up was perfect. All a Yank had to do was walk down any main street with a Hershey bar or gum and in ten minutes he'd have girls coming out of his ears. Coconut bars won movie actresses and chocolate covered cherries could get a German baroness. Within a few months the only Americans who couldn't shack up with German frauleins were sick or hospitalized. And sometimes the sick ones took a turn for the nurse.
Well one day Uncle Sam got wind of all this free love and he took steps. Candy bars were rationed. Shiploads of wives were sent over to keep the married Joes in line. But in the end the thing backfired. To keep the American women happy they had to give them lush PX's and fulltime maids. In no time at all the men were sleeping with the maids and buying them lace panties at the PX.
Even worse: the frauleins began to be dissatisfied with candy and cigarettes. They wanted to live in a place where you could spend twelve hours in a department store. Pretty quick the slogan was: "Take me home to America or get yourself another mattress mate." It was a ticklish situation and the results were incredible.
Before you could say Tickled Naked, Idaho, the U.S. Consulates in the Occupied Zone were jammed with worried G.I.'s registering frauleins as future war brides. You see this entitled them to a free ferry ride across the Adantic at Uncle's expense.
The confusion was unbelievable. Soldiers who feared their girls would leave them registered them in haste in one town. When their units moved they registered new girls in other towns. The consulates began to look nice department store basements when they have bargain days. Several young vice-consuls were nearly trampled to death as the closing date got near. They cursed the U.S. State Department for sending them to Germany and they cursed the U.S. Army. After all it was the Army that had urged the men to register fast so they could get the girls on the ships.
It happened that many soldiers registered two or three girls and never married one. And sometimes they married one and plumb forgot the other. The frau-leins had their mixups. Often the boys stayed around just enough so they knew their first names. Then they skidooed into the limbo of Army transfers. Imagine their dismay when they saw them six months later in Columbus or Chicago with new husbands. Imagine too what it must have been like when boyfriend no. 1 and boyfriend no. 2 played pinochle together. There was hell to pay.
But even that wasn't the living end. The end came when the Department of Immigration found some girls had been passed from owner to owner like used cars. The government men took a dim view of what they called "war-bride roulette." They liked it even less when they found the girls seeing both men in a very modern arrangement. When that came up, the unlucky fraulein was reported before she could say sauerkraut.
Our story concerns two girls: Ilsa, a beautiful stripper from Munich who did an act in the nude called Bouncing in Bavaria and Lee, a lovely brunette built like a brick shipyard who ran a switchboard in Frankfurt.
The trouble started one night long after the war was over and most of the German-American fighting was taking place on horsehair mattresses from Munich to Bremerhaven.
CHAPTER ONE
That night Harry Westover came early to her house in Munich. Everything was ready for Bobo. Ilsa had made her best sauerbraten and there was the strong Oktoberfest beer he loved. The Japanese lanterns in the living room made the place look like a carnival party and Bobo's favorite jazz was on the record-player.
The minute Bobo came in everything had rolled beautifully. He put his arms around her and kissed her hungrily and then had opened the beer. Two bottles and they were on some kind of German cloud. Ilsa dreamily danced to a number played by a Dixieland combo and Harry, as always, began to strip her as they moved. In a moment she was dancing in her panties.
"Bobo!" she yelled looking at the open window. "Let me pull the blinds down at least."
And then Bobo had laughed that wonderful laugh of his that seemed to fill the room like the burst of an orchestra. She had run to the window, pulled the blinds and then went back to Bobo.
He kissed her neck and sniffed the air like a beagle.
"You must bathe in that French perfume," he said. "Do you put it all over you?"
Everywhere he touched his lips smelled like Joy, the most expensive perfume in the world. He had paid $7 an ounce and she used it like shaving lotion. Everywhere on her body her hands could reach.
Her lovely pink skin tingled with it. He could smell its intoxicating scent on her face, arms, shoulders and behind the tiny ears of coral magic. Then another scent reached his nostrils as he kissed her arms and he looked up puzzled.
"This smells different," he said as he touched the spot on her forearm with his nose. Then his face glowered and turned red.
"Whose perfume is that?" be asked angrily.
Ilsa looked up at Bobo's red face frightenedly. The strong jaw was set hard and the cords in his powerful neck seemed ready to burst. Bobo had a hair trigger temper and you never knew what he might do. A week ago he had taken exception to a wisecrack in a bar and knocked two guys out cold.
"Who's been giving you the other stuff?" he barked. For emphasis he slapped her buttocks so hard they colored and she groaned. Then she began to giggle and tried to cover her mouth. She would not look at him.
"Come on," he said roughly, raising his ham-like fist. "Nobody gives my girl perfume but me. Who gave it to you? Some fat-necked colonel trying to move in?"
He slapped her hard on the fanny once more and then put the naked girl over his knees and spanked her. Three blows were enough to make her cry uncle.
"It's just a joke Bobo," she yelled. "One of the girls in my office who had trouble with her man did it He became very jealous."
He stared at her, then drew her close, feeling the exquisite hardness of her breasts against him.
"Why did you do it?" he asked quietly. But he knew already.
"Because you've put off our marriage three times," she complained. "I was beginning to think there was someone else? You're not married are you Bobo?"
The tall blond officer laughed. "Me? Don't be crazy."
She seemed relieved. "I was afraid of that too. A lot of Americans don't tell their girls. They let them find out a year later and by that time they're ready to put their heads in an oven. I wouldn't go with a married man if he were the handsomest in the world. The richest-the most anything."
"Ah come off it," Bobo said. "You're in a stinking mood. Nothing's wrong and I'm crazy about you. How many times do I have to tell you?"
"Don't tell. Prove it," she said looking unhappy.
In another second he was taking her in his arms and squeezing her so hard, she could barely breathe. When he made love to her after a few days absence or even one day, it was as if she were suddenly swept up in the whirlwind.
When the phone shrilled a moment later Harry ignored it. She turned to it anxiously, but he brought her back with a savage kiss. She was trapped by his strength.
"It might be important darling," she said nervously.
"Crap, my army duties are through for the day. Come back to Papa!"
He tickled her until she screamed with laughter. The phone rang for five minutes but nobody went near it. Afterwards they ate their usual snack of sauerbraten, sauerkraut and Rhine wine. He seemed to have forgotten the time entirely, though he had to be back at the post headquarters by midnight.
Shortly before he left, she squeezed his hand.
"When are we getting married?" she asked. "What day. I want to know."
"What difference does the day make," he said not looking at her. "One day after I get settled in Frankfurt I'll send for you and we'll get married."
"But when?" she pleaded. "I'll have my visa for America soon and then I must use it within a short time."
She had been waiting anxiously for word from the American Consul since Bobo had registered her officially as his war bride. Any day now it should be ready. Then her dream of getting to America would be realized.
"Soon," he said. "Before you even know it. You'll see."
She sighed. Harry Westover was not a man you could pump. Even now months after their engagement, she knew almost nothing about him. Only that he came from California. The moment she wanted personal information, he seemed to freeze up and changed the subject. He changed it now.
"You'll love America," he said dreamily. "I'll show you New York, Los Angeles, New Orleans and my favorite of all-Mexico City."
"What will we do there?" she said falling in with his mood, trying to down her disappointment. Bobo was the second American who had proposed to her. She had made plans to leave Germany before and then the man had been transferred to the Panama Canal.
"What will we do?" he said dreamily. "Well do everything. We'll go to every nightclub in New York, LA and Mexico City. We'll eat in places like the Colony, Perino's the Hotel Reforma. We'll see bullfights, we'll go swimming in Acapulco."
"Harry," she said cautiously. She called him by his real name only when she was terribly serious. "Harry, I have to give thirty days notice in my job. Should I give them next week then?"
He began to kiss her again, slowly moving his lips from her red Cupid's bow of a mouth to her lovely eyes that reminded him a little of the Orient. Ilsa's eyes were long and narrow and were fringed with long dark lashes. It was the first thing that had drawn him to her. The sight of those magnificent slanting eyes and the dark lashes that contrasted so beautifully with her blond hair.
"Don't worry honey," he said. "Well get married. Sooner than you think."
"But when Bobo? When," she wailed, moving out of his arms.
"What's your hurry?" he said in a light tone. "You're only twenty-one. We've got years."
"I don't want to wait years," she shouted angrily, "and I want to live in America. Not here. There's nothing here for me."
Harry sighed finally and taking her in his arms, spoke quietly. She listened carefully.
"Well have to wait at least three months," he said. "I didn't want to tell you, because we've postponed it so much already. I talked to someone at European Command headquarters today. My mother and sister are blocking your visa."
"But why?" she said astonished. He had never even mentioned his family before. "For what reason?"
He hesitated. "Well I told them you were a strip-teaser at the Bongo Bar here and they blew their stack. They're kind of snobbish you know. And they did everything to get me to call it off."
"Is this why you're going to Frankfurt?" she asked angrily. 'Is that why you're leaving Munich?"
He looked startled. "No," he fumbled. "No. This is military stuff."
She found it hard not to believe him. Bobo was too independent to let his family pick his wife. He took orders from no one outside the army.
"What are we going to do?" she smiled. "How will I get a visa now?"
"Relax," he said. "Well work something out I have friends at headquarters. I'll talk to them."
"You never mentioned you had a sister," she said suspiciously.
"I don't believe you," she blurted out, red-eyed and angry. She began to weep again.
Uncomfortably, he tried to console her and told her, he was sure it would all be straightened out in a few months. He promised to call her in two days from Frankfurt and come back on his next leave.
She watched him dress with misgivings and kissed him a dozen times before he left. She knew she would wait for him forever if she had to. She had never loved anyone like Bobo. Life without him was absolutely impossible.
It was the last time she saw him.
She waited till dawn every night for his call. She hounded the mailman for a letter. Nothing came. After three months of inquiries, telegrams which were returned, letters which were never read, she gave up.
Until then she refused to go out with anyone. The nightclub where she worked-the Blue Heaven-attracted officers from all of the American Army and air force units in Munich. They came primarily to see her act and afterwards her dressing room was banked with roses and notes inviting her to meet the sender for midnight suppers. She never went.
Several foreign diplomats in Germany who made a bee line for the cabaret when they passed through town offered to set her up in plush apartments. One French diplomat, weary of the blowsy frauleins he usually met, even offered her a trip to Paris and Rome. She turned him down sadly.
Every night as she entered the spotlight and listened to the deafening applause of G.I.'s, officers and diplomats and the few German businessmen who could afford the champagne, her eyes peered through the crowd.
Ilsa was a romantic, as so many German girls are, and she was certain Harry would leap up one night, give a rousing rebel yell and jump up to kiss her. She told herself that he was lying ill in some hospital, had suffered amnesia. Or was on some secret foreign mission. Lying in bed at nights, she would finger the golden slave chain he had given her for her last birthday and the tears would come.
"This is my lasso on you baby till I slip the ring on your finger," he had told her. "And it's a warning to other Joes to lay off."
For months it gave her a foolish sense of security and she refused to remove it even when she bathed-like some child who fears a magic charm may be destroyed. But gradually the realization came to her that she had been jilted and that she would never see America.
The American part hurt the most. It was painful to watch her girlfriends prepare to move to New York or Chicago or Los Angeles. Often they came to the Blue Heaven for a farewell party before taking the train to the Army Embarkation port at Bremerhaven. The sight of them whooping it up at the ringside tables, the girls flushed with happiness and excitement, their fiances drunk with gaiety, nearly killed her.
Sometimes she felt so low that she did her strip act as if it were a requiem. The tassels she wore that usually twirled mischievously as she cavorted around the floor barely moved. The management exhorted her to speed it up. The soldiers would flee the place if she continued to do a strip tease like a water buffalo.
"I know you're disappointed about Harry," the manager said sympathetically. "But he's not the only man in the world."
"It's not just Harry," she said. "I feel bad because I can't go to America. I was all ready. I bought all my clothes, I've been taking English lessons at Berlitz-everything. And now nothing."
"I know," the manager said, "It's happened to two other girls in the show. At the last minute-they got wires from Bremerhaven. Illness at home. Family troubles. You know. Just like you."
"I can't understand it," she said. "He told me we'd have to wait, but to disappear without any word."
Suddenly she stood up and moving behind the screen, began to get into her brief costume. "They're all bastards Carl. They all want one thing and when they get it, they're on their way. If you only knew how much I love him. How much I would have done anything for him. Slaved, cooked, worn my fingers to the bone for him."
"I know," Carl said quietly, "but what good is it going to do to make yourself miserable now. I see how you get when you see those farewell parties-girlfriends going to America. What's the sense of punishing yourself that way?"
She stopped adjusting her costume and her face hardened.
"You're right. It's stupid to keep punishing myself. And he's not the only man. I can probably get any man out there to marry me and take me to America."
"Of course," Carl said elated. "Anyone. At least a dozen men ask to see you every night after the show."
"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "But I'm going to be careful this time. Nothing is going to happen between us until we get on that boat, Carl. At least nothing more than a kiss. And not even that till he asks me to marry him and registers me at the Consulate as his war bride."
"That's the spirit."
"And I'm staying away from those big Casanovas. Harry was fine-but he must have had a girl in every town in Germany. He's probably with one right now. All this rot about his mother and sister blocking my visa. It was just some excuse to keep me from making a scene. He was probably afraid I'd shoot him. And I probably would if I knew where to find him."
The day marked a great change in her behavior. From then on she began to go out with anyone she liked. Diplomats, soldiers, civilians. She became so popular with traveling military men and civilians, that offers of dates would come from as far as London or Paris. All this despite her refusal to become anyone's mistress.
"Not that they don't try," she told the manager. "But when I insist on marriage, they look kind of sick. Then I discover half of them are married already."
One day as she finished her late show, she noticed a handsome, dark-haired lieutenant sitting at the center table. He looked extremely lonely with his bottle of champagne and never smiled. She paid no attention that night, but when he came back night after night, she began to wonder about him. She asked the manager who told her he was a rich American who had recently been transferred from a post near Frankfurt and had broken up with his girl.
Immediately she felt sorry for him and began to smile when she looked his way. After the first week, he timidly asked her, in a note sent backstage, if she would consent to dine with him. She accepted for the following night.
She found him very shy and obviously very inexperienced with women. He made no effort to kiss her or persuade her to go to a hotel which surprised her.
"I love watching you dance," he told her one night, as they dined in a little Hungarian restaurant where they played waltzes and polkas. "You're the most beautiful sight I've ever seen."
Then slowly he began to tell her about his experience with the girl in Frankfurt. He had met her shortly after reaching his unit-she was a switchboard operator there-and it was falling out of a tree. At the first meeting he asked her to marry him.
"She thought I was nuts," Frank said. "She's kind of shy like me-very pretty-dark-haired, not like you at all. But we got along fine. Lee-that was her name--liked to go mountain climbing with me, so we used to go up in the Harz mountains. We'd have picnics and all. All on the up and up, you know. She comes from a simple farm family and is very serious about marriage. She told me I was the first American she had ever dated and she dated me only because I had a good reputation. I never tried to proposition the secretaries or buy them with PX stuff you know.
"It was great. We were getting along fine. We agreed to go with one another six months before we got engaged. Meanwhile I put her name in the Consulate as my future war bride."
He shook his head. "I don't know what happened. I knew my mother didn't like the idea. She had expressed her feelings in letters and transatlantic calls. She must have pulled wires somewhere back in Washington. Anyway she broke it up and...." he struck his fist on the table. "I was a damned fool and let it happen."
"Couldn't you stop her?" Ilsa asked sympathetically.
Frank looked grim. "You don't know my mother. She threatened everything-including having a breakdown. Anyway it's over the dam now. I don't know where she is. That's why I come here-trying to get it out of my system."
The story touched her deeply because it reminded her of her own affliction. She became more tender with him and invited him home to dinner a few times. He made no effort to get fresh.
If anything his gratitude was so great he could not do enough for her. He got her all kinds of gifts and took her out on all her free days to the surrounding countryside.
To her surprise, she found herself very much at ease with him. She did not love him, she knew. Could she ever love anyone but Harry? But he was sweet and kind and he obviously needed her very much.
2
The first time Lee Feltman saw Harry Westover she could not stand the sight of him. It was early in the afternoon and the tall, red-headed lieutenant had come to send a long message to Washington. Lee was the only girl on duty in the Signal Corps office and she was busy handling the switchboard. For a moment she paid no attention to the visitor. Then she noticed his gaze. He was looking directly at her long, trim legs. She blushed and in a nervous tone asked him what she could do for him. He laughed and said she was already doing it.
"You're the most beautiful girl I've seen in this town," he said. "I'm just making an observation," he added hastily. "Don't get your dander up."
She gave him a cold, haughty look and took his message. He went away, saying softly: "Anyone ever tell you, you do a lot for this crummy room honey? It looks much better than it did when I came in yesterday."
She did not answer him and turned her back with a cool air of disdain. He laughed. A merry boyish laugh that seemed to reprove her air of dead seriousness. She said nothing. She was still sick about Frank Matson, and she was not eager to go out with any other Americans.
She ignored him completely, but she found it hard to forget his laugh and die mock gallantry with which he greeted her every time he came back. It made her nervous when he did that. But she found herself thinking of him increasingly after that. Of his laugh and of the remark about her effect on the room. Every time she entered it now, it looked different.
A week later she accepted a date to an American movie and the day after that a dinner date. To her astonishment she enjoyed herself very much. He was very different from Frank. He was bold as brass and had a laugh like the morning bellow of a Guernsey bull. And his strong maleness seemed at times ready to overwhelm her. But he made no passes and seemed content just to enjoy her companionship. Occasionally he looked sad and preoccupied, but when she tried to find out why, he shook his head.
"Never mind," he would say. "I'm just lucky you're here."
She did not pry further. Once or twice when she saw him turn his head sharply as a slim, beautiful blonde passed them on the street, she felt a premonition of something, but he always reassured her. There was no one else, he insisted, patting her arm gently. It was his gentleness that put her at her ease and after a while made thinking of Frank less painful.
A month later Frank Matson asked her to marry him.
If he had asked her a few weeks earlier, she would have laughed at him. In his quiet, acutely shy way, the dark, frightened-looking lieutenant was the exact opposite of Bobo. He was so embarrassed by physical contact with her, that one day when his hand brushed against her breasts as they danced, he apologized a dozen times.
But he was sweet, tender and unhappy. Like her, he had just broken off with his fiancee. Like her he was on the rebound.
The most consoling thing about him was that he would inherit several million dollars when he became married. And have a magnificent estate in some place was very high class. The idea appealed to her as did called Long Island which her friends assured her a mischievious thought that Harry Westover would read about it in Los Angeles or wherever he had gone to and blow a gasket.
Somewhat coyly she accepted Frank. She asked him not to mention that she was a stripteaser to his family. He was more than happy not to. The next day he registered her-under another name since she did not want this visa blocked too-as his fiancee. Six months later they sailed together from Bremerhaven.
She was happy again. She missed Bobo of course. There could never be anyone else. But she had promised herself to try to make a go of the marriage. She even thought it would be easy-until she met Frank's mother. Then she wanted to run back. Swim back if she only could. Only the thought of those millions kept her from going out of her mind.
She was thinking about those millions now as she stood in her shorts and halter in the French windows of Mrs. Matson's palatial home. Another month and the place would be hers. And the millions. Frank's mother had promised to leave as soon as they were married and move to another house thirty miles away. The first thing Ilsa wanted to do was get as far from her as she could. She would order Frank to take her around the world if she had to.
The hot July sun was making Ilsa very uncomfortable. Stepping out of her shorts, panties and halter, she stood boldly on the sun-drenched veranda. Sixty feet below the shimmer of the big swimming pool beckoned. How wonderful it would be to plunge into its green magic. How wonderful to swim in it naked as the day she was born. To feel the cool green water as she climbed out. To feel the electric wetness make her tingle. To top it off she would he on her white terrycloth robe on the lawn.
A familiar female command behind her pulled her out of her daydream. "Put a robe on at once," Mrs.
Matson snapped, "and get away from that verandah. They can see everything you've got even that birthmark on your fanny."
"Yes mother," Ilsa said dutifully, picking up the robe from the bed. Her mother-in-law was not merely a snob, she was a horrible prude as well. The mere thought of nudity threw her into a tizzy. Ilsa's habit of doing her setting up exercises before an open window horrified her. Ilsa knew she was disliked by her future mother-in-law. She knew too that Mrs. Matson wanted nothing better than an open fight with her.
Ilsa knew why. For years she had been obsessed with the fear that Frank would marry some pretty little fortune hunter, a girl with no background, no name. She had already stopped one marriage with a girl he knew in Germany, Ilsa reminded herself and she was probably working overtime to kill this one. All she needed was a nasty little sex scandal or proof that she was a nudist.
"I'm sorry Mother," Ilsa said as calmly as she could. "I was about to dress and wanted to see the pool."
Mrs. Matson moved her heavy body to the French windows and closed them without speaking. Ilsa watched the gray-haired head peer through the curtains to see if anyone was watching from below. When she was satisfied she turned to Ilsa and held out a small package.
"Wear this girdle tonight please," she said drily. "We're having dinner at the Duke de Broccoli's and I want you to look your best."
"But I look fine without a girdle," Ilsa protested. She had never worn one in her life.
"Nonsense you're too hippy and your-er-derriere is too obvious. A woman should never show everything she has."
With those words the grim-faced dowager sailed out of the room majestically.
Ilsa stared at her angrily and almost beaned her with the package, but the door had already slammed.
Frustrated, the blond girl pivoted, swung open the windows leading to the veranda and threw it as furiously as she could toward the pool. She heard the butler's groan as it struck him. Instantly there was a hub-bub of voices below. She closed the windows frightenedly wanting to kick herself for losing her temper. Only one week to the altar and complete independence from that bitch of a mother-in-law and she lost her temper again. She hoped no one had seen her throw the package.
Her hopes were dashed a moment later when a young man rushed into the room from the veranda. He was a tall, good-looking youth with high cheek bones and soft spaniel-like eyes and he was dressed in a huge yellow bathrobe. He gulped as he saw Ilsa.
"Cover up darling," he said. "Mother may come back and please don't throw things over the balcony. What was it?"
"Frank," Helen Matson's voice boomed. "Are you there?"
The loud voice came from the hallway. Frank started to sprint for the French windows, but he was too late. His mother opened the door and glared at him. His robe had fallen open too and Ilsa roared.
"Frank go inside," Mrs. Matson ordered. "We're not having anything disgusting going in this house. What on earth do you mean coming in like this?"
Frank blushed and fumbled at a letter in his robe pocket. "I wanted to show her the letter," he mumbled. "From my friend Harry."
"Well haven't you told her they're coming already? You got the letter over a week ago."
Ilsa looked blank. Frank spoke quickly. "It's from an old buddy of mine in Germany. He wrote he and his girl are getting married in Mexico and they're stopping off in New York. I thought we might see them."
"Of course," Ilsa said confused. She wondered why Frank had never mentioned the letter, or his friend.
But then Frank was not very talkative about anything. She wished they would go so she could get into the shower and give herself a rubdown with a Turkish towel. The shower and a brisk massage with a sharp cologne always made Ilsa feel better.
But Frank's mother seemed too deep in private thought. Mrs. Matson looked dubious. "Let me see the letter again please."
Frank showed it to her. Thank God, he thought, he had it in his pocket. The last time his mother had caught him in Ilse's room she had threatened to have her deported. His mother read it carefully and gave it back. Frank took courage from his mother's silence.
"He suggested a double wedding, but it's out of the question. They're just coming here for a few days and then going on down to Mexico. His father's manager of a big electrical parts firm there. They'll get married there. I'll tell him it's out. Too much can go wrong down there and we'd have to get special visas for the girls. All that darn red-tape again."
He smiled reassuringly at his mother who was listening with pursed lips. "I just thought I'd tell Ilse about it. We'll probably meet them in town for dinner one night."
Mrs. Matson's glacial expression startled them both by becoming a warm smile. "But I think it's a great idea to get married in Mexico. I've never been there. And your uncle John works at the embassy there. We could easily have the marriage there."
Ilse looked astonishedly at her future mother-in-law. Was she insane? The invitations were already out, the church arranged.
"But mother," Frank said weakly. "You can't be serious. All the people we've invited here."
"Doesn't mean anything," his mother said pleasantly. "In our set people change their wedding dates all the time. We have eight days. Marmaduke can send out wires today canceling the invitations. Instead I'll have a tremendous party for you when you come back from your honeymoon. Everybody can come to that."
Frank still looked doubtful. "But you loathe Latin-American countries," he said.
His mother blushed delicately. "Yes, but he's your closest friend. And I think it would be wrong to spoil a wonderful double wedding just because I'd have to go to Mexico City. It's really quite civilized there."
Frank spluttered. "But Ilse might have trouble getting a new visa to come back into the U.S. You know how long this one took."
Ilse watched them both uneasily. Until a moment ago she had congratulated Frank silently on getting them out of their predicament. She knew his mother wanted nothing better than to break them up. Now her sweetness and light disturbed her. There was not the slightest doubt that Mrs. Matson hated her and regarded her as a tramp. But she had not been able to prove anything wrong and so far had kept to her promise not to interfere with Frank's marriage plans.
"I-I think I'd like it better here too," she said weakly. "After all it's all set."
For the fraction of a second Mrs. Matson's smile wavered and her eyes grew hard, but the smile took over quickly. She took Ilse's arm affectionately.
"Nonsense my dear. Harry is Frank's best friend. A double wedding would be nice and frankly we owe something to my brother John. He won't be able to make the wedding. Some tiresome conference there you know. As a matter-of-fact I'd been thinking of postponing the wedding two weeks so he could fly up. I'll cable him to stay there."
Ilse was sure now that she was lying. Mrs. Matson arranged her plans with the precision of a chronometer. The wedding had been arranged three months ago and every detail supervised personally. If she was willing to junk all that effort for a wedding in Mexico, something was up. And all this false smiling and affection was a front. A chill ran down her spine, They would be out of the country long enough to give Mrs. Matson a chance to frame her, just as her first fiance's mother had framed her, less than two years ago.
Frank Matson was a nice, gentle boy and would not willingly hurt her. But he was afraid of his mother. Only occasionally did he take any stand against her. Ilsa decided to move carefully with Mrs. Matson.
"If you really think it a good idea to go to Mexico," Ilsa said, the name Harry made her pensive.
"Thank you Ilsa," Mrs. Matson said. "I'll cable Harry at once in your name Frank. His address is on our Xmas card list. Don't worry about a thing."
Ilsa watched her go out. This was typical. Mrs. Matson ran her house like a martinet. She did everything herself. No one could ask questions.
There was a timid knock on the door a second later. It was the buder with the girdle. Ilsa took it glumly.
"Who is this Harry?" she asked. "You've told me nothing about him. Is this the one in Germany?"
"Yes," he said, nervously. "He's an old friend." He was unwilling to say that the real reason he never mentioned Harry Westover was that he was secretly jealous of his success with girls. As long as he could remember, Harry could take any girl away from him in five minutes. He liked him very much, but he had a blind spot where Harry and women were concerned. And he was annoyed because his mother had taken the matter out of his hands. All he had intended was to meet him one night for dinner in New York. And to keep himself and Ilsa away from his electric charm until he was safely married. It was not that he did not trust Harry with Ilsa. It was just that he felt so inferior to him where women were involved.
"I'll go now before mother comes back," he said suddenly. "Please put that girdle on tonight dear."
"Okay," she said. "But the thought of it kills me."
She stared wistfully at the slave chain on her ankle. It was a gift from Bobo.
"Don't be unhappy dear," Frank said helpfully. "It won't be that uncomfortable. Besides Mother says you really need one."
"I don't need one damn it," Ilse almost shouted. Frank's remark had just unleashed all the bitterness stored in her.
"But you are a little hippy dear," Frank said.
"I'm not damn you," Ilsa said angrily. "Look at me. Do I need one?"
She drew the robe tightly around her slim body. Then with a regal air she paced across the room. He watched the lovely girl move with a grace that seemed almost timed to music. Her figure was trim and without an inch of fat. She was a trifle buxom it was true, but this was an effect created by her substantial bosom. Her hips looked fine to him.
"You look fine dear," he admitted. "But Mother is hard to understand. Please humor her for my sake. I have to get along with her. You know that."
She sighed and raised her slanting eyes to the heavens. Then she sighed. Well it was only for a short while. If she had to wear the damned thing, she would.
"I'd better go," Frank said nervously. He pecked her quickly and absently on the cheek and started toward the French windows.
She watched him and sighed. Frank was sweet and kind, but she longed so much for a man to talk to her, to remind her of her femininity. Even to anger her by stealing a kiss or a caress. At least she would be reminded that she was young and alive and had some appeal. With Frank she felt as if she were a mother talking to her son.
Her thoughts returned involuntarily to Bobo, as they often did when she was lonely. Bobo's laugh rang in her ears and she saw his blue eyes crinkle with amusement. She sighed. If Bobo had walked into her room at that moment she would throw Frank over in five seconds. But a moment later she reproved herself crossly.
She would do nothing of the kind. The lout had jilted her after swearing he would marry her in three months. Months had gone by without a word. No, she told herself. If that idiot walked in now, I'd push him over the balcony rail.
"All right dear," she said resignedly.
"Harry's coming in to New York tomorrow. I'm cabling him in Frankfurt that we'll pick him up at the airport and bring them here."
"Good," she said absently. The name Harry warmed her. It had been Bobo's real name. Every American seemed to be either Tom, Dick or Harry in Germany. But there were no Harries like Harry Westover, or Bobo as she lovingly nicknamed him. He was one in a million. She stopped musing about him as she saw Frank's tense face.
"Honey," he begged. "Please be careful won't you with mother."
"Yes," she said. Then looking at him directly she said: "You know this Mexico business is just another move to break us up? Don't you?"
He nodded. "It was the first thought that occurred to me. She doesn't like Harry. He's too fast for her. She hates Mexico and she writes her brother once a year-usually business stuff."
"So why did you let her do it then?"
He shrugged. "I knew if we blocked her, she'd try something else. It's only a week. And what could she do in Mexico?"
"Plenty," Ilsa said grimly.
"She promised not to interfere in any wedding plans unless there was good reason," Frank said lamely.
"That's bull," Ilsa said. When she was mad she sometimes used the slang she had picked up from Bobo.
"Never mind. It'll be fun. I'd like to see Mexico. What's Harry like and his girl?
Frank grinned "Oh you'll like him. He's a barrel of fun. Always kidding, always pulling a gag. We were in the Army together-the same unit. Only they separated us the last year I was there. I haven't seen him in ages."
"I suppose your mother arranged that too," Ilse said.
Frank lifted his palms as if to say what could anyone do.
"Mother thought he was making me horse around too much. Harry likes party going, drinking, you know. We were in Berlin together and having a ball. Then some colonel's wife wrote mother telling her I had wrecked a car while drinking and that Harry was involved. The next time I slugged an MP while I was drunk and Harry and I stripped him of his pants and-well when she heard about that, she pulled wires to get me transferred to Frankfurt. Harry tried to switch too but he only made it as far as Munich. That's over 300 miles so we never saw each other. Just talked on the phone. Then when I came home oh leave he transferred to my unit in Frankfurt."
"And Mama promptly sent you back to Berlin," she said acidly. "No, to Munich," he said sadly. "She has a lot of pull with Senators and she wanted to keep us apart. She thought Harry might get me lined up with some Fraulein who'd want my money."
There was nothing to add to that. When Lee or Mausie as he called her had come into the picture his mother had acted fast to bust it up. Even though Harry was not involved, even though she had not met the girl or even knew her name. A chance remark in Frank's letter had sent her into action.
"I'd better dress," he said morosely. "Be careful. Especially with the Duke. He's got a reputation for trying to make everything in skirts. But please wear the girdle."
"All right," she said wearily.
Something else disturbed him. He was staring at a golden slave bracelet around her ankle. "Can you take that off too?"
He realized his mistake when he saw her eyes flare up angrily.
"No," she said. "I've seen Americans wear them and I'm not taking that off. Your mother can't run my whole life. Pretty soon I'll have to ask her permission to go to the bathroom."
"Okay," he said placatingly. The golden chain was the one thing she was adamant about. His mother thought it vulgar, but Ilsa remained firm. She was not taking it off.
When she prepared to dress that evening Ilse spent almost an hour wriggling in and out of the pink girdle. As it happened it was a size too small and the night was sticky and summery. The combination of a tight girdle and humid heavy weather was almost more than she could bear. Finally by calling it her hair shirt and laughing at it she managed to get it around her hips. Her flesh felt as if some giant greedy fist had grasped it. It chafed and almost stifled her and for a moment she almost lost her temper again and tore it off. Bobo would never have asked her anything stupid, she thought bitterly, though his bitchy sister might have. How on earth did Americans keep their birthrate going if women wore contraptions like girdles. She supposed that not too many of them were like Mrs. Matson. She sighed and thought of how lovely it was to walk naked and untrammeled around a room.
3
The Duke's dinner promised to be almost as much of a trial as the girdle. The guests were neighbors and business acquaintances and their stuffy wives. Ilse marveled at how successfully American women hid their sex appeal once they were married. Take that brunette Claire Van der Pool for instance. She wore a lovely yellow dress, but it was as high and discreet as a monk's cassock. She noticed that Claire wore a girdle too. Well she needed it. Claire was one of those women that nature had endowed too well. Her breasts were severely restrained by a tight brassiere and the heavy girdle made her hips obey some sense of decorum. Ilse guessed that without the girdle Claire would be saddled with a bad case of stenographer's spread. Without a girdle that rear end would have stopped a bomber pilot at ten thousand feet.
"How is our little Fraulein today?" Claire asked her in her overly polite patronizing tone. Ilse felt herself stiffen despite herself. Something about the women's arrogant manner always set her teeth on edge. Her contempt for the poor little "German fraulein" who had come to the U.S. to marry a millionaire was hardly disguised. In fact Frank had told her that Claire had expressed her feelings about it to the entire area.
Ilse knew why. A few years ago she had hoped to marry Frank. But Frank had gone into the Army and two years later had announced his engagement to a German girl. When his mother had broken that up, Claire waited hopefully for Frank's discharge. Instead, she learned to her disgust, he had become engaged to Ilse several months ago. In a tantrum she had run off with an engineer twenty years her senior. The whole country knew her marriage was a washout and that she envied Ilse. No one was particularly surprised to see her needle the German girl mercilessly.
"Your English is improving," she said now. "Don't you think so," she asked several of the others. Ilse glared at her.
"Do let me send you to my hairdresser Fraulein," she added smiling maliciously. "He's wonderful. I sent him a girl from Calcutta with hair like snakes and he made her look almost human."
"Thank you," Ilse said coldly, aware that Mrs. Matson was watching her, hoping for some vulgar outburst. She was grateful when the Duke came up to her and engaged her in conversation.
The Duke de Broccoli was the tallest Italian she had ever seen and a handsome van dyke beard made him somehow even taller. He was one of the most charming men she had met anywhere. Gay, debonair, full of a Rabelesian laughter, he dominated a room instantly with his electric personality. He had been everywhere, had known everyone and had been named correspondent in at least a dozen internationally-famous divorce scandals. Any other man would have found himself ostracized by the kind of set led by Mrs. Matson. Not the Duke de Broccoli. First he was a cousin of the Italian king, though nobody was sure whether he was twice or thrice removed.
Secondly he had authored two best-selling books and was widely sought as a raconteur and wit. Finally every reporter or columnist dealing in society affairs loved him. As a former diplomat, he knew all the dirt.
With his height-six feet four, prominent roman nose, dark intelligent eyes and black spade beard, he might have been a Falstaff done by Michelangelo. He had a clear path to most women he met and spared no effort to win them. The harder they seemed to get to bed, the better he seemed to like it. Oddly enough his terrible reputation increased his successes with women. Even Ilse had wondered what he would be like to know intimately.
He spoke in a familiar whisper to her now in a corner of the big salon where they had their cocktails. His voice seemed to tease her ear and his eyes continued to stray from her face to the cleft in her dress. To make her feel at ease, he began to tell her some racy anecdotes about the women present, carefully omitting the individual's name. He knew every nuance of their love lives. In a few moments she found herself infected by his mood and laughed.
"You and one other woman I know here," he added maliciously, "are the only two I would like to be stranded with in a telephone booth in Times Square during a blackout."
"Oh come on," she said, flirting with him, just to keep him talking and to avoid having to go back to the group with Mrs. Matson and that bitch Claire who was regarding her with distaste.
"No, I mean it," the Duke laughed. "Just think how much more fun it would be to hold on to what you have than Mrs. Matson or that fat Mrs. Duckworth who resembles an anteater."
When she laughed, he began to tell her how much he liked German women. They were fabulous, he said. Once he had thought they were all like Wagnerian sopranos. When he finally reached Germany, he discovered they were often breathtakingly slim and lovely. When he was with the Italian embassy in Berlin, he told Ilsa, he made it a point to visit favorite women in every big German town regularly.
The diplomatic life was a bore, he explained, unless you made love to a pretty woman in every town. There was nothing more horrible than spending an entire evening with a corpulent mayor and his bell-shaped wife.
Ilsa laughed at his words and the way he rolled his eyes. He was clowning openly and enjoying the effect he created. The other guests could not take their eyes from him.
He stroked his jet beard and asked her in a discreet whisper if she would like to see his garden. He had some lovely night-blooming Irises to show her.
"Alone with you Pietro?" she said in mock surprise. "You want to ruin my reputation. Which hangs by a thread as it is. I'm sure all Claire Van Der Poole needs is to see me go out with you."
"Nonsense," he said. "I'm the host. Perfectly natural for me to ask you."
"I don't think so your Grace. There are too many dark places in that garden."
"That's why I bought it," he laughed.
He noticed her glance apprehensively at Mrs. Mat-son. 'So that's why you're hesitating. Mama frightens you. Don't worry. I'll tell her I'm showing you my private gallery of Picassos and Braques and Klees.
Shell be pleasantly astonished that her daughter in law has an interest in modern art."
He nudged her. "It's to your advantage. Besides she is anxious to please me. She'll think you're a social asset."
"Pietro she watches me like a hawk. And you do have a reputation for flirting with women. Any woman. Don't deny it now."
"I don't deny it. But I'm a duke my dear and snobs like Mrs. Matson would not bat an eyelash if a Duke flirted with a woman anywhere. Don't you understand? They think it's glamorous and therefore excusable."
She laughed. "The answer is no Pietro. N-O."
What surprised her was that he took her rebuffs with good humor.
Oddly enough the Duke's failure did not anger him. Failure never did. Only missed opportunity. When Ilsa had slapped him as they danced on the veranda he had roared. When she bit his lips, he looked at her with admiration.
His attitude made it hard for Ilsa to dislike him. If she were not engaged to Frank Matson, she might have gone out with him. Anything might have happened. The Duke was a striking man and extremely entertaining. She had gone out with much less interesting men. But a girl had to think of the future. She was twenty-six and she wanted to get married. Once before she had become engaged to an American and nothing had happened. She was determined to see this marriage through.
When the men and women separated at the end of the long dinner the Duke whispered again that he wanted to show her some new paintings he had bought in Manhattan. Faced with the horrible prospect of being alone with her future mother-in-law and two veteran members of the DAR, she decided to try the Duke. She excused herself under the ladies' disapproving stare and followed the host into another room.
To her surprise he did not try to kiss her as soon as they were in the library. Instead he showed her the paintings-there were several nudes and some still lifes by French artists, then he poured her a stiff brandy in a large baloon snifter. She peered at him quizically over the rim of the glass. He was smiling at her. She smiled back.
Suddenly, as if the smile were some signal he seized her in his arms and began to loss her. She was so taken by surprised that she let it happen. It was only when he began tugging at the zipper of her dress that she fought him. He was the deftest man she had ever met. And all the time he was laughing silently. Only once did he seem nonplussed. When his hand strayed below her waist.
"Caramba! You're wearing a girdle. I can't believe it."
She smiled sheepishly. "My mother-in-law."
The Duke roared with laughter. "It's insane. You have one of the most magnificent figures I've ever seen."
"Thank you."
He looked at the beautiful blonde girl with the air of a connoisseur.
"What are you thinking about?" she said suspiciously.
"Of how lucky Frank is. Tell me do you really love Frank?"
She said nothing.
"I thought so," the Duke said. "He's about as exciting as malted milk isn't he?"
The girl blushed. "I think I'd better get back."
"Not yet dear," the Duke said, stroking his beard. "I find Mrs. Matson very dull and you quite interesting. Even more interesting now than when I saw you dance."
Ilsa stared at him frightenedly. "You saw me dance?"
He laughed. "In Berlin and again in Munich. You had a wonderful routine with a belt made of tassels and they twirled magnificently. Also a dance with bow and arrow. You called yourself Hiawatha in that one."
"Pietro!" she said apprehensively.
He was musing. "I remember seeing you one night when a friend from Rome came up. You were billed as the girl who made Munich famous. "Bouncing in Bavaria" you called the act didn't you?"
"Please Pietro," Ilsa begged. "Don't tell this to anyone."
"Do you still have the lovely strawberry birthmark-where you er sit down?", he asked laughing. "My friend was intrigued. He did some painting and he was sure the birthmark would make him famous in the art world."
Ilsa's face fell. She gripped his arm pleadingly.
"Pietro you haven't told anybody this?"
He shook his head smiling and kissed her.
"I'm afraid of that bitch who will be my mother-in-law. She hates me and this would kill everything."
"Relax," the Duke said. "No one knows."
"No one must know," she begged. "I was engaged two years ago to an American and his sister complained to the State Department that I was a stripper and a prostitute. I was never a prostitute. But they turned down my application for a visa."
The bearded Duke held her close and moved his hands tenderly over her lovely hips. "I'm sorry I didn't know you well. I might have helped you."
She shook her head. "I nearly died when I found I couldn't come to America and he went away. Now I'm scared stiff the same thing will happen again. Let's go back Pietro please. I'm afraid we'll be missed. I don't want to arouse her suspicions."
The Duke laughed again and patted her reassuringly. "You have nothing to worry about. Right now your mother-in-law is probably telling herself you're better than she thought. You have a genuine interest in art."
He winked slyly. "So have I." He raised the hem of her skirt and examined her superb thighs. "Only I prefer my works of art in the flesh. Tell me has young Matson-?"
She shook her head. "Oh he wouldn't dare. He thinks it's terribly improper. It's all right to pet and move his hands around me till I nearly jump out of my skin, but not to make love before marriage."
The Duke nodded sympathetically. "I never could understand that American custom. Was your other American like that too?"
"Bobo-that's what I called him-Bobo couldn't have enough lovemaking. He was so bad I had to lock myself away from him."
Her eyes grew misty as she thought of Bobo's hunger. Of his wild enthusiasm for her kisses. Of the way he devoured her with his eyes.
"You won't tell anyone Pietro?" she begged. "Please swear."
"Never. Not Frank, not his mother-not the King of Siam. I swear."
He looked at her sadly. "What a pity you're so difficult. Let me tell you something my dear. I like women. Very much and I like making love to them. But I try never to hurt them. And I never attempt anything vulgar. I admit I brought you here to do something well-let us say not terribly ethical. But I content myself with a kiss. No more. Are we friends?"
"Yes of course."
"Why are you making such faces. Are you in pain?"
"It's this damned girdle," she complained. "It's killing me. I'm not used to it"
"Then remove it and put it in your purse," the Duke said. "There is a private bathroom on the other side of the room. Go in there."
She looked at him gratefully and kissed him playfully on the cheek.
"One day you're going to succumb to marriage. It's a shame no woman has trapped you yet."
He shrugged. "It's not for want of trying, I assure you. But I'm fussy. I run too hard. Or perhaps it's better to say I have. I'm getting tired. You know any woman who half tried would get me now in nothing flat"
"You're joking," she laughed.
"No I'm serious," he said.
"What kind of woman?" she teased. "Something smart, elegant, sophisticated like Za za Gabor I suppose."
"Never. It'll probably be some simple little young thing who's terribly proper and serious. You see men like me are secretly ashamed of being Don Juans and are really looking for a mother."
She could not tell whether he was laughing at her or not.
"Go in and take it off dear," he said laughing. "Then well have a drink."
The bathroom amazed her. Done in black tile with gold trimmings, it was as opulent as the private pool of a Roman Caesar. Ilsa admired it as she wriggled out of her dress and girdle.
"You can take a shower if you like," the Duke called through the locked door. "And there is some good baby oil in the cabinet in case your skin is too chafed."
The suggestion delighted her. She removed the rest of her clothing and entered the shower stall. The needle spray made her feel wonderful. Afterwards a heavy Turkish towel made her flesh glow a lobster red. She paraded before a long glass and looked at the spots on her thighs and waist where the girdle had bitten deeply. Once again she examined her figure. She saw a girl with trim, sleek flanks, long legs that dropped from buxom hips to narrow, tapering legs. Her breasts were the only feature of her body that would attract attention in any dress, and she was not ashamed of them.
Mrs. Matson hated her figure because her own was so square and heavy, she thought resentfully. Probably she would never even notice the girdle was not being worn. She folded it carefully and put it in her purse. Then she glanced at her figure again, put on her underwear and dress. As she thought, her hips did not bulge at all.
The line of her vision stopped at Harry Westover's slave chain on her ankle. She frowned. It really was not fair to wear it any longer was it? Harry was gone and she was marrying another man. Besides it was a small enough gesture to make to Mrs. Matson. Perhaps it would sweeten her sour temper. She removed it and put it on the sink top that held her stockings, wrist watch and purse.
She put on her stockings and had just begun to gather her things when she heard a sharp knock on the door.
"Yes," she said.
"Ilsa you must go, someone's coming."
"Who?" she asked startled.
"Never mind. Take the door that leads to the garden. Quickly."
"You're having another woman here?" she laughed.
"Please go unless you want to destroy everything darling."
"Just tell me, or shall I guess?"
"Oh, God," he said desperately. "I cannot endure this passion of Americans for quiz games. Please, please hurry."
Still laughing Ilsa exited from the bath, seizing her purse and shoes as she did.
She began to move toward the garden door.
The Duke ran into the bath and flew back with her wrist watch.
"Did you leave anything else?" he asked.
"I don't think so," she said.
He pushed her out into the garden. "So please forgive me. I did not expect this. She came while you were showering and I told her I was calling long distance and to come back soon."
"Who for heaven's sake?" Ilsa whispered.
"I can't tell you," he said annoyed. "I am at least enough of a gentleman not to. Please go."
"Darling are you ready?" they heard a familiar voice ask through the other door. "Can I come in now?"
The Duke winced and Ilsa doubled over with laughter. The voice belonged to Claire Van der Poole.
"Well," Ilsa said. "So she's human after all. I thought she was made of wax. Except for the acid she uses when she talks to me.
"Oh don't worry I won't meet her," Ilsa said.
"Then go please."
She patted his arm and exited from the garden door. Outside she could not restrain herself from eavesdropping a moment.
She heard the door slam shut and the Duke greet her. Then Claire's petulant voice complaining of the delay. It was obvious that she knew the Duke much better than anyone thought.
"I'm sorry dear," he said. "I loathe making business calls with other people here in the room. You know that. It was an important call to Washington."
"I thought it was something else," she said morosely.
If she had not seen Frank looking for something on the other side of the garden, Ilsa might not have heard the next line of Claire's conversation. She ducked closer to the door so Frank would not see her and heard Claire say:
"I thought you were making love to the horrible little German tramp."
Ilsa flushed and glued her ear to the door.
"She's no tramp," the Duke said. "She's a nice girl. You're just annoyed because she'll come into all those millions when she marries Frank."
"She's a tramp," Claire retorted. "Don't tell me. You can read it all over her vulgar face. The kind of tramp that shacks up with a G.I. and then browbeats him into bringing her home. Either that or she'll blackmail him by accusing him of pregnancy. I've read enough about them."
"You're overheated dear," the Duke remonstrated. "She's a nice girl. I assure you and she likes art."
"Yes," Claire jeered. "Especially if it's a Picasso she can own and re-sell. Don't tell me she likes art. The only art that wench likes is the portrait on a thousand dollar bill."
Ilsa listened with mounting rage. If Frank had not passed quite close at that moment, she might have kicked the door open and slapped the woman's face.
"Let's forget Ilsa shall we?" the Duke said. "I'm aware you dislike her. I happen to think she's nice. But no matter. Let's go on to something else shall we?"
"That's fine with me," she said and Ilsa heard her voice change. From a vinagry bellow it softened to a lover's croon.
"Take me in your arms Pietro. I've missed you."
"Have you Claire?" the Duke said. "I'm glad."
"I can't forget what it was like the time we met in New York. I can't wait till my husband goes back to his damned plant in the West. Then we can be under water again."
Ilsa heard the Duke laugh gently.
"You thought I hadn't heard you when you said that?" Claire said. "I remember everything you said. You said lovers should act with each other as if they were under water. Away from the whole world. With eyes and ears just for each other. Am I right?"
"Your memory is astonishing," he said, politely.
"Don't you think we have to go back?" Ilsa guessed that whatever attraction had been for the Italian, it was rapidly vanishing.
"Please stay with me for a few minutes darling," she said. "I haven't seen you for weeks and then tonight I was so bored with these people and that stupid German gold-digger."
"Well just for a drink then," the Duke said.
Ilsa waited no longer. Frank had disappeared around a hedge. He must be looking for her. She went after him, still smarting from the remarks of the woman inside, a desire for revenge so powerful she could hardly endure it
CHAPTER TWO
When he saw Ilsa coming Frank sighed with relief.
"I've been looking for you everywhere."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I went into the Duke's library after I saw the paintings and started reading. I completely lost track of time. Is there something special you wanted to see me about dear?"
Frank looked uncomfortable. "Well, mother was a little unhappy about you being gone so long. And Mrs. Van der Poole, Claire, made a remark about it"
"I'll bet she did," Ilsa said.
"Well you have been gone a while," Frank said. "Do you want to come back now. They're playing bridge."
"You mean will I let you lead me back by the hand like some lost child. No. Frank I don't mind playing the game with your mother. But I will not be treated like some little child. I'll go back in a moment, when I'm ready. I'm going to look at the garden now."
"Well," he began.
"Go on dear. I'll be there in a few minutes."
"All right," he said gloomily. He could not help feel helpless in the presence of Ilsa. The same quality of aggressive charm that had drawn him to her after he bad broken with Lee Feltman, also defeated his attempts to get closer to her. His earlier vows to wear the pants in the family were dissipated by a crisp remark always. Just like this one now.
He remembered something else he had planned to do when he saw her. Without a word he seized her clumsily in his arms and kissed her. He did it so hard that his lips seemed to weld themselves to hers. Then he tightened his arm around her waist, squeezing it hard, till the tears welled up in her eyes.
"What are you doing Frank?" she said irritably. "You're hurting me."
"I just thought I'd kiss my fiancee," he said petulantly.
"All right, but do it gently," she said. "Not as if you were squeezing an orange and don't press your lips so hard."
He seized her again. This time his teeth bit her lips and she tore herself away in pain.
"Gott im himmel!" she cried. "How on earth ... who taught you to kiss that way? You bit me."
"I'm sorry Ilsa," he said miserably. "I guess I'm not much of a kisser."
She flushed and felt sorry for him. And for herself. If she loved him enough, it probably would not have mattered. She was making too much of his incompetence really and after all they were going to be man and wife.
She closed her eyes and said: "Kiss me again, dear. But not so roughly now."
He did a little better this time. But his arms still tightened nervously about her waist. She pulled away exhausted. What on earth was happening to Frank. Up till now he had been contented with a good night kiss or a peck on the cheek at mealtimes. Now he seemed impelled to play the lover. She had told herself that it would be necessary to be patient with him. But she was too tired and too annoyed with Claire Van der Pool to be patient now. When he tried again to kiss her, she shook her head and pecked him on the lips.
"I'm going back dear. You enjoy the garden. But be sure to come in soon." He watched her move away with a frown on her face.
He realized with growing alarm that in some ways Ilsa reminded him of his mother. They were both stubborn, outspoken woman. He turned to her in a last attempt, making his voice as grave as he could.
"Ilsa I think we ought to discuss the wedding guests. It's going to be pretty big and we have to make plans.
Then there are the people Harry may want along....
But Ilsa was in no mood to listen. The anger she felt at Claire had reached such porportions that the only thought she could endure was that she had to pay her back in spades.
"Later dear, later!" she said, looking at the house.
He nodded and turned away. The old feeling of helplessness returned. With Lee Feltman he could always talk, he had always felt comfortable. With Dixie Aaron it had been the same. But Ilsa was just beyond him. The old fear that the marriage was a load too heavy to carry returned to his thoughts. That plus a premonition that the wedding night would kill him because she would show contempt for him. It was something he worried about often. Because of his clumsiness as a lover, she would laugh at him and walk away. It was a fear of rejection that he had always felt and that only Lee and Dixie had managed to cure. With most girls, even the ones he was drawn to the fear of being turned down, of being thought inadequate, of being considered weak and unmanly worried him all the time. He would have to fight hard to lick the fear.
Unaware of Frank's feelings, Ilsa moved toward the house. She waited till Frank had moved out of sight and then put her ear to the window of the Duke's study. She could hear nothing.
Impulsively she looked inside. At first she could see nothing. Then she saw a corner of the couch and a woman's bare foot. On the table nearby she saw a girdle. Ilsa smiled. The little hypocrite, she told herself, and she has the gall to call me a tramp!
Ilsa made her way irritably back to the main salon and fit a cigarette. She prayed inwardly for an opportunity to pay Claire back, but she did not expect the bonanza that fell at her feet a few moments later. The chance was so wonderful, she nearly muffed it.
As soon as Claire returned, discreetly followed by the Duke a moment later, Ilsa noticed something odd about her. At first she could not make it out, then she realized with a shock that Claire had not put her girdle on. In Ilsa's case the difference was hardly noticeable. But in the other woman it was conspicuous across the long room. Her dress seemed to be glued to rather beefy hips and their bulging was obvious. Her rear, when she walked, was so obvious now that no one could ignore it. When she leaned over the piano to arrange the music for the Duke's recital, the back of her looked like a parkerhouse roll. So tight, so form-fitting was her gown.
Despite herself Ilsa could not restrain herself from chuckling aloud. She saw Claire turn and give her a haughty, contemptuous look. The look decided Ilsa in what she did next. For the moment she contented herself with enjoying Claire's obvious discomfort. Eyes kept turning to her from the Duke's fingers at the piano.
Claire was becoming more and more acutely embarrassed as the playing continued. For the first time she was aware that her dress was too tight and too revealing of her flabbiness.
With mounting dismay she saw that Ilsa and everyone else continued to stare at her. Without the girdle, the fight yellow dress seemed to be glued on. She prayed to have the stupid German girl stop smiling at her that way. But Ilsa seemed unaware of her misery. Claire thought of bolting from the room to get the girdle, but she could hardly sprint out in the midst of his playing. She waited impatiently for him to end the interminable piece. A second later she saw Ilse rise and disappear from the room.
The next five minutes were an agony to her. She wished the piano had never been invented. Oh please finish that damned music, she screamed at the Duke silently, beseeching him with her eyes. If he would only look up from that damned score, he would realize her predicament. One look would tell him anyone could stare through the gauze-thin yellow dress. But he did not look up until Ilse returned and when he did he almost broke the keys slamming on them.
The pretty blond girl was standing in the doorway holding a pink girdle and a pair of panties in her hand. She smiled mischieviously.
"Anyone lose this?", she said innocently. "I went back to get some cigarettes in the Duke's study and found these."
Everyone stared at her in horror and Frank begged her with his eyes to stop. But Ilse looked coolly at Claire Van der Pool.
"Perhaps you would know Pietro," she said. "They're monogramed C. V. Do any of your maids have those initials? I can't think who else it might be. Such pretty panties. I never saw orange colored ones before."
Of course everyone knew. Closing her eyes, Claire Van der Pool swore she would get even if it took the rest of her life.
"C V," repeated Ilsa. "Anyone here have those initials?" With a savage groan, Claire charged past Ilsa like a wounded buffalo escaping a hunter's gun.
She sprinted toward the doorway and bumped into Frank, almost knocking him to the floor. She blushed.
"Excuse me," she said. "I'm not feeling well."
"I have some asperin," Ilse said sweetly from the doorway.
Claire glared at her with undying hatred and started to sweep past her. Somehow Ilsa's foot stood in the way and before she could save herself, Claire found herself sprawling on the cream-colored rug. She groaned and tried to get up and in doing so fell again. As she fell the second time a tearing sound filled the room. The second fall ripped her tight skirt. In a second her skin was exposed to everyone.
Ilsa could not restrain a loud chuckle. "I'm sorry Claire. You look just like a huge Parkerhouse roll. Do forgive me. My foot stuck in the rug."
The Duke stifled his amusement and rang for the maid. A silk dress was somehow found in the servants' quarters and Claire looked decent again. But the evening was obviously ruined. Within ten minutes everyone had taken their leave. Claire pointedly looked through Ilsa as she left.
On the road home, Ilsa continued to laugh to herself till Frank's mother silenced her.
"How can you laugh at such a horrible accident? The Duke should not have these terrible rugs. My heels are always catching on them."
"Mother," Frank said. "He invited us to a special dinner party, the two couples and you."
Mrs. Matson hesitated. "Very well. We can't offend him. He's a friend. Frank have you shown Ilsa the list of invitations and wedding announcements."
Ilsa was not listening. A moment ago as she scratched her ankle to relieve a mosquito bite, she had discovered her slave chain was missing.
With a shock, Ilsa remembered she had left it at the Duke's house. She closed her eyes. She would have to call him as soon as they got home.
Frank passed her a sheaf of papers and pressed a button which flooded the car's interior with light. Rather boredly Ilsa began to read the names. Would the Duke find it and hold it for her?, she worried. Suddenly a name leaped out at her and turned her knees to water. She stared at it horrifiedly. She stopped breathing.
It was impossible. Absolutely impossible! "What's the matter," Frank said noticing her expression. "Don't you feel well dear?"
"Nothing," Ilsa said weakly, trying to regain her breath.
The name she had seen was HARRY WESTOVER. Bobo. It was typed in caps above a small list of relatives and friends who would get announcements. The names meant nothing to her. She did not even notice them.
The only one was his. Her temples throbbed as if they would burst Harry Westover was coming to Frank's house in the morning. They would be living under the same roof for a week till they were married.
How in God's name was she going to get through the week? How was she going to keep Frank and his mother from learning everything. That she was not a secretary in Germany, but a stripteaser. That Harry's family had blocked her immigration by complaining about her morals. That she had been Harry Westover's mistress for months in Munich before Frank? One slip and she would be back on some pigboat, bundled into a third class bunk like any other deportee. America, Frank, marriage-all would slip down the drain. She groaned aloud.
"Ilsa," Frank said concerned. "What on earth's the matter? Are you sure you're all right?"
Oh she was feeling great, she thought miserably. This was all she needed. The full impact was hitting her only now. Not only was Bobo back. But he was marrying another girl.
"What's the matter dear?" Mrs. Matson said soothingly. "Did all that Italian food upset you? I've got some milk of magnesia at home."
For a moment she debated the wisdom of telling Mrs. Matson where she could put her Milk of Magnesia and then pulling out altogether. Getting the first boat back to Germany. Then slowly common sense prevailed. She had no money to get back. Maybe Frank would give it to her or Mrs. Matson. But how on earth could she go back to the slums of Frankfurt, living on the miserable salary she had earned there. Giving up forever on America.
"I'm a little tired," Ilse said at last. "I'll be all right. Frank would you mind horribly going to pick them up alone tomorrow morning? I'd like some rest."
"Of course not," Frank said cheerfully. "You sleep long as you like."
"Dc you good to go along," Mrs. Matson said. "You'll have time to sleep. They won't get in before 12:30 or 1."
"No that's all right mother," Frank said hastily. "Let her sleep. Well have a pretty rough program after Harry comes. You know Harry-always on the go. Probably have a million ideas about going places. Let her get some rest now. If you don't mind, I mean," he added cautiously.
"No-o," Mrs. Matson said as the car apprached the estate gates. "I don't mind. Go on and sleep then. I've already assigned the servants and rooms. You'll all be on the same floor. So there's nothing to arrange any more. You won't have to move or anything. Harry will be in your present room, however, Frank, so you'll have to take the room next to that one. His fiancee will be in the room adjoining your new room."
"But why?" Frank said surprised. "Wouldn't it be easier to put them in the two empty rooms on the other side of mine?"
Mrs. Matson shook her head "No. I prefer it like this."
Ilsa groaned inwardly she heard Mrs. Matson's tone of dismissal. There was only one reason for her new assignment of rooms, for making Frank change his room. She was worried about Frank's being in a room that shared a veranda with Ilsa's. The Duke of Broccoli's disappearance had worried her too much, she supposed. Or the shock of seeing her sunbathe in the nude at her open window. Mrs. Matson was taking no chances on Frank or her. She had decided it was safer to separate the affianced couples.
This meant that Bobo would have the room next to hers. He could skip across the balcony into her room anytime he wanted.
She groaned aloud.
"What's the matter dear?" Frank asked solicitously as the car stopped.
"Nothing," she said dully. Nothing except that she felt like drowning herself. Everything was happening at once. Bobo's arrival and the loss of her bracelet. She had to call Pietro immediately to get it back. As soon as she could she ran upstairs to her room and called him.
"What's wrong darling," he asked in his soft Italian accent. "You sound unhappy."
"Retro," she whispered frantically. "My slave bracelet. Do you still have it?"
"Your slave bracelet? Oh you mean the one on your leg?"
"Yes. Do you have it?"
"I don't know. Didn't you take it when you left?"
"No," she said unhappily. "I forgot. You put it on your desk. Will you please keep it for me."
"Just a minute," he said. "I'll look for it."
Her heart beat like a triphammer while he searched. When he told her it was missing her face went white.
"Could the maid have taken it?" she asked grasping at any straw.
"Maybe," the Duke said. He did not sound too sure. "She's asleep. Let. me call you tomorrow. Or is it terribly urgent?"
"No, tomorrow will do," she said. She hung up hopelessly. If the bracelet was in Claire Van der Pool's hands, it was curtains for her. After that scene at the Duke's, little Claire would gladly tear the skin off her in strips without remorse.
Frank rose early the next day and prepared his plans carefully He was secretly pleased that Ilsa was not coming. It gave him extra time with Dixie Aaron, his instructor in lovemaking.
Dixie Aaron was a burlesque queen who had done bumps and grinds on midways between Boston and San Francisco for ten years. After that the road had tired her too much. Life had become a routine of one night stands in cheap hotels, brief alcoholic weekends with friends of the managers she worked for and too little money. For a long time she had looked desperately for some way of earning a living that would preclude travel. She tried the strip nightclubs in Los Angeles where the girls went on several times nightly and the shows changed rarely. But the high percentage of amateur pimps in the business had annoyed her. Barely a week passed without pressure to join a syndicate of high-priced call girls. It was not that Dixie loathed sex, she just refused to make it a piece-goods business. She had lived with a succession of upper middle-class business men for a time and then gave that up. There were too many cute little tricks of twenty on the Sunset Strip and some much less who were ready to do the same thing.
She had returned to New York and was barely existing on her appearances in New Jersey burlesque houses, when she unexpectedly became a teacher.
The academic phase of Dixie's career began unexpectedly. One night she and two other girls were invited to dance at a stag party for a young man soon to be wed. The dances were the same she had done in a cabaret in Jersey City and there were no strings attached. She would not have to go to bed with anyone or dance in the nude. And the pay was fine. The host and his friends were sons of some of the richest blue-bloods in America and could afford to pay handsomely for their entertainment.
It was a big noisy affair. The rooms on upper Central Park West were a jumble of noise, alcoholic cheers and the blaring of Ernesto Lecuono on the high-fi. One of the guests, apparently one of the few who were not drunk, came up diffidently to thank her for her dance and offered her some food and drink.
Somewhat suspiciously Dixie had accepted the offer. You had to watch these high class playboys. They had good manners but they were apt to pull the rug out from under you. But Frank surprised her. He knew a great deal about jazz and show business. It turned out he had been to all the musical comedies and burlesque shows and had sharp comments to make on all the performers. He spoke in a boyish, enthusiastic way that left him breathless. She had never met anyone like him before and she was flattered. After all he was a big rich bloke and a Harvard man. And here he was talking to a little stripteaser who had never done much except grow up in Chicago.
One thing led to another and in his wild spate of enthusiasm for old time Burlesque routines, Frank offered to loan her some books on the subject. Dixie was not much of a reader but again she felt flattered. The last time a guy had offered to lend her anything to read was when a promoter from Boston had tried to sell her phony oil stock.
She told him she would love to see the books. He was overjoyed and then his face fell. He remembered he had them all stashed away in Long Island.
"Don't worry about it," Dixie said. "Write the names down. I'll buy them some day."
But Frank would have none of this. He pondered for a moment, his small dark eyes staring at the rug, then he snapped his fingers.
"I got it. I know an all-night bookshop in Greenwich Village. It's open till four a.m. anyway. We can get them there and have a nightcap. Then I'll drive you home. Okay?"
Dixie cocked an eyebrow. It sounded like another line. But she had to admit it was an ingenious one. No one had ever tried to seduce her by taking her to a bookshop first. She decided she would play this one by ear and said yes.
They left a few minutes later in Frank's snazzy red Jaguar, moving through the dark streets-it was after two-thirty in the morning, with hardly any traffic behind or in front.
At the bookshop-a large cellar affair brightly lit with arc lights and decorated with huge colored bullfight posters, they were greeted by a tall bearded man in felt slippers and a beret who turned out to be the proprietor. A few steps beyond the shelves they could hear the sound of people laughing and the tinkle of cups and saucers.
They found the burlesque books in short order, but on the way, Dixie found herself fascinated by the flood of reading material. There were fabulous art books in color, new editions of plays and novels, De Luxe editions of classics. She could not keep her hands off them.
"All my life," she confided, "I've been trying to fill a bookcase in my place. And all I ever put there are copies of the Saturday Evening Post, Life and Variety."
"We'll change that," he said suddenly, and scooping up a handful of the books she admired, he bought them outright. By the time they reached her house in the eighties near Central Park, Frank was carrying $93 worth of books and singing college football songs.
Bouyed by his good spirits, Dixie invited him upstairs for a drink. By this time she liked him enough to have blocked a few passes without resentment. But he tried nothing. Instead he put the books into her magazine-filled bookcase and gave her some advice on how to pick good reproductions of paintings for the walls.
They had a few more drinks on the couch and after a while Frank tried to tell her about his rotten experience with women. He told her all about the fiasco with Lee Feltman and how his mother had brought him (by pulling wires in the right places) back to America on compassionate leave. Dixie listened sympathetically as he explained why women bugged him and how the thought of making love to them made him pringle and nervous because he was inexperienced.
He saw her often during the remaining three weeks of his home leave. They would go out to Long Island for a shore dinner, or to Nick's in the Village for steak and jazz and occasionally to one of the snootier restaurants like the Chambord or the Pavillion or the Forum of the Twelve Caesars where dinner and drinks set him back $40 or more.
He enjoyed being with her more than with anyone since Lee. Dixie did not insist that he be clever or gabby and she seemed to know when he was sensitive in a certain area. One of them, she soon discovered was lovemaking of any kind.
She discovered it one evening after they returned from a smash Broadway hit they had both enjoyed. Frank bought her the album on the way home and she put it on the record player while she fixed them two martinis. After a gulp of the drink, she suddenly jumped up and said: "Let's dance to this honey. It just makes me want to jump up and kick my heels." And she told him of her childhood in the tough South Side of Chicago where the kids used to have jitterbug parties when she was a kid.
"I'll show you some of the pictures. I won some prizes. No kidding."
She produced a huge leather album of pictures. Some of them showed her as a thin, lanky girl of sixteen holding a silver cup in one hand and the hand of a sweaty youth in the other. Others showed her dancing the lindy hop and other dances of fifteen years earlier. Her strong legs whirled across the camera's range while her wide skirts flew like a raised umbrella.
Toward the back of the album were her newest photo-shots of her in burlesque shows, niglitclubs and on the beach at Atlantic City and Miami. Frank looked at them with interest. One of them showed Dixie in her striptease poses, revealing her as a beautifully proportioned girl with long, tapering legs, nicely-rounded bosom and thighs that curved breathtakingly from her svelte hips. Another showed her doing a somersault in a tiny pair of tights. He stared at the lovely figure with its beautiful breasts and reddened. Then suddenly he put them down quickly.
"What's the matter honey?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I just think it's kind of late and I'd better go home. My mother's having lunch guests early and I'll have to be up."
"Don't you want to dance with me first?" she asked in a puzzled voice.
"Sure, sure" he said tonelessly. "Let's dance."
"Didn't you like the pictures or something?" she asked, still bewildered by his about-face from merriment to gloom. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," he blurted. "Let's dance."
"There is something," she persisted. She stared at him. "Maybe you think those pictures are vulgar or something. Maybe you think you're too good for a little stripper who has to take her clothes off to make a living. Well let me tell you Buster, I never went with a guy unless I liked him and I never did anything else unless I loved a guy. Which is more than you can say for some of these la-de-la bitches up in Long Island."
She jumped up from the couch and red-eyed went to shut off the phonograph. He looked at her with clenched fists and then got up to put his arms around her.
"Don't be crazy Dixie. I think you're wonderful. It's not that. I don't have any of that kind of snobbery. I like you very much. Hell do you think I'd ask to see you every night if it weren't for that?"
"Well what is it then?" she challenged, not giving an inch.
He hesitated then threw up both hands. 'Dixie I'm all fouled up. I get chicken when I want a girl. Even to kiss her. I get all hot under the collar and want to reach out for her and then I catch myself. I don't want to rape her."
"Who said it would be rape?" she asked archly, allowing herself a hint of a smile.
"It would be," he insisted. "I don't know anything. I get an urge to grab or maul or something but then I get this sinking feeling in my stomach and I want to run. That's why I've never tried anything. Not even with my fiancee. It was mostly talk and a few kisses here and there."
She stared at him in some astonishment.
"You mean you're a virgin Frank? Never tried with anyone?"
He nodded sadly. "Never. Once in college the kids in my frat took me to a house in Boston. They had pretty girls and music and all. I just stood it for five minutes. Then they introduced me to one of the girls and I high-tailed it out of there. Told them I had a big date elsewhere"
"I don't get it. Why are you so scared?", she asked.
"I don't know. I asked a doctor once. He thinks it may be my mother's fault. She hates sex. My father walked out on her two years after they were married and she found out he had been sleeping with her best friend. That and a few hints she's given about their own life together show it wasn't much sexually. Anyway all my life she's scared me by describing it as very ugly and terrible. I didn't even have a date till I was twenty.
"Poor guy," she said.
"When I saw those pictures of you in nothing but tights or a G-string, I felt I wanted to grab you. And I was afraid."
"You shouldn't be Frank," she said seriously. "I wouldn't have got really sore. Oh maybe a little but not too much. I know what a nice guy you are."
She kissed him warmly. A moment later they danced, holding each other tightly. They had several drinks and he became very sentimental.
"Dixie," he said in a drunken voice an hour later. "You're the most wonderful girl I ever met. How about marrying me?"
Dixie reddened and her lip quivered.
"You big jerk," she said in a choked voice. "Don't try to get funny with me."
"I'm not," Frank said. "I'm not. I mean every word I say Dixie. I'm lonely as hell and you're a wonderful girl."
"Shut up," she snapped in a voice that tried in vain to hide its emotion. "You're drunk. You're a nice big boob and you're drunk. Let's just keep it like this. I don't want to hear a word about marriage. You hear me?"
He nodded slowly.
"Okay. Now I'll see if I can be a teacher." She laughed. "The girls in the chorus at the Gaiety ought to see me now. Little Dixie Aaron, a teacher. And teaching a Harvard man too."
She put her arms around him suddenly and kissed him full on the lips. He shivered under the impact and came up for breath."
"Now you try it," she ordered.
He kissed her like a boy scout, barely gliding his lips across hers. She shook her head vehemently. "No, no. Put more force into it."
He tried several times, but it was not much better.
She sighed. "Well let's give it up for tonight. Well try tomorrow. We got a lot of work to do Frank. A lot of work."
"First well work on your kissing. Then on how to talk to a girl. Breaking the ice and all that. You know what I mean? We got to do something about your dancing too. You do it like a member of the Ladies Tuesday circle. Then when we get through with that, well get to other things. Like how to approach a girl when you want to be tender. Or when you want to make love to her. Then I think we ought to get some books on proper marriage technique. Anything they can't explain I will. Okay. I mean after all I ain't been married, but I've known a lot of guys."
"Sure," be said gratefully. "I guess you can tell me a lot."
"I love them all," she said fiercely. "Don't think I was a shill or a hustier. I never hustled. Whatever else I did, I was clean. Stripping is just a living and I never dance completely in the buff. See?"
He nodded smiling.
"All right," she concluded. "Every day we try a new lesson. By the time I get through you ought to be able to work these things out on your own."
"I wish I weren't going back so soon," he said.
"We can make a start anyhow."
That's how it had started. The Dixie Aron school of love. By the time he was ready to fly back to Germany she had at least told him how to loss properly and he was not choked up with embarrassment if he talked to a strange pretty girl without three drinks under his belt.
When he went to Germany he kept writing to her.
She answered with brief scrawls on picture postcards. After he returned with Ilsa and found the butterflies still kicking in his stomach, he called her again.
"Teacher," he said sheepishly on the phone. "I need a refresher course."
She sighed. "I thought so."By dint of various excuses-mostly business at his brokers' in Wall Street, Frank had managed to see Dixie three or four times a week. His mother thoroughly approved of her son's healthy interest in money and even hoped it might surmount his interest in Ilsa.
He arranged to get to Dixie's apartment slightly before noon and often made lunch for them both. Afterwards he and Dixie would sit comfortably in the big living room and discuss love.
It was somehow terribly simple when she discussed it. Everything went smoothly-the words he had to use, the kisses, the tenderness and even the passion. When he left Dixie's he felt ready to tackle Ilsa or anyone at all.
The horrible thing is that his self-confidence vanished a few hours later. How else could he explain the horrible clumsiness with which he acted with Ilsa all the time? How else could he explain his inability to even make a simple pass at his own girl?
He hoped Dixie would really kick him and straighten him out tomorrow. With Harry coming in he was bound to feel more inferior than ever. Besides Harry's smooth as cream technique of acting with women, his own boorish slowness would look like a stone age farmer. Every time Ilsa saw Harry talk and act-the easygoing charm, the glib phrase, the clever, smiling stage presence with which he bowled people over-his own stock would go down.
Somehow, with Dixie's help, he had to make himself felt as a man. He had to assert himself in such a way that Ilsa would tell herself: "This is quite a guy I'm marrying."
CHAPTER THREE
Shortly after eight-thirty the next morning Frank drove his Oldsmobile convertible across the Queensboro Bridge and headed for the side street that Dixie lived on.
Everything, thank heaven, seemed to be working out fine. He would see Dixie for a lesson and try to make up for the crazy mistakes he had made with Ilsa in the Duke's garden. Harry's coming would bring a welcome change to the prison-like program his mother adored. Even Mexico might be fun. He had never been there and it might help his honeymoon no end.
Also, there was another thing it might help. His mother was not happy about his marriage to Ilsa. He knew that one bad slip and his mother would sound general quarters. The only reason she had played ball this long was that she had promised not to interfere in his next engagement. But every day something new riled her. Ilsa's nude sunbathing, her dislike of her mother's stuffy friends, her bluntness in dinner conversation. Everything rubbed his mother the wrong way. Thank heaven, he thought, that he had described Ilsa as a librarian at the Quaker Library in Munich and had mentioned nothing about stripping in a nightclub.
The thought about stripping reminded him warmly of Dixie. She was not the mousie little affectionate ball of wool that Lee Feltman had been but she could be just as gentle. Behind the tough bark was a very gentle, a very sensitive person. He wondered what might have happened if he had stayed in New York longer whether he and Dixie might have ... but he shook his head. It was impossible. They were too far apart. His mother would have a nervous breakdown.
Yet there was no doubt of it. He felt good with Dixie. There was no need to perform, no need to pose. In a way this was what he liked about Ilsa too. She resembled Dixie a little in fact and had the same bluntness, the same tough bark. Women like that made him feel like doing something wild and impulsive. He had thought carefully about proposing to Lee Feltman, the shy, dark Lee whose shyness rarely exploded, though when it did it was awful. But with Dixie or Ilsa, he had this urge to blurt things out. He became uncontrollably impulsive and when he had something to drink it was even stronger. He had been tight, depressed and lonely the night he had asked Ilsa to marry him. Lee and Dixie had both seemed on other planets. But he was not sorry, really. Ilsa was a nice girl and they would make it go. Traveling a lot maybe. Living elsewhere, who knew. He wanted a family and you had to start somewhere. A guy had to make a stand.
He broke off his reverie as he reached the brown-stone house near the park where Dixie lived. The doubts about his decision with Ilsa were quieted for the moment, as he felt the familiar elation fill him. The shades were drawn tight across the top floor windows. She was still asleep. Because she liked to sleep till noon and spend the afternoons feeding the seals at the Zoo, Dixie had insisted on this street. Strangely enough, he felt more at home in it, than in his mother's palatial home in Long Island.
Home is where you hang your hat? Who had said that, he wondered as he closed the street door behind him. He knew now what that man had meant The hat spoken of was a man's heart and good will. Perhaps if he had been strong enough to stand up to his mother, he thought, and had brought Lee Feltman to a place like this to live, everything might have been fine. He sighed. He was up to his old habit of thinking how it might have been.
He mounted the steps two at a time and let himself silently into Dixie's apartment. The three room flat immediately made him feel at home. He admired the pictures of her in her various cabaret acts. Then, slowly, he tiptoed into her bedroom.
The blond stripper was lying on her stomach with her head dug into the feather pillows. Her green silk nightgown was twisted around her slim willowy body like the flimsy paper used to wrap flowers. Bending over he kissed each beautifully sculpted pink ear. She stirred as if a fly had touched her.
He watched her for a long moment with growing feelings of affection. She looked like a teen-ager who had come home from a late fraternity brawl and was sleeping it off. He was amazed again at how well she hid her age. He knew she was twenty-seven, but she looked hardly twenty.
Impulsively he stooped to kiss her neck. She made her familiar woosh sound and turned over fully awake.
"Frankie?" she said surprised. "It must be the middle of the night for Pete's sake."
"Not quite," he grinned. "It's after nine."
"Since when do we have morning discussions."
He reddened and said: "You're right. I'm sorry." She laughed good-naturedly. "Oh I'm just pulling your leg. What's wrong now?"
He told her about his continuing clumsiness with Ilsa and his fears about Harry's effect on her.
She sighed. "I guess you can't just wait then."
"That's what I thought. I have to do something."
She rose and told him to put on the coffee while she mulled it over. When she entered the kitchen half an hour later dressed in a beautiful chenille robe he had given her she was smiling.
"I thought about it," she said pleasantly. "What you have to do is go right into her room and grab her and kiss her. And don't stop till she's out of breath. Now that's important. Not just any pollyanna kiss you understand. You've got to make it socko! Hold her tight, kiss her ears, neck, throat. Caress her a little-hell you're her boyfriend aren't you. Then when you get her really worked up and thoroughly confused, give her that long loss."
"What if she objects?", Frank asked.
"Hooey. Just keep at it. Show her you're the man."
"But she's liable to fight me off," Frank protested.
"So what? Look Frank, you're trying to impress this babe that you're a man. You want her to know it before Harry makes a big impression and makes you look kind of sick. Right?"
He nodded.
"Okay, so there it is. Now let's have a dress rehearsal."
Frank took her into his arms and rather meekly kissed her. She pushed him away as if he were a butterfly.
"Stronger Frank, stronger. I keep telling you. With a woman you lose everything unless you show you're the boss. I thought you'd learned how to kiss. I've done it with you at least dozens of times. So kiss me good. But do the other things too. You know, kiss my eyes, ears, chin. Let me feel your hands around my waist. Like you really went for me."
Frank took a deep breath and started in again.
His arms went around her and he held her close. Slowly he kissed her lips, then moved up to her eyes, then let his lips linger tenderly over her chin and cheeks and ears and the back of her neck.
She sighed.
Suddenly something seemed to galvanize him. He grabbed her closer and kissed her passionately on the mouth.
He heard Dixie start in surprise and he almost stopped. But he kept reminding himself of her advice to persist. How many times had she told him that a woman wanted a man she liked to make passes, but hated to be asked?
He renewed his kisses with ardor. After a while she began to fight for breath, but he paid no heed. Suddenly, as if an electric current had passed through her, she clutched him tightly and kissed him as strongly as she could. Together they hung there as if they were two bars of iron magnetized to one another.
He had no idea how long the kiss lasted, but when it was over, she broke away with a cry and ran into the bedroom.
He looked at her helplessly. She was gone for several minutes. When she returned her face was in order again and she was smiling gently.
"I'm sorry I did that," she said, in a strange voice. "You really overwhelmed me I guess."
"I'm sorry Dixie," he said. "I'm really sorry. I guess I just wanted to follow your advice to die letter."
"You did that all right." She lit a cigarette and said: "Frank I think we'd better call it quits. End of school. You've graduated."
"You're kidding," he said alarmed. "I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't see you the rest of this week. I'm still scared."
"You've got nothing to be scared about," she said, scowling. "You're fine. I told you. You're at the head of the class."
"Just a little longer Dixie," he said. "You realize today was the first time I ever kissed anyone like that? I don't even know if I could do it again."
"No," she said, avoiding his eyes, "I don't think we'd better. I like you a hell of a lot Frank. A hell of a lot. But I just can't go on anymore with you. Things just ain't the same."
"But why?" he asked. "I don't get it. What have I done wrong?"
"Oh God," she blurted out. "If you aren't about the dumbest boob in New York. Don't you understand. I'm not made of wood."
He blushed.
"Okay," he said looking at the floor. "I guess I understand I'm sorry. I guess you've done enough for me. More than I deserve."
He reached into his pocket and took out a check book.
"I'm making this out for $4,000, Dixie. For tuition."
"Put it away," she blazed. "I'm no hustler, damn you. I did what I did because I like you."
"I owe you something for Pete's sake."
"Put it away or I'll brain you with that brass ashtray."
"Okay," he said awkwardly. "Solong, Dixie. And thanks. From the bottom of my heart. Thanks."
He rose heavily and without looking at her again moved toward the kitchen door. As he reached the living room, she leaped up and put her arms around him.
"I'm sorry. Don't pay any attention," she said dryly.
"No, you're right," he said. "I wish I...."
"Listen you boob. I'll be here anytime you want to see me till you leave. God knows why I got into this. I guess I felt like a mother or something. But I've seen you this far, I can last another week or so."
He kissed her. Gently this time.
"Okay," she said, smiling wanly. "Only from now on I'm taking tranquillizers before we kiss. I ain't made of wood. I used to think teachers led a dull life."
"I'm sorry."
"When a man doesn't stay with it long enough, he can drive her nuts."
He looked morosely at the floor. "That's what I'm afraid of doing to her. I think shell walk out on me if I do. That's why I came back to see you."
She sighed deeply as she took in his woebegone expression.
"All right Buster," she said at last. "We'll continue. Only from now on I'm taking tranquillizers when we make love. I ain't made of wood."
CHAPTER FOUR
The airport at Idlewild was swathed in a gray cocoon of heat and drizzles when Frank reached it. The plane from Frankfurt was more than an hour late and to endure the wait he headed for the bar. His experience with Dixie had unnerved him. A double scotch helped. Three helped three times as much. By the time the announcement came that the plane was landing, Frank was on cloud nine. Dixie no longer bothered him. His ignorance of lovemaking did not bother him. Nothing did in fact.
He was able to navigate well enough to head in the general direction of the exit gate called out, but not enough to tell the difference between the one for the Frankfurt plane and the airliner that had just landed from Haifa. It was twenty minutes until he realized that he was a hundred yards from his destination.
At the Frankfurt gate the avalanche of passengers who seemed to fall out of the huge jet plane included a tall blond young man and a pretty dark-haired girl. The girl had a pretty mouth and high cheekbones. The only flaw was a pair of deep bone-framed glasses which made her look owlish. The enormous bag she carried looked like a lawyer's briefcase and seem incongruous with the jaunty airline bag he held.
As they reached the gate, the man peered over the heads of all the passengers. He was obviously looking for someone-with no success.
"Stay here honey," he said decisively after a moment. "He may be in the bar. Or up in the central lounge." The girl nodded shyly and as if she had known that this was going to happen all the time, withdrew a thick pocketbook from her large purse. The title was "The Life of Samuel Johnson."
The second her companion departed, the girl plunged into the book. She was deaf to everything around her. She did not even notice the dark-haired young man who kept circling her in an odd way and seemed to have trouble standing up.
The first sign that something was wrong was a familiar voice which said: "Got the same legs. Same birthmark on the calf."
She started and looked up and then, astounded, dropped the book.
"Frank!", she said amazed. She was obviously delighted to see him.
"Mausie!" he cried almost simultaneously. Without waiting another second he threw his arms around her and kissed her. To her surprise she kissed him back. For a moment she let herself snuggle into the familiar warm arms again. Then the snickers around her brought her to her senses. She pulled away, embar-rassedly.
"Please, Frank," she said looking behind her. "I'm expecting my fiancee. What are you doing here?" As she spoke her eyes devoured him.
"I'm expecting my friend and his fiancee," he said a little drunkenly. "Just got in from old Frankfurt-what we used to call the fanny of Germany. No sorry that was Bremerhaven."
"What's your friend's name?" she asked suspiciously.
"Harry. Harry Westover," Frank said, brushing hack. a cowlick from his forehead. Then something she had said registered and he stared at her. "Did you say fiance? Your fiance?" he asked surprised.
"Yes," she said. His surprised tone irked her. "You didn't think I was going to die an old maid did you because you walked out on me?"
"No," he said bewildered. "I'm just surprised. I didn't know."
His eyes widened. "You mean you're marrying old Harry for God's sake?" His words caused the first crack in her smile. She grew serious.
Her mouth fell open. "You're the one we're staying with then? Harry never tells me anything. All he said was a good friend wanted us to stay with them."
She groaned aloud and Frank saw the familiar nervous tic over her left eye working again. "We should have gone to a hotel. I knew it."
"You mean you're not glad to see me," Frank said, surprised.
Her childish face with its tiny nose contorted with a mixture of emotions. "I promised myself never to talk to you again."
"Mausie," he said awkwardly. "I know how you feel But maybe I can try to explain. I didn't even know Mother had stopped your visa till I was recalled to the U. S. on special assignment. She did the whole thing secretly through contacts in Washington. All she knew was I was getting married and she them to block any visa for any girl I registered."
"How on earth could she do anything like that?" Lee said angrily.
"Mother knows people," Frank said uncomfortably.
"And you just let her!"
Frank reddened. "Mausie, she's all alone. I'm all she had. She went into a hospital. The doctor told me she had a nervous breakdown. What could I do?"
"Do? If you loved me you would have told her to go to the devil," the dark-eyed girl blazed. She seemed unconscious of bystanders. "You'll never grow up till you become a man! And you never wrote or anything."
He sighed. "I should have. I wanted to. When I went back you had changed jobs and I heard you were engaged to someone else. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I found it was Harry."
The color drained from her face as she listened and she felt her knees turn to water.
"Lord you're beautiful," he whispered. "Sometimes I look at those swimming pictures we took at the lake near Frankfurt. You look so lovely it catches my breath. Even if I had not seen your face I'd know those legs and that figure and the dark dresses you like so much and the perfume you use. It's like I never stopped seeing you Lee. Never."
She looked at the plane she had just left. For a crazy moment, she had the impulse to run back to it. He took her hands. She shivered.
"Don't be upset," he said reassuringly.
Her eyes looked panic-stricken. "I swore I'd never speak to you again. Never see you. Harry never said anything. Just some old buddy. He always called you Lefty."
He nodded. "It was the name he had for me." He knew what had happened. In his usual casual manner he had probably told her the day before that they would spend a day or two with an old friend. No further information seemed necessary. None was vouschafed.
"I told him I preferred staying in a hotel in New York," she said wretchedly. "We can't stay at your house. We can't."
"Mausie," he said pleadingly, taking her hands away. "I tell you it'll be all right."
"It would never be all right," she groaned. And then her eyes widened. "Harry said this man was engaged to a German girl too. Your girl."
For the first time he saw her eyes grow angry. "You think I'm going to live in a house with her too? First you cast me off and then you marry someone else."
He threw his hands up helplessly. "I'll explain later," he said. Over the girl's shoulder he saw the enormous figure of Harry Westover elbowing through the crowd. In the same instant Harry saw him too and waved quickly.
"He's coming Mausie," he said quickly. "Let's talk about it later please. Everything's all arranged. I've arranged for a yacht trip tomorrow. You can't back out on me now."
Seeing her doubtful face, he added quickly. "You'll hurt Harry too. We haven't seen one another in years."
"I can't go to your house," she insisted vehemently clenching her fists. "That's final. Even if I had no other reason for staying away, I couldn't bear your mother. Not after that thing she did."
Harry was upon them before he could reply. He grinned at Frank and put his arms around him and Lee. "That's her Frank?" he yelled. "Like her?"
"This is my buddy," he told Lee. "Wait till you see the layout he has in Long Island. As big as the Yankee stadium. I've seen pictures of it."
Frank blushed. "She's very pretty Harry. You're lucky. How did you two meet?" He was trying hard to keep his voice steady and avoid Lee's eyes.
"I met her in Frankfurt. You remember I had to conk out on my last engagement in Munich. Well I was pretty miserable for a while. Most of the girls I met wanted money or PX stuff. Lee was the only kid who asked for nothing. Satusfied with just a dance or a dinner or a drive somewhere."
He grinned sheepishly. "And she's a good nurse too. Took care of me when I was sick. Never met anyone like her. Sometimes I feel like I'm marrying my mother." He saw Lee Feltman's face and blushed. "I didn't really mean that kid. I mean well I'm grateful for all you've done...." He stopped embarrassed. "Ah for Christ sake. Let's all get plastered instead of just standing here with our tongues hanging out. This is an occasion. Where the hell's your girl Frank? We're dying to meet her."
"She's at home; she didn't feel too well," Frank lied.
"Harry I think we should go to a hotel in New York," Lee said apprehensively. "I do not think really it is fair to impose on Mr. Matson."
"You nuts?" Harry asked. "He begged us to come. Besides we don't have a reservation. We might end up sleeping in the park. I don't dig you. The thing that struck me from the day I met you was you liked to have everything arranged in advance. You even said you were looking forward to meeting my friends. What's the matter kid?"
The pretty dark-haired girl blushed deeply but said nothing.
He looked at Frank for help, but received only a blank stare. "Jesus", Harry said, "You think someday I'll ever be able to understand women?"
Frank did not answer. He was pondering the question himself.
Claire Van der Pool sat in her bedroom quietly and dialed a number. Her lips were pursed, her eyes grim as she waited.
"Acme Detective Agency," the polite female voice on the end of the line informed her.
I'd like to hire an investigator," Claire said crisply. "But he has to be very quick. I need the information I'm looking for in a few days. Can you trace someone's background overseas?"
"Oh, yes," the girl said. "Easiest thing in the world. We have clients asking us that all the time. You know for business reasons etc."
"Fine. This person lived in Germany and came here only recently."
"May I ask who is calling please?" the girl interrupted.
"I'd rather keep that confidential if you don't mind. Can't I simply send you a retainer or whatever private detectives get?"
"Well you could but it would really be much more efficient if you spoke to one of our agents. I'm the switchboard operator."
Claire hesitated, then said primly: "very well put him on."
A moment later she was giving all the information to the agent. When he insisted on seeing the bracelet, she sighed.
"Oh very well. I'll be home all afternoon. Please come at three or so. And remember money is no object in this matter. I simply want to know the truth. The girl calls herself Ilsa Wecker, but her bracelet says Ilsa Gelb. I want to know why?"
"Perhaps," the agent offered helpfully, "it was borrowed."
"Nonsense," Claire snapped. "One does not borrow slave bracelets. These things are terribly sentimental. The message as I told you reads: 'To Ilsa Gelb with love from Bobo.'"
"I guess I'd better look at that all right. I'll be right out Mrs. Van der Pool," the man said.
"How do you propose to go about this? I simply must know in a few days. You are free to make as many overseas phone calls as you wish at my expense."
The agent explained his plan. Claire approved it "I guess this must be urgent for you," he said. "We'll need at least half a dozen overseas calls. We usually do this by airmail."
"It's urgent all right," she agreed, remembering Ilsa's malicious grin when she lay sprawled on the Duke's rug. "Very urgent. And there'll be a hundred dollar bonus if you can get me the information within three days."
"Three days?" the man said in consternation. "We're dealing with Europeans ma'am, and they like to do things in their own way."
"Make it three days and I'll double that bonus," Claire snapped.
"I'll see you in an hour." She hung up, her lips closed tightly, stubbornly. If there were any way to stymie that nasty little German gold-digger, she would spend half her husband's fortune to do it. After all, she told herself righteously, what are friends for, if not to help each other in time of need.
She stifled an impulse to call Mrs. Matson and tell her what she was doing. Time enough for that when she got the facts. Nothing would please Mrs. Matson better than to be able to keep Ilsa out of the country as she had her son's last fiancee. If she could prove the girl lied on her visa application and hid some nasty sort of skeleton in her closet, Mrs. Matson could never do enough for her.
When they reached the house Frank took them to their rooms. He wanted nothing better than a long talk alone with her. But Harry, with his usual bounce, insisted they all get into their suits for a dip. He wished he could call Dixie Aaron and ask her what to do in the crazy situation he was in. But there was no time. No sooner had he entered his room, it seemed, than Harry was dancing around him, talking about the trip. For a moment he hated Harry irrationally and could not look at him.
At the pool, the sight of Lee in her brief blue one-piece suit drove him wild. Her lovely breasts were hunched together like huge grapefruit and when she moved her long, exquisitely shaped legs made her look like one of the entrants in the Miss' America contest. He fought against the urge to kiss her. On her part, she avoided his eyes.
"Where's your girl Frank," Harry asked after a dive.
"Oh she had to go somewhere for an appointment," he lied uncomfortably. Lee had swam the length of the pool and now her dripping form lay supine on a chaise longue in the dazzling sun. The drops glistened on her lovely thighs like tiny diamonds and her tiny lips formed a beautiful red Cupid's bow. The thought of Harry sleeping with her after marriage, enraged him. And knowing Harry, he was probably doing it before the wedding as well.
Harry was eyeing him with concern.
"Anything wrong kid? You look funny?"
"No," he said guiltily. "Just tired. Big night last night. I think I'll go up and nap before my mother comes and starts everything rolling. Have a good time."
Out of a corner of his eye he saw Lee sit up and clasp her knees as she watched them. Now more than ever, he wanted to seize her in his arms and loss her. What a damned idiot he was to let his mother break it up.
He was secretly pleased to note the look of concern on Lee's face as he got up weakly.
"You've just got a hangover," she said crisply, diluting as best she could, her anxiety. "You never could drink much."
She blushed as she realized what the remark indicated and stole a glance at Harry. He was getting ready to dive ten yards away and had apparently not noticed.
I'll be okay," Frank said listlessly. He waited for something more from her.
"Well take some asperin and get an ice pack," she said grudgingly."
Frank saw Harry dive into the pool and swim underwater the length of the enclosure.
"Come see me alone," he pleaded. "I must talk to you."
"No," she said uncertainly. "No, that's out of the question."
"Okay don't blame me if you find me there with an overdose of asperin," he told her.
She blanched. "I'm not coming," she said without conviction. Then seeing him turn away, she said: "Frank I'll come for five minutes."
He smiled gratefully and left. Her worried eyes followed him as he moved across the lawn to the big house. A moment later, dripping and breathing hard, Harry plumped himself down on the chair next to hers.
"Boy that was great. Why don't you go in? Where the hell's Lefty?"
"He's gone up to he down. He's tired."
Harry nodded and looked around for cigarettes. There was nothing but a pack of mentholated smokes. He picked it up and smiled.
"Funny, I haven't seen anybody that smokes these since I left Munich. I used to know a girl...." He shrugged. "Oh never mind. That was in another country, and anyway as old Chris Marlowe used to say, the wench is dead." He spoke sadly as he touched the crumpled pack.
Lee cleared her throat nervously and stood up. "Will you excuse me Harry if I he down too. I'm also tired from the trip."
"Sure," he said leaping up. "I'll go with you."
"No," she said quickly. "I know how much you enjoy a good swim. Stay here and take your time. There's no hurry."
Harry smiled and waved her off.
Somewhat anxiously Lee tiptoed across the verandah that joined her room to Frank's. He was lying on the bed face down. Alarmed, she seized him by the shoulders and turned him over. "Are you all right?" she asked solicitously.
He grinned happily and took her in his arms, kissing her hungrily.
"I'm fine now," he said. He could feel her young, hard breasts against him.
"I cannot stay long," she said weakly. "I just came , in to see how you were."
"I've got to talk to you," he pleaded.
"Okay," she said. "But just talk, no lovemaking."
She listened carefully while he explained about Ilsa I and his hope that she would not mind using another name for his mother.
She pursed her lips. "Very well, if it will help you. But I'll have to think of a good excuse for Harry."
"Tell him anything," he said. "Tell him my mother hates girls named Lee."
"Oh that's crazy," she said, looking worried again. She began to pout as she pondered the question, and the familiar pout made shivers run down his spine. Her nearness was beginning to excite him physically. A year ago it would have disturbed him to the point where he kissed her impulsively, then shocked by his own behavior, would ask her to go someplace for a drink.
As he watched her Dixie's words returned to him. Grab her and kiss her. Show her you're a man. It's important"
The words had been intended for his relations with Ilsa. But somehow they seemed even more appropriate now. Lee's unexpected appearance out of the blue was a godsend. If he was going to use the chance, he had to act now. Frank did. In the middle of a sentence, as they sat on the bed, he put his arms around her and glued his lips tightly to her own. His fingers began to play with the soft pink lobes of her tiny ears.
She pushed him away in astonishment.
"Frank Matson!"
"Lee," he said. "I love you."
He seized her again and held her close reveling in the feeling of warmth and solidity that her warm body gave him. He felt wonderful now. It was going to be all right.
But Lee did not see it that way. She pushed him away roughly and moved away from the bed.
"Are you crazy Frank?", she asked. "You never acted like this before. I'm leaving."
"No," he said and leaping up, put his arms tightly around her waist. His lips moved to her chin and throat. She fought him furiously, kicking at him.
"Let go of me," she screamed. "I didn't come up here for that. I thought you had to talk with me."
"Lee," he said. "Don't you understand That was what was always wrong. All we did was talk. We never made love. If we had made love a few times, my mother couldn't have done anything. I would have felt married to you honey."
He punctuated his words by kissing her soasmodically.
She pummeled him with her fists and ran around the bed.
"You're out of your mind," she said. "I've never seen you like this."
"Honey try to see it my way. What's wrong with letting your fiance make love to you? li you love him isn't it right?"
She stared at him. "I don't know," she mumbled, thrown off balance because the same thought had occurred to her before. "But you're not my fiance. All this is a little late now Frank. Even you can see that."
"It's not," he said hugging her close. "I love you. Say the word and I'll break it off with Ilsa."
"Let me up," she cried. "You disgusting monster. I thought you were gentle, tender. How could you be so indescribably vulgar? If I thought you were even capable of raping anyone I would never have gone with you in the first place."
He was so astounded that he let her escape and watched her, mouth agape, as she put on her bathing suit again.
"Mausie," he said. "You don't understand."
She slapped his face hard this time as he neared her. Before he could come to, she flounced out of the room and across the verandah.
He watched her disappear with an expression of complete befuddlement. What on earth had gone wrong. If Dixie Aaron had been right, she should have been purring like a kitten in his arms at this moment.
For a moment he toyed with the idea of following her across the verandah. But her second slap and the vehemence of her words had unnerved him. He would have to do some more thinking before he approached her again.
He went to his closet and pulled out a bottle of Henessey's Three Star cognac. As he downed a double shot, he felt better. The strong liquor pulled his nerves together at least. But a moment later, as he heard the sound of tires crunching the gravel driveway below, he had the shakes again. Even the brandy did not help the feeling that everything around him was going to hell in a taxi. The tires meant his mother and or Ilsa had come back. What the hell was going to happen next? Would Lee cooperate? Would she flounce off to New York in high dudgeon? Would she tell Harry what had happened?
"Goddamn you Dixie," he said aloud. "What the hell got into you?"
Something had gone wacky. Was it him or was it Dixie? He wished he could talk to her about it.
In his room on the same floor Harry Westover rested on the bed while he sipped a beaker of Cutty Sark Scotch. Propped up against the pillows, he was gazing idly at a sports column in the Daily News, but he was not seeing the words.
The reminder of Ilsa Gelb at the pool had made him moody. The second he had noticed her cigarette brand the sunshine seemed to leave the pool enclosure. And when he saw Lee, looking unhappy and tired, go back to the house, the old guilt feelings came back in full force. The guilt feelings came in assorted sizes and colors.
First there were the guilt feelings about never marrying Ilsa, never even contacting her. Then the remorse at having proposed to Lee. He was going to try to make a go of the marriage. A man had to do what was right. At least he had the responsibility, the duty to try. But it was getting harder all the time. From the beginning when he heard Lee's idea that sex should be deferred till their wedding night, he should have said no dice. He had never gone with anyone a third time unless they had wound up in the sack on the second. He had never bothered to debate or defend the practice. That was how it was. A girl liked him and he liked her, and after they got acquainted, he wanted her. If she didn't want him, they went their separate ways. Lovemaking was part of the deal always.
But not with Lee. He had swallowed the whole Readers' Digest-YMCA bit about virtue. He had felt constrained to respect the wound she still felt about the guy who jilted her. The guy she absolutely refused to mention. As a result he had nearly gone out of his mind since he proposed. He was not basically a lecher, Harry thought. And he did not like to try other girls while he was engaged. But what the hell was a man supposed to do? He couldn't even count the number of times he had wanted to sleep with a stewardess, a salesgirl or a waitress or even, God forbid, one of the WAC officers back at the base in Germany.
He had not pulled anything and so his hands were clean. But how much longer could he last They couldn't get married for another week at least. Moreover as the days passed, he was not sure he wanted to any more. And seeing Ilsa's old familiar cigarettes had given him the kind of emotional wrench he had not felt in months.
He downed his third double Scotch moodily. The drinks were beginning to work their old magic on him. Oh what the hell, he thought. It was good to see Lefty Matson again. The house was nice and maybe Lefty's girl might be amusing. The four of them might go on the town. He didn't get much of a bang out of going on the town with Lee alone. She was a good looking kid and everybody stared at her, which of course, made him feel better. But she was always so damned moody. Always thinking of the crud who stood her up at the altar. And it made him feel worse because he knew he couldn't love her hard enough to make up for the other guy. And because he thought of Ilsa a lot himself.
"Oh hell," he said aloud. "The hell with it."
He drank another double shot. He wasn't going to brood. He hated brooding about anything. In a minute he'd go over and see how the kid was doing. Give her some asperin or a drink or both. Then he'd go see Lefty. There'd probably be some cruddy dinner with his mother, he supposed. But that would still give him time to go to Manhattan and do the joints along Third Avenue. The drinks were beginning to make him dizzy.
He rose from the bed and was about to get into a fresh pair of undershorts when he heard drawers being pulled and closed in the next room. Somewhat hazily he tried to remember if Lee was on his right or left. He put on his robe and tiptoed on the verandah. If this was Lee pulling a tantrum and moving back to New York again, he was going to have to cut her down. No matter how she felt, Lefty Matson was a good friend, and he had invited them down. Least she could do is put up with at least a few days.
When he reached the windows of the next room, he peeked cautiously inside. Whoever had slammed the drawers had vanished. As he turned to go something caught his eye, however. A pair of lovely long legs entered the room. He could not see the girl's face because the blinds blocked it from his view, but he could see her figure clearly. It was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen and in a way hauntingly familiar. Something about the way the figure moved, and stood before a mirror rang a bell.
The girl was wearing some shorts and a blouse. Now these came off. He saw a birthmark flash across his eyes as she walked across the room toward a closet The sight mde him dizzy.
"This is crazy," he said aloud. The birthmark looked exactly like Ilsa's. As the girl began to choose a garment, his eyes fell to her ankles. He could see where a slave chain might have been. A thin white line stood clearly against the tanned flesh.
"It's crazy," he said. He was seeing things again. Several times in the past months he had almost accosted girls who resembled Ilsa. Now he was seeing things again. Wishful thinking. Ilsa's birthmark might be carried by hundreds of girls as far as he knew. And slave chains on ankles were hardly rare on American women.
He shook his head and frowned to still the excitement in his stomach. But he was unable to tear himself away from the chink in the blinds. Suddenly confirmation of his hope came like a bolt of thunder. The girl had been examining a girdle and now she threw it disdainfully on the floor a few feet from the window. For a few seconds she remained indecisive, then she did a startling thing. Instead of returning to the closet or picking up the girdle from the floor, she did an unpredictable thing.
In a quick movement she pushed her arms into a thin robe of silk and kicked the garment contemptuously away from her.
She stared at it, then, somewhat annoyedly, put her shorts and blouse on again. Something familiar in her movements caught his eye.
He was about to move away when an odd sense of having seen her before struck him. If only she were not so far away. Suddenly he saw her move closer to him. First she picked up the girdle.
Then, marching or rather striding determinedly to the windows, she tore them open. He had been so mesmerized by her resemblance to Ilsa that the gesture took him by surprise.
He found himself looking straight into Ilsa's eyes.
She stared at him as if she had seen a ghost and then jumped back into the room. He leaped after her, caught her in his arms and kissed her. It all happened so quickly that she felt as if she were living through a dream sequence. The fact that she was in Bobo's arms and that he had been on her mind all morning and the night before, seemed proof positive that she was dreaming. Even the knowledge that he was coming did not register so great was the surprise of seeing him there like that.
It was only when she heard his voice that she knew. It was unbelievable that she was in his arms. But it was really him. He was there.
"Ilsa," he cried with a voice full of amazement. "Ilsa Gelb. I must be dreaming. Or else I'm drunk. I know I'm drunk."
"Bobo," she said and kissed him hungrily.
"My God!" Harry said. "Holy Smoke! It can't be."
Suddenly she broke down and began to cry. He kissed her eyes.
"Don't cry honey," he begged. "Don't cry. I'm sorry I barged in like that." He stood over her awkwardly. Then a thought occurred to him. The window was open. It joined rooms on both sides. He had to close it fast. He raced to the windows, locked them, put the curtain carefully back in place, then came back to the girl. He was dizzy from the effects of the alcohol, the sheer excitement of seeing her and the shock of feeling her in his arms after so long. He put his arms around her compassionately and kissed her tears. Hungrily she tightened her arms around him and pulled him down. What happened next was as automatic, as natural, as instinctive as a man drawing breath when he comes up from under water.
Without words they reached avidly for one another. He sighed as her fingers caressed his neck. His lips moved longingly to her mouth. Determinedly, demandingly, his lips began to taste the saltiness of her tears, the texture of her slender, lovely throat.
Her sighs seemed to enter his ears like the sound of a lonesome drummer in the distance. He pressed her closer as if he feared she might vanish.
She came to her senses ahead of him, but it did not matter. The shock of seeing him again so unexpectedly, of feeling the volcanic eruption of his kisses down her throat, had sobered her quickly. This was crazy, it was insane. It was the very thing she had feared would happen, that had obsessed her all night so she could not sleep. Ever since Frank had mentioned the name Harry, a premonition of danger had grown until she knew instinctively it must be Bobo.
She had run into the nearest town to think, to plan. And had come back finally determined to be cool and polite to him. To welcome him, to even kiss him affectionately. But also she had made up her mind to tell him there could be absolutely nothing else. It was all over. She was getting married. He was getting married. She would beg him to protect her by not telling Frank's mother or Frank either about them. He would understand and somehow they would get through the horror of being together for a week or more and going through a double ceremony.
But all this was planning. It was not fact. She had no idea he would march into her room like this. Like some actor bursting on to an empty stage.
"Bobo," she cried for the third or fourth time, "Stop it. You've got to get out. Frank may come in any second. Stop it, darling! We can't. I promised...."
Harry paid no heed. He was engrossed. He was deaf to her words. His nostrils inhaled of her cologne and body scent, the fresh smell of the skin he adored. When his lips touched her skin, his head seemed ready to burst from the pressure of the blood that rushed into it. The abrasion of her hair against his skin was almost more than he could stand. He pulled her closer.
Dimly her voice and some incoherent words battered his eardrums like waves lapping gently against a shore. But they made no sense. He was not listening to her. He tried to kiss her lips again, but she drew back shaking her head. He tried again.
It was only when his repeated efforts failed, that he realized something was wrong. Perhaps he had been too fast, too rough, his mind told him. He had not seen her for nearly a year and had been dreaming of this so much, that he was acting like an fool. He began to kiss her eyes and to caress her face gently and tenderly.
Ilsa received his ardent caresses with mixed emotions. They were driving her wild with excitement. She was happier than she had ever been. But her woman's fears, her feminine shrewdness told her she had to stop. Frank or someone might come in at any moment. Her shouting, however, came to nothing. He was still not listening to her. She tried again, shouting in his ear. It was useless.
He was too drunk with sheer ecstasy over seeing her again to take her objections seriously. For a moment his ardor warmed her heart. He had not forgotten after all. He was still as deeply in love as ever. The wonderful look in his eyes when she had first looked into them a moment ago had affected her like an electric charge.
For a few seconds time seemed to have stopped. Or else to have rolled back and they were back in Germany again. Frank, Mrs. Matson and Long Island seemed like figures on Mars. But her woman's intuition told her she was in grave danger and that nothing had changed.
Harry was still engaged to someone else as she was to Frank. Harry was still the man who had walked out on her. He had no right to barge into her room this way, to put her in jeopardy.
He put his strong arm around her neck and pulled her down to the easy chair near the closet.
"Darling Ilsa," he said. "Sit down. What's the matter with you for Pete's sake?"
"No," she said, moving away from him.
He tried to pull her down to his lap as he sat in the chair. She pushed him away roughly. When he persisted in holding her close, she freed one arm and slapped his face hard.
He let her escape and patted his red cheek with the palm of his hand. The look of astonishment and hurt in his eyes made her contrite. She kissed his cheek quickly.
"I'm sorry Harry. You just would not listen to me. You can't stay here. You must go. Please go now before I'm in serious trouble. Before we're both in trouble. I beg of you."
His lips did not move. He merely sat there staring at her as if he could not believe she could ever slap him that way.
"I'm sorry Bobo," she said softly. "It was the only way to stop you. It's not easy for me, I'm on fire."
"Then why did you?" he asked accusingly.
"Because it's finished between us," she said in a husky voice. "I'm marrying Frank. You're marrying someone else. Please go now," she blurted and fled into her bathroom. He was still there when she returned.
"Ilsa," he began awkwardly. "I have to explain what happened when I left."
"I know," she said bitterly. "Your mother and sister lied about me to the immigration people. Then you got cold feet and decided not to fight."
"No," he said softly. "That was a he. If that were it, I'd fight to the last senator to get you through via a private bill. No. I was married."
"Married?" she said bewildered.
"To a Swiss girl. It happened one week in Geneva when I was drunk. I thought I had it annulled when I met you, then discovered it was no good."
"Why didn't you tell me?" she countered suspiciously.
"With your scruples about going out with married men?" he said. "I knew you'd put me down as another letcher."
"So you preferred to use me as a nice shack job instead."
"No, woman, it was never like that. I wanted to wait till I had the thing done. I finally got a divorce back home. When I got back you were working in Berlin. Nobody knew where. I searched for weeks, then your cousin told me you hated me and hoped I'd never come near you."
"I meant it too," she said. "I was nearly crazy. No word from you at all. No explanation. Nothing. You just transferred and I never heard anything!"
He blushed. "I wanted to. I wrote ten letters and tore them up. I kept remembering how much trouble married men had given you. How one of them shacked up with you for a year and nearly drove you to suicide when he said he couldn't ditch his wife. Ilsa, you were bughouse on the subject. You kept telling you'd give up anyone if you found he was married."
"That's true," she said sadly. "But you could have found me later-when your divorce was finished. You didn't even try."
"After your cousin said that," he said," I decided you wanted no part of me. Then I met Lee Feltman on the rebound. I just wanted some body around. I was lonely. I didn't ask her to marry me till I got word from somebody who had been in Munich that you were marrying some rich American officer." She did not say anything. "You don't love Frank," he said. "Do you?"
"I'm going to make him as happy as I can," she said, not looking at him.
"You don't love him," he said brusquely. "Or you couldn't have kissed me like that." He smiled at her. The smile enraged her.
"You think a lot of yourself," she said, eyes ablaze. "Anytime you show up, nothing else matters. I'm just supposed to jump into bed with you."
"I didn't say that."
"That smug smile of yours says it. It screams it. Get the devil away from me."
"You can't marry Frank," he said. "You know you
"I'm going to, "she said stubbornly, "unless you go and tell him I was your shack job and tell his mother I danced in the nude."
He shook his head. "You know better than that."
Suddenly he pulled her close. She could feel the tears on her upper chest where he rested his eyes. She pulled away.
"No," she said in a tight voice, controlling her emotion. "No."
He looked at her and suddenly burst out laughing. A nervous laughter.
"What's so funny?" she asked suspiciously.
"Your face. You. As if you could live with Frank. He'd bore you to death. Especially in bed."
"You think a good deal of yourself," she said coldly.
He shrugged. "I know you and I think a good deal of what we did together."
"I'll marry Frank as planned," she said. "Don't expect anything else."
"Don't be so sure Ilsa baby," he said. He stole a quick kiss and left the room hurriedly. "Don't be so sure."
"What are you up to Harry?" she asked frightened.
He laughed, kissed her again and left the room.
A premonition of danger filled her. What was Harry going to pull, she wondered. She started after him.
"Wait Harry," she cried, and at the same moment she heard a knock at the door. Harry stared at her amusedly across the veranda.
"It's your shining lover honey," he said, "let's not keep him waiting huh? He's worth five million more than I am, you know."
Ilsa colored a deep red. She pivoted and slamming the French windows behind her, marched to the door.
Outside, Harry watched the windows close and walked to his own room. The sight of Ilsa's angry face had shocked him. But it had elated him too. He was convinced she still loved him.
CHAPTER FIVE
When he reached his room, Harry got another shock. Sitting in his easy chair was Lee Feltman. The brunette was pouting at the floor and moving her finger along the hem of her bathing suit. When he entered from the verandah she stared at him in a way that worried him. For a moment he suspected she had seen him leave Ilsa's room.
"What's the matter dear," he said nervously. He fixed himself a badly needed drink from a decanter near the bed.
"Harry I have something important to discuss," she said in a sepulchral voice. "Please do not be too hurt or shocked. You must try to see my side of things. Will you please try to do this?"
"Sure honey," he said, gulping his Scotch. "What's the matter?"
The lovely dark-haired girl rose and paced the room in a preoccupied manner.
"I just don't know how to begin Harry. It's so horrible. It's so hard to just come right out and tell you."
"I know," he said gulping. "But I can take it. Don't worry about it, get it off your chest," he said helpfully.
"It's ... it's about me and Frank," she said slowly.
He looked bewildered. "You and Frank?"
She nodded. "He was the man I was engaged to in Germany."
"Frank Matson?" he said incredulously.
"Yes. When I saw him come to the airport I nearly went out of my mind. That's why I wanted us to go to a New York hotel."
She waited tensely for his reaction. On the few occasions when Harry Westover's temper boiled over it was like watching a volcanic eruption. As she explained her situation and the need to keep her identity from Frank's mother, she watched his face anxiously.
"You and Frank Matson," he repeated as if to himself."
To her astonishment he burst into loud peals of laughter.
She watched him with consternation as he shook with it and the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"I'm surprised you think it's funny," she said coldly. "I thought you'd be terribly hurt and angry."
Something in her tone brought him up sharply. He was playing this all wrong. He let his face look sick again. Let her think he was miserable.
"Sorry. I guess I was a little hysterical. You and my best friend ... It was just too much for me."
"I know," she said understandingly. "And that's why I hesitated to tell you at the airport. There's something else I've decided too, Harry. For both our good. Don't try to make me change my mind."
"No, no," he said hopefully. "I won't do that"
Inside he felt like a kid leaping up and down on a trampoline. This was it. This solved everything. She was going to give his ring back. Call it all off. While he waited for her to pull herself together long enough to make the dreadful request he played with several possible answers: First nobly:
"That's pretty bad, Lee, but I don't believe in blocking two people in love." or resigned:
"I feel like getting drunk. It'll be all right but I'd like to be alone for a while if you don't mind." or fatalistically:
"Those are the breaks I guess. What are you going do?"
Before he could think of anymore, she said:
"Frank tried to get me to go to bed with him a little while ago."
Seeing his surprise, she held up a hand. "Don't worry nothing bad happened. He was a little drunk I guess and it was my fault too. I shouldn't have gone to his room. I shouldn't have let him do as much as he did to me."
He gulped "If you're asking me to let you go, Lee ... well it's a pretty hard thing to ask. I feel broken up inside just thinking about it." He seemed to be wrestling with his emotions.
He looked her in the eye manfully. "But I'll do it. Don't worry about me kid, it'll hurt. But I'll survive. Go and tell him. I'll pull out tonight."
Now it was her turn to look astonished.
"I don't want you to let me go," she said surprised.
He looked at her with a stupid expression. He had just fed her the cue line for her exit. Now she was gumming up the works by feeding it right back."
Then he understood. She was acting noble too. Well he'd bust that wide open. He threw up his hands.
"It wouldn't be any good Lee. I know you want to marry him. I know you're just doing this to cushion the shock. Well it's no good. I'd rather call it quits now and have a bad week or two. Instead of holding on to you knowing you were miserable inside. Hell I couldn't live with that responsibility."
"You won't have to," she snapped, her lips pursed carefully.
He stared at her. This was all going wrong somehow.
"I don't dig this. You said you had decided something for both our good. What did you mean?"
Now it was her time to be uneasy. He saw her face turn a deep red.
"I've decided to let you make love to me Harry," she said simply." She sounded as if she had made up her mind to face the guillotine.
"You've decided to let me make love to you," he repeated dully.
She nodded "After today I realized that I was being cruel and selfish. We're engaged. Well be married in ' a week. What difference does it make?"
She started to add that she wanted him to take her! virginity before she lost her head and gave it to Frank. But Harry's expression of dismay stopped her.
"Look honey," he began. At that moment he not only had no desire to touch any woman, he was still exhausted from the effects of being with Ilsa and the drinks he had swallowed.
"Let's talk about it tomorrow," he said. "You're upset You might be sorry afterwards. We can wait. Hell we've waited this long. What's one week more."
"No," she said firmly. "I want you to take me now. We have plenty of time. Dinner's not for two hours."
She misread the look in his eyes and slowly she began to take off her bathing suit. He looked alarmed.
"Don't Lee," he said.
She said, not looking at him, "I've held you off too long. I'll do it myself."
With a deft movement, she began to remove the suit. He stopped her quickly and shook his head.
"Take me darling," she whispered.
He stood there uncertain what to do next? What he wanted to do was run out of the room. She opened her eyes and looked at him again.
"Harry, I'm not doing this because I'm forced to. I think I've been terribly unfair to you. I mean it Since we'll be married soon, I think it is quite all right"
"No," he said. "Lee I don't think we should."
She pouted and her lower hp trembled. He put his arms around her reassuringly.
"Kiss me Harry," she said. "I know you want to. I know you've wanted to make love to me ever since you proposed."
He kissed her, closing his eyes as he did so. All he could think of was Ilsa. Her words, her rejection of him, still rankled. He did not want to hurt Lee and if he had to marry her, he would. But he did not wish to be alone with her now.
She kissed him awkwardly. "Am I doing it right dear? I haven't had much experience you know."
"You're okay," he said, feeling wretched. Here was his fiancee, a shy girl normally, who was contrite about the way she had kept him at arms length for months. Here she was trying to give herself to him, to right matters and he was acting like a selfish fool. A few weeks ago, before he met Ilsa again, he would have shouted for joy. It would have been like taking off a hairshirt-to have her come in like this.
He watched her stand beside him expectantly, her lips puckered up, her eyes closed. He was extremely tired and very unhappy, but he had a duty to do. Putting his arm around her, he led her to a chaise longue in one comer of the bedroom. He sat her down next to him and then kissed her affectionately, trying to fight off sleep. She held him tightly and kissed him very warmly. Then she put her arm around his shoulder and stretching back comfortably against the back of the couch, held him close. She felt funny as she lay back that way, her arm around her fiance. She did not know what came next, but she was prepared for any eventuality.
"I'm sorry I've acted like such a prude," she said apologetically, stroking his hair. "I come from a very strict family, Harry and I guess my upbringing is responsible. I was brought up to believe that any man who wanted to make love to you too quickly could never really love you."
"You're mother was right," Harry said quietly. "You should always listen to her."
He was wondering how he could see Ilsa alone again. To try to speak to her, to apologize for the way he had acted.
"What are you thinking about dear?" Lee asked, kissing his eyes.
"Nothing," he said. "I guess you were right. We shouldn't have come here. We should have gone to a hotel in New York as we planned and got a couple of rooms."
"We can still do that dear," she said quickly. The farther she got from Frank the better.
He sighed. "I hate to be unkind to Frank. He's always been a pal. Loaned me money when I need it, bailed me out of jams."
What bothered him was that he could not see Ilsa again, if they moved away. While they were in the same house, there was a chance he could make her change her mind. He was a little conscience stricken about Frank's role in this, but all was fair in love and war, he told himself, and besides Frank couldn't be too stuck on Ilsa. Not after the way he felt about the other girl he had in Germany.
Lee was worried by Harry's silence. Had she done something wrong again. She closed her eyes and waited for him to do something.
Nothing happened. When she looked at him five minutes later he was sound asleep. No amount of vigorous shaking or shouting in his ear could waken him.
In another corner of the house, Frank's mother waited impatiently for a call to come through. She had already scolded the operator three times because it was delayed. A moment later the operator's voice came on again.
"Mrs. Matson. We're ready for your call to Mexico City."
A familiar voice came on. "Helen?," it said.
"Yes John," she said to her brother. "I've got something urgent to tell you. Something you must do for me. Right away."
"I thought you put it all in the wire you sent me yesterday," he said growling. "His sister sometimes thought he had nothing to do but run her errands. "What is it now?"
"I want you to hire the best private detective in Mexico City," she said. "Have him ready to meet us at the airport. I want regular reports on what happens with Frank and his girl."
"Are you crazy? You can't spy on her that way. She's going to be your daughter in law for God's sake."
"Not if I can help it. She's a dirty little fortune-hunter. Just like the last one. I'm sure I'll find out something."
"You can't keep breaking up Frank's marriages Helen," he growled.
"I'm not asking for your blessing dear brother. I'm asking for a detective. Now please get on it."
"But Helen for God's sake, be reasonable. The boy'll be hurt and...."
"John," she snapped. "Unless it has slipped your mind, I'm underwriting your daughter's trip to Europe this summer. As her aunt, I do not mind doing it, but I think I deserve better attention from you on my own problems."
Her brother sighed. "All right. I'll get the man. I know someone who works with the American colony on special investigations. What shah I tell him?"
"To watch Ilsa and Frank carefully. If any shenanigans go on, I want to know. And if she's playing fast and loose I want to know. I need evidence to keep her out of the U.S.A."
"Are you sure you're not being terribly unfair to her Helen?"
"Not her. She's a cheap little gold-digger, and she goes around in the nude. She's probably slept with half the men who've met her. I never met Frank's last girl but she was probably the same kind. He's very stupid about women."
Her brother sighed in Mexico. He knew Helen. Even if the girl Frank loved was as pure as a saint, Helen could not tolerate her. She'd ruin the girl anyway she could to keep her from marrying her son.
The week they had remaining until they left for the South weighed heavily on everyone. Everyone, that is, except Frank's mother. Ilsa barely spoke to Harry and Lee could hardly bring herself to be polite to Frank. Most days the girls seemed to be overwhelmed with sick headaches or painful menstruations. They wanted to do nothing and stayed as much as they could in their rooms. To his surprise, Frank did not see this disturb his mother much. She seemed preoccupied with other things and cheerfully sent the servants with food trays to the girls' rooms. Only when the date of the Duke's dinner rolled around did she insist they pull themselves together.
Neither Harry nor Frank expected the dinner to be as pleasant as it was. The two young men had been cool toward one another after their initial reunion and Harry had been spending a good deal of his time in New York on business errands. When he got home, it was often late and retired immediately. The sound of Ilsa's restless movements kept him awake and several times he was on the verge of going into her room, but he controlled the impulse.
The Duke lightened the mood of the visitors immediately with a double round of champagne cocktails. At dinner he served an excellent white hock and later a good claret. Everyone began to talk more vividly and even the girls perked up. Ilsa prayed that the Duke would make no reference to the lost slave bracelet or pay her too many compliments. She need not have worried. He seemed to be absolutely hypnotized by Lee's beauty.
From the moment he saw her, his eyes did not leave the slim, exquisitely pretty girl who was marrying Harry. Everything about her delighted him: the soft huskiness of her voice, the fawn like shyness of her dark eyes, so quickly masked by the long, beautiful eyelashes. Ilsa recognized the signs with amusement and knew that the slightest encouragement would make Pietro forget he was a host.
Suddenly a mischievous thought struck her. Perhaps it would teach Harry a lesson. He wasn't the only attractive male in the world. And perhaps the little girl who sat there so quietly, like an obedient child, was not as saintly as she seemed. She had a malicious urge to find out what she would do if the Duke took her into his study and gave her the usual treatment. Maybe all that cloying virtue would vanish. Since Ilsa was next to the Duke, she refilled his glass several times as soon as he finished. This was no great trick since the Duke drank wine as if he were dying of thirst. When he was quite mellow, she leaned over and whispered that Lee was extremely excited about meeting him.
"I told her you might show her your paintings." The Duke gave her a sly look and grinned. He seemed not to have heard.
But a moment later he asked her if she would like seeing the pictures. She assented readily, more than eager to get away from Frank and his mother. Although Frank's mother had never met her, she was nervous in her presence.
The Duke led her to his private art gallery and carefully shut the door behind them. Lee gazed at the beautiful canvases with astonished delight.
"Why they're wonderful," she said, awed. "You must have spent at least fifty thousand for that Picasso and twenty for the Bernard Duffy."
His eyes widened with pleased surprise. "You know about these things? How?"
She explained that before the war her family had owned a large estate near Leipzig now in Communist hands and that she had studied painting and sculpture. Her companion listened to her in wonder.
The Duke was so amazed that he forgot-temporarily-to try to kiss her. The girl's verve and intelligence, so completely hidden under Mrs. Matson's stern gaze, utterly fascinated him. He felt a curious regret that he had not met her sooner and that she was getting married to someone else.
He poured some excellent cognac for them and watched her drink it with finesse from a snifter of fine crystal.
"You're the most exquisite girl I've ever seen in this house," he said. "Everything you do, you do beautifully. I could watch you for hours."
"I'm afraid we don't have hours," she said teasingly. The Duke attracted her strongly. His slight Italian accent, the masculine strength of his face and his wittiness made him very interesting. It alarmed her a little that she felt the magnetism so strongly.
She rose from the couch to examine the Picasso, and also to put more space between them. A second later he rose and kissed the back of her neck.
"I wish you were not marrying Harry," he said. "I wish it more than I could possibly tell you."
She shivered as his lips touched her neck and moved closer to the painting. "Harry's very nice," she said, trying to ignore the kiss.
"Yes, but you don't love him."
She colored deeply. "Of course I do."
"No, my dear. You do not. I know these things. I watched you at the table. You're miserable. You think already you've made a mistake."
She turned to stare at him. How could he possibly know anything like that? Did her fear show up so clearly in her face? Since the night she had asked Harry to make love to her she had been close to panic about the marriage.
"You're making a mistake," she said lightly.
"No," he said shrewdly. "You're unhappy. But I think like many foreigners who come to America, you are confusing your desire to live here with your desire to marry."
She colored again. He had hit the bull's eye twice. It was a thought she had been ashamed to admit even to herself.
"I think we had better go back," she said embarrassedly, avoiding his eyes. Her voice had a curious lilt to it, as if she was barely an inch from tears. He came closer and put his arms around her protectively. She shuddered in his arms and let the tears flow. He sat down on the couch beside her, gave her his handkerchief and then poured her a stiff drink of brandy. When she had downed it, she felt better and also giddy.
She smiled at him and impulsively he kissed her. The warmth of the liquor and his kisses, the touch of his beard made her dizzy. She made no effort to fight him other than try to push him away weakly.
"I wish, I really wish you were not getting married," he said, breathing in the perfume that came from the cleft of her gown."
"But I want to be married," she smiled. "And so should you. How long can you go on playing the great lover."
He smiled back, revealing his white, even teeth, "till I meet some one as intelligent and as charming as you."
She glanced at him mischieviously. "I don't believe a word of it. You'll never marry. You don't feel secure unless you're busy seducing some poor girl who's overwhelmed by you. You're trying to make love to me now."
He laughed and poured them stiff drinks of brandy and another liquor in a green flask. "And you're not afraid to be alone with me?"
She laughed pleasantly. "Not at all."
"But why?" he said as they drank together. "By rights you should be."
She shook her head. "No, because you're a gentleman. You may have a rogue's attitude, but you're no brute. I used to meet men like you in my father's house in Leipzig. Well-traveled, sophisticated men. They all tried to make love to my mother behind my husband's back, but they never forced anything. And she really enjoyed the flirtations."
"Only the flirtations?" the Duke said maliciously. "Only that?"
She laughed. "I really don't know. I was only thirteen and we had a big house."
She looked musingly at the wall with its lovely paintings. "We had a lovely house like this. And paintings and we went to Italy for the winter often. I remember spending my twelfth birthday in Florence. Fiesole-high above the city."
He started. "Fiesole? I was born near there. My sister has a house there."
He looked at her with new interest and they were off on a merry round of memories. Lee's mind was full of visits to Sicily and Rome and Naples. Her grasp of Italian art and history amazed him. He listened with rapt attention.
An hour had passed before he thought to look at his watch. An hour punctuated by her voice racing excitedly over his as he talked of his travels and his work. An hour during which three drinks vanished inside them. He did not know when he had been so fascinated by a woman.
"I want to show you some pictures I took in Greece last year", he said suddenly. And as he looked for them in a closet on the other side of the room, he mused: "I'm not even going to try to make love to her. What on earth's happening?" He felt as love-struck as a first lieutenant at his first regimental ball.
When he returned he found her asleep on the couch. Her shoes had fallen off her tiny feet. The sight of her lovely young face asleep touched him deeply and he felt contrite because he had brought her to his study. He had to get her out before anyone caught them or noticed her long absence. He would rather cut his arm off than hurt her or ruin her marriage, even though he thought she was worth ten of Harry West-over.
He tried to rouse her gently, but it was no use. The drinks had gone to her head. He stooped and whispered in her ear. As he did so, she stirred uneasily but did not awaken He moved his lips closer and impulsively kissed her cheek. She had the smoothest cheek he had ever touched his lips to. His beard tickled her slightly and she stirred again. He drew back and called her name.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door. He stood absolutely still. It came again as nagging as a woodpecker's beak. He did not move.
"Pietro?" Ilsa's voice whispered through the door. "It's Ilsa." He heard her giggle "Are you all right?"
Tine," he said, looking anxiously at the sleeping girl.
"Are you sure?" she laughed again. When he said nothing, she blurted: "If I were you I'd bring Harry's girl back soon. He's become extremely curious about her absence. I told him she was on a big fifty cent tour of the house, but you'd better hurry."
"Ilsa!" he said suddenly. "Are you alone there?"
"Of course."
He opened the door and shooed her in.
"She's passed out. I can't wake her," he said in a disturbed voice. He looked at Ilsa. "Oh don't look at me like that. I did nothing. We had a long talk. I swear it."
She stared thoughtfully at the sleeping girl. "It's my fault," she said. "I wanted to get her into trouble."
"Nothing happened," the Duke said flatly. "I swear it by my father." Ilsa looked surprised. "What on earth's got into you Pietro?"
He shrugged and lit a cigarette. "I don't know. I'm surprised at myself. I suppose it's because she's so-so like a child, you know. Such an enormous naive enthusiasm for art, Italy, everything. It's difficult to seduce an innocent. One becomes thoroughly ashamed doing it."
She pursed her lips. "I think you're in love with her Pietro?"
He reddened down to the roots of his beard. "That's nonsense. She's not my type at all. I like your kind better. You've lived. You know men. I never felt I was taking advantage of you."
She laughed and watched his discomfiture grow. "Well damn it are you going to stand there grinning like a cat or help me bring her around."
I'll help you," she said quickly.
She patted the girl's face gently and put her shoes back on her feet.
"Get out," she whispered to him. "I'll tell her you left and I came in and found her asleep. She might be embarrassed if we're both here."
He nodded gratefully and left.
Ilsa looked about for some means of awakening the dozing girl. Then she saw the bottle of brandy.
Placing it directly under the girl's nostrils, she waited. As she thought, the strong fumes roused her. She opened her eyes slowly.
She flushed as she saw Ilsa.
"I came in and found you asleep on the couch," Ilsa said sweetly. "People are asking for you. The Duke, Harry and Frank are playing billiards. He said he brought you in here to look at the paintings and had to go and see his servants. He couldn't understand why you were taking so long and thought maybe you weren't feeling well."
Lee smiled with relief. She had been right. The Duke would never force anything. She could tell that he had not done anything. Her dress had not been disturbed. She looked at a mirror in her purse and saw that not a single hair was out of place.
"I'm sorry," she told Ilsa. "I guess the drinks made me sleepy. Shall we go back?"
"Sure."
Lee felt a flush of gratitude inside her for the Duke, and a twinge of something. Regret maybe that she had not met him earlier. Much earlier.
As she readied herself to go, she caught Ilsa staring at her.
"Is something out of place?" Lee asked. "No," Ilsa said slowly. "No. Everything's fine. You love Harry very much don't you?" Something in the other girl's tone set her on guard. "Why do you ask?" Lee said.
Ilsa shrugged. "No reason at all. I was just wondering. You know I'd never have thought you were his type at all."
"How would you know?" Lee said guardedly. The sense of rivalry she had felt with this girl since she knew Frank was marrying her overrode her temporary gratitude. It was nice of her to inquire after her. But she was still marrying the man who had walked out on her.
"I'm sorry", Ilsa said embarrassedly. "I was just well-talking. Pay no mind to what I say."
"Let's go," Lee said in a cold voice. "Thanks for helping me."
Ilsa said nothing. The other girl's distrust spoke for itself. Unless she wanted serious trouble with her, she had better keep out of her way. No telling what she might do if she found out about Harry and her.
In the main salon Mrs. Matson was telling a dull story to the Duke and the two younger men. They looked up gratefully when the girls walked in.
If she had had any doubts about the Duke's attitude toward her, one look at his face would have settled them. He looked at her with such sincere concern that she had to look away.
She turned, smiling to her fiance, Harry and accepted a drink from him. She made no attempt to engage Frank in conversation and felt a twinge of pleasure at the obvious disappointment in his face.
"You think Mexico will be nice at this time of the year?" Lee said pleasantly to the Duke.
"Wonderful," he replied smiling with great pleasure. "And I'm going to show some of it to you."
"You'll be there?", Ilsa said nervously.
"Absolutely. You see I have some business there. Some of my shipping interests are involved. I must go to Mexico City in a few week. So why not sooner. I'd like to come to your wedding if I can?"
He looked at Harry expectantly. Harry patted his arm.
"Hell Duke. You're going to be my guest of honor. None of my own folks can come. They live in Seattle and my dad's a little under the weather. I promised to bring the bride to see them later. So you'll have to substitute. Okay with you dear?", he asked smiling at Lee.
"Of course", she said, pleased the Duke would be there.
"Good," Harry said. "I told her we'd get hitched in Mexico. This'll make it quite a party. A real Duke for my best man."
Harry was enjoying the evening very much. The Duke had a great sense of humor and drank like a trouper. From hints dropped during the Duke's monologue, he gathered that he was quite a man with the ladies too. When he suggested that he could show them the night side of Mexico, he thought it was a wonderful idea.
"And one night I will take the two grooms out for a bachelor dinner," the Duke insisted. "It's the American way, no? Well paint the town red."
"Well I don't know", Frank began. "We shouldn't break up like that. Maybe we can all go out together."
"Not at all Frank," his mother said to his surprise. "One should do things properly."
Mrs. Matson was thinking that the more time Ilsa could be alone the better for her own plans.
As for Harry, he could hardly wait. Since he'd come to the U.S. he'd felt like somebody attending a wake A night on the town would be great and he was sure the Duke knew some great places.
The rest of the week passed a little more pleasantly. At least everyone seemed more friendly to the others. By dint of careful planning Frank managed to see Dixie Aaron once more, and had another lesson in love. After several sessions with the pretty stripper, Frank's confidence had grown enormously. Even the setback caused by the contretemps with Lee had been overcome. Dixie was amazed at his progress and said so.
"You're coming along fine honey", she said, stroking his hair and face. She kissed him in the way that always made him dizzy. "Just don't tense up honey with anyone else." She sighed. "I'm going to miss you kid. You know I practically feel married to you myself."
Frank enjoyed the smile that played about her lips, as they sat in her living room.
"Looking forward to getting spliced?" she asked puckishly.
"A little."
"Still scared?"
"Not as much as last week?", he said.
"You sound funny. Is there something wrong?"
"No. Except the two girls don't like one another," Frank said. 'It's kind of a tense situation. I'll be glad when it's over."
"Look Frank tell Mama the rest. I know that isn't all of it."
He hesitated, then told her about his first engagement to Lee.
She whistled. "Holy mackerel," she said. "And I thought you still were wet behind the ears. So you were playing both of these kids at the same time eh?"
"No you got it wrong Dixie. I didn't know Ilsa when I knew Lee."
She rose annoyed. "You college bums are all alike. Just because you got a little dough you think you can make everybody in sight. Me for instance."
"Look Dixie," he said. "You're all wet on that. I never felt like that with you."
"I'd appreciate it Mack if you'd get the hell out of here," Dixie said furiously. "I told you I wasn't a hustler and I don't like being used as a summer replacement, for a few weeks."
He tried to make her see his side of it. It was no use. He left a few minutes later. She refused to talk to him after that. The moment she heard his voice on the phone, she hung up.
He had just given up hope when she called him on the last day before he left for Mexico City.
"Hi," she said diffidently.
"Dixie!" he said excitedly. It was the first time she had ever called him.
"Don't worry. I told your butler it was the broker's office. He thinks I'm calling about some stocks."
"Never mind that", he said quickly, greatly relieved that she had decided to call. "How are you. I've missed talking to you."
"I missed you too," she said slowly. "I just remembered that you did ask me to marry you once. It may have been a gag but you did ask me."
"Yes."
"I guess I feel part of the family by now. I couldn't let you go off without wishing you good luck."
"Thank you Dixie," he said, strangely touched.
"Have yourself a ball you big bum," she said. "And send me a bottle of Tequila. And Congratulations. I mean it-from the bottom of my heart. Be good to her now."
"I will," he said.
"And forget the other girl. It's water over the dam. Forget her and me. You hear what I'm telling you."
"Yes," he said gloomily. "I don't know if I can Dixie."
"You have to. Good luck you bum. I guess, I guess," she said in a strangled voice. "In my own cockeyed way I love you a little myself."
She hung up.
He glanced at the telephone with a lump in his throat.
CHAPTER SIX
Ilsa knew there was something odd about Pepe Gomez the minute she met him. Outwardly the man who had met them in Mexico City's airport was the essence of charm, good manners. A thin, dark, handsome Mexican, he was impeccably dressed and wore a diamond that was not in the least ostentatious on his right hand. His voice was soft and he spoke English with just enough accent to make him seem even more attractive.
His call came while she napped in her room at the luxurious Del Prado hotel, one of the most opulent in the world. She was tired and the altitude of the city-7,500 feet-after the long flight, made her heart beat faster. Bobo's hurt looks at her from across the aisle and his sulking silence during the last days in the United States, had made her miserable. Somewhat irrationally she longed to run up to him and kiss him to call his room and tell her she regretted her harshness to him the day he had come to see her. But his increasing attentiveness to the dark-haired fool whom he was marrying irritated her. She lay on her back in her slip wondering how to get him angry and crawling again. Her mind was full of impossible fancies for doing this when the Mexican called.
"Senorita Ilsa?" the familiar soft voice began. "This is Pepe Gomez."
She smiled and knew she had found the answer.
"Hello."
"I hope I am not disturbing you," Pepe said apologetically. "Not in the least Pepe," Ilsa said easily.
"I wondered if you were interested in seeing the murals at the University this afternoon ... That is you and the others."
"Well," she began slowly. "I think they are all resting now."
"Well perhaps the Senorita herself then? That is if you are not too tired? I am very close by."
She smiled. The pitch was very obvious. Ordinarily she would have ignored it, but her irritation with Bobo changed things.
"Give me fifteen minutes to bathe. I'll meet you in the lobby."
He hung up the phone in Helen Matson's suite two floors above her room and smiled at his new employer. She was not smiling.
"It didn't take much did it to forget she's engaged to be married in a week?" she snapped. "I think this is disgusting don't you?"
The Mexican looked bewildered. "The Senora does not wish me to take her out now? I can quickly recall her."
"No of course not. Take her by all means. Make a special effort to get her to talk about my son."
"Si, Senora," Pepe said. The American woman bored him. She reminded him of a bullfight manager. All she needed was a fat cigar in her pudgy lips. But she was paying him very well.
She smiled for the first time. "Would you care to make a special bonus, Mr. Gomez? A bonus of let us say $1,000?"
His eyes widened. A thousand dollars was twice what he expected to get paid for the whole job. He nodded.
"I want you to try to make love to her," she said coldly.
The Mexican detective looked shocked. "Senora!" he said.
"Why not?, she burst out. "I know she's marrying my son for his money. I'm sure she's had dozens of experiences with other men. I'm positive she will deceive him a week after they are married. But I need evidence to stop her."
Pepe shook his head. "When the senor, your brother hired me, he said you need someone to watch her. He said nothing about making love to her. I'm a businessman Senora. I have a reputation. I cannot...."
"I'll make it $1,500," she said peremptorily.
The detective's face pinked as the new offer was thrown at him. If she were not a devil, then she was the devil's mother, asking him to do this.
"Senora I'm a married man. I have seven children " he began.
She shrugged. "Very well, forget it. I'll get another detective. I'm sure I can get anyone to do it for $2,000. I'll write you a check for one day's work now. You may go."
He choked, sputtered and said hastily. "No, I cannot let you do that. It is a point of honor that I complete this task. If that is what you wish, then I will do my best."
She smiled again. She knew the last figure would change his mind. She felt no qualms about asking a married man to sleep with Ilsa. Everyone knew Latins were an immoral race anyhow.
"You'd better get down there quickly," she said now. "She'll be meeting you soon."
"Yes of course," he said hastily. He was anxious to get away from her.
"Oh there's one thing. I'm no fool you know. I'll want some proof that you've succeeded."
His eyes widened. "But what proof can I give Senora? She will of course deny everything. You must accept my word as a man of the highest honor."
"I will accept your description of a birthmark which the young lady has on herer derriere."
She watched his face with a grave air.
"A birthmark?"
"Exactly. I happened to see it one day when she was sunbathing in the nude. That is another of her obscene habits. If you can describe it to me exactly-its shape, color and where it is, I'll know she has spared you nothing."
The detective nodded. The old Gringo bitch was no fool all right. He would have his work cut out for him.
On the way down in the lift, he began to plan his campaign carefully.
In Frank's room, Harry and Frank were drinking their third round of Margharitas, a powerful concoction made with Tequila and lemon juice. The gloomy mien of both girls was beginning to get them both down. Several times Frank started to make a full confession of his relationship with the other man's fiancee. Harry who had prepared a confession about Ilsa days ago could not blurt it out. What good would it do to get into a knockdown fight with Frank now? Ilsa had no desire to marry him and it would only ruin her chances with Frank. He couldn't do that to her.
"How about another one kid?" he said, holding up the bottle of Tequila. It's going to be a long night. Nobody eats dinner in this town till nine or ten."
Frank nodded gloomily. He had been wondering whether to go in and try again with Lee. If she accepted him this time, he was ready to go to his mother and tell her the other marriage was off. Ilsa would understand. If it was money she needed, he'd provide it. The way he felt he would even stand up to Harry. But...."
"Down the hatch," Frank heard Harry's voice boom.
Ilsa had insisted that they have cocktails at the Del Prado. Harry Westover was bound to stop down for a drink. She knew his habits too well. She persuaded Pepe Gomez that she needed a drink more than an art tour at that very moment. To her satisfaction, he seemed to swallow the idea without resisting. She had been sure he would insist on whisking her into a cab and make a pass five minutes after she saw him.
Forty minutes later after three double Margharitas which Pepe had insisted were the best antidote to the altitude, she wondered whether he had planned the whole thing. She had not eaten much on the plane because flying made her slightly ill. The strong liquor on her empty stomach was beginning to make her see double. Even the voices of the people around her sounded fuzzy as if she were listening to them with cotton in her ears.
"Shall we go now?" Pepe asked softly. "The murals are lovely. And there is not too much time. They will close the hall."
"Damn you Bobo," she thought. "Come down before I fall down."
To Pepe she asked if they could have a drink for the road. Pepe assented readily. Things were going along better than he thought. Except, he reminded himself worriedly, too much tequila and he might have to carry her out. He ordered the drinks but insisted that they have a plate of hors d'oeuvres as well.
When he asked her to leave twenty minutes later, she agreed reluctantly. Harry was obviously not coming. She was sick of staying in the room and Pepe was amusing. She rose dizzily and it was only then that she realized how drunk she was. She could barely stand.
People around them smiled broadly as she lurched toward the door, supported by the detective. Pepe began to sweat. He could not afford a scandal in the Del Prado. Some of his best clients stopped there and the manager knew him. She could never get through the lobby that way. He had stupidly overplayed his hand. Now he had to get her upstairs to her room as unobtrusively as possible.
His quick eye noticed that one of the lifts about fifteen yards from the bar was closing its doors. He made a lightning like gesture with his free hand to stop the boy. Hauling her across the floor with one powerful arm, he got her in the door. To stop the boy's smirk he gave him a fifty peso note.
"Quick-the fourth floor," he barked. "Don't stop. I'll have more for you when I come down."
The teen-aged elevator boy shrugged his shoulders as he palmed the bill. Who was he to stand in the way of sex. Most of the times guests took drunken women upstairs he got nothing. He prudently ignored requests to stop at other floors and took them right up.
Pepe reconnoitered the hall on both sides of the lift and then rushed the girl down to her room. He took her purse and removed the key. Ilsa smiled vacandy at him and obeyed the gentle but firm pressure of his hand at her back. Pepe felt relieved. A plan whereby he could get the money and still not kill the girl's marriage had just occurred to him.
All he had to know was what the birthmark looked like. She was obviously beyond knowing what was happening to her. It would be easy for him to get his cousin Dolores, who worked as a maid on another floor, to come up for a moment. In a flash she could get him the exact information he needed and bingo-he would have the money he needed. If it ever happened that her fiance inquired into the matter, he would produce his cousin. She would testify that she helped the drunken girl out of her clothes and had noticed the mark.
After all there was nothing wrong about her seeing the birthmark. Or about his learning its shape from her. So long as he could prove that he personally had not looked or taken advantage of the girl.
The important thing was that Mrs. Matson should not know what he had in mind. For a moment he hesitated. It was risky trying it in the hotel. Anyone might come in-the regular housemaid for example, or one of her friends, her fiance. Quien sabe? Perhaps he could persuade the girl to come to the special apartment he maintained in another section of the city and which he used to get evidence in divorce cases. Often he would invite the woman or man to be sued and let him or her be snapped in an obviously incriminating situation. Such evidence was extremely useful in American courts as well as in Mexican. He had the camera, the witnesses in the same building etc.
Pepe was not eager to get into the kind of skullduggery that some private eyes entered into so willingly. He preferred doing everything carefully with a minimum of risk. But there was no guarantee that the girl, in her present state, would want to come to the apartment. There was not much hope, actually, that she could do anything. No he had to risk calling Dolores upstairs and pray that none of her friends interrupted. First he would make sure the girl was thoroughly out. Then he would pick up the phone and get Dolores' extension in the hotel.
He moved back to the girl. He noticed with satisfaction that she had passed out completely. The job would be made easier. He would not even have to remove them. Just turn her on her back gently and roll the panties down far enough. That was all that was needed. Roll them down and he would get his $2,000 look.
He had just turned the sleeping girl over tenderly when he heard a key in the door. He stared at the door, trapped, his heart in his stomach. He had to get out of there. Otherwise, he could be ruined, and if it was her fiance, he might be shot as well. But where could he go? The bathroom occurred to him, but he rejected the idea. The first place the visitor would go would be the bathroom to get the girl some water. The only logical place was under the bed. He got off the bed quickly. His thinking had taken only a few seconds, but he was barely crouched on the floor when the door opened and shut behind him. He crept under the bed and looked out.
To his astonishment, he saw a woman's legs.
Pepe lay absolutely still while the visitor ransacked the room methodically. She went through the bags in the closet, through the drawers of the chiffonier, the things in the bathroom and the jewel case on the night-table. Several times the Mexican tried to make out the visitor's identity to no avail. If he raised his head too high it struck the steel bedsprings. He could not tell from the legs whether the woman was young or middle-aged. She might be any age from twenty to fifty.
The thought struck him that Mrs. Matson had already hired another agent to check on him. The gringa was quite capable of it. Or it might be the other senorita in the party doing some spying of her own. It was not till the woman, whoever it was, stooped to uncover the mattress, that he could get a better clue. And then there was no doubt.
As he peered upward as high as he could, he saw a pair of sturdy thighs under a dark skirt. The thighs bulging with muscle were heavily encased in a thick woolen undergarment a garment colored a drab battleship gray that reached almost to the big kneecaps. He shuddered. There was only one woman in the hotel who could wear a battleship gray pair of woolen bloomers: Mrs. Helen Matson. She had come to search the girl's room. He waited till she had examined the bed carefully and left the room. Feeling somewhat contrite arid responsible for the girl's plight, Pepe covered her with a large blanket and then closed the door behind him.
Once outside, he waited a discreet interval before going to his employer's suite. He found her sitting in an overstuffed chair looking morose and unhappy. No wonder, he thought, she came up with nothing.
"Did you sleep with her?" Mrs. Matson said bluntly.
He could not he now if he wanted to. She had seen the girl passed out on the bed. He shook his head sadly.
"The senorita was a little too borracho-drunk!" he said. "And there was nothing I could do."
She pursed her lips in contempt. "You're a fool and an incompetent. Anybody else would have done the job in half the time. What was there to stop you from making love to her if, as you say, she was drunk?"
"A sense of honor, Senora," Pepe said, his olive eyes fixed on her. "We do not take advantage of ladies who are that drunk. In your country perhaps. Here no. I am sorry to have disappointed you."
He paused and smiled. "Anyway it was not possible. There was an unexpected visitor to her bedroom."
"I'm sorry too. You're obviously not able to do the job, I'll have to get someone else...." Then she broke off and blushed. "What visitor?"
"A woman," he said carefully. "She entered with a key and searched everything. She even broke into the girl's bags."
"Really," Mrs. Matson said, staring coldly at him. "Did you see her?"
"Not her face," Pepe said. "I was under the bed. But I saw what she wore under her skirt. You see the lady had to stoop rather low to look under the mattress." He could see a gulp move along her throat.
She smiled. "Then you did not recognize her. Very well Senor Gomez, I will give you a day's pay and then you are dismissed. I'm sorry."
"I too," Pepe said. "I had counted on the full week's wages plus the bonus. I think you should reconsider Madame. I am not in the habit of being fired without reason. I have a reputation."
"Are you going to leave," she said, finishing her scribbles on a check, "or shall I have you removed?"
"Would the Senora like to have her son and daughter-in-law know she broke into her room like a sneak-thief and searched her belongings?"
Mrs. Matson drew herself up to her full majesty. "How dare you accuse me," she raged. "You're a fool. And in any case you did not see the woman's face."
"It was you," he said. "I can prove it in five seconds."
"You can't prove anything," she snapped. "All you saw were legs."
"I can describe them perfectly," he said smiling. "I also saw the visitor's underwear. Battleship gray with black borders and," he stopped. "If you care for more details."
She regarded him with wary respect. "Very well, perhaps some additional evidence that the girl is immoral might help. Get me the evidence I need and you shall have your check."
"American Express travelers' cheques," he stipulated smiling.
"You must do it by tomorrow at the latest."
"As you wish, Madame," he bowed. A loathing of this woman was growing to such proportions that he could hardly bear remaining near her.
"Supposing she does not wish to do anything wrong with me," he asked. "That would prove something too, would it not?"
"I'm not interested in discussing this further, Senor," she rose to show dismissal. "I want you to make love to her and to describe her birthmark so accurately that the Immigration Department will have no doubt about what you did. Is that clear?"
Pepe left the room, his heart filled with pity for the poor German girl. A pang of remorse for what he was doing would not be downed. It was a rotten way to make money. Spying was one thing. Deliberate seduction-that kind of sordid action he left to much lower types in his profession.
If there were only some way to get the money he needed and yet protect Ilsa.
As soon as he was gone, Helen Matson re-read Claire Van der Poole's rush letter.
"Dear Helen
I loathe doing this, but I'm afraid your little girl Ilsa is a fraud. I found the enclosed bracelet (obviously from another boy friend) on the floor of the Duke's salon. I know how important this is to you. I am having a man check the name in Germany and should have details for you very soon. Frank is too nice to be taken in by a little gold digger and Lord knows what else she may have been back home.
Sincerely, Claire."
The noose was tightening, she thought with satisfaction. Perhaps it might be a good idea to prepare things for the new evidence. She dialed the number of the American Embassy and asked to speak to her brother. When she had told him briefly what Claire had written he said only: "What the devil does that prove? It may not even be her bracelet and if it is, it's no proof she lied about her real name."
"It is hers John," Helen said firmly. "I caught her wearing it. Some man who was obviously her lover gave it to her. And tomorrow or the day after I may have new evidence proving she registered under a false name. Let me speak to the immigration official whoever it is."
John sighed and transferred her call. She wasted no time. In her best drawing room manner, she commanded the man to come to tea with her.
The man in charge of immigration was a dour, lanky man with a long jaw and glasses named Gregory Lowenkopf. He was a religious man and had worked for the government all his life. He was not accustomed to accepting polite commands to come to the Del Prado. But Mrs. Matson's relation to one of the embassy's key officials made the situation awkward. Despite a deep dislike for the pomp of the city's leading luxury hotel, he arrived at her suite half an hour later.
He listened respectfully at first but without much interest. So far the woman had impressed him only with her dislike for a foreign girl who wanted to marry her son.
"The bracelet is not enough to prove she lied to us abroad," he said finally. "It might not even be hers."
"If I confront her with it, she'll have to admit it's hers," Mrs. Matson snapped. "She knows I saw her wearing it."
Lowenkopf shook his head stolidly. "Deportation is serious Maam. Refusing her re-entry to America is serious. I need more evidence."
Mrs. Matson bit her lip in annoyance. "Supposing I prove she has been immoral?" She smiled as the government looked sharply at her.
He nodded. "That's good enough. But you need facts. Not just a hearsay testimony. It's risky trying to prove such things."
"And if I have the man who actually made love to her here testify and also get evidence she used a false name to come to the U. S.?"
"That should clinch it," Lowenkopf said. He rose. "Excuse me. I've got to do some work at the office now."
She watched him leave a moment later and immediately sent a cable to Claire: "URGENT YOU GET FACTS ON ILSA'S PAST SOONEST."
Smiling to herself, Helen Matson began to dress for dinner.
If Claire could send something tomorrow and Pepe Gomez could sleep with the girl tomorrow night, it would all be over by the day after. And there was something else. If Claire's evidence was substantial enough, she could dismiss the detective. She did not trust him now that he had seen her in Ilsa's room. She would simply have John write him a check and deny she had ever used his services for anything. And the quicker she could leave this filthy country where everyone tried to blackmail you the better. Only her deep concern for Frank's good could make her put up with the insults of the detective, she thought with increasing self pity.
When he reached his office, Gregory Lowenkopf went to his telephone immediately.
"I want to talk to the office in Washington," he said curtly. "Then I may want to talk to the Consulate in Munich."
He did not like Mrs. Matson too much. But if she was right, he could not afford to muff the case. Aside from her brother's position, she was one of the wealthiest society women in the United States. The case would get front page publicity if the girl were allowed to re-enter and then proved a fraud. He might have to answer very embarrassing questions and he wanted the answers quickly.
A moment later he said: "John? Greg Lowenkopf in Mexico. Check on the application of Ilsa Wecker, Munich. German warbride-registered by Frank Mat-son. See if you have anything funny there. Anything that bothers you?"
The other man whistled. "Matson? The guy who's getting married there next Sunday?"
"Yes," he said wearily. The front page story was on his desk now.
"What do you think's wrong Greg?"
"I don't know," he lied. "Someone has complained about her. I'm checking." There was no point in tipping his hand before he had too.
He waited half an hour for the return call. It came when the embassy was nearly empty-nearly everyone had gone home.
"Greg?" the Washington man said in a strange voice. "There's nothing wrong with her report as far as I can see. But you know something? We have another girl who was registered by young Matson several months back. Someone he was going to marry apparently and changed his mind. A Miss Lee Feltuan. Her visa never got through. Seems his mother queered it."
"What's that got to do with it," Lowenkopf said impatiently. "A man can change his mind. I guess I'd better talk to the people in Munich."
Nevertheless the Washington man's disclosure bothered him. It was beginning to sound even more complicated than he had thought.
Lowenkopf hung up and re-read the Matson wedding story. This time he paid more attention to the names of the four principals and, as he did, his eyebrows lifted. Lee Feltman, formerly registered as a war bride by Frank Matson was now marrying Harry Westover and Ilsa Wecker, formerly registered by Harry Westover as his war bride was marrying Frank Matson. He re-read the facts three times to make certain he was getting it all straight.
Fifteen minutes later he had succeeded in pulling an unhappy vice-consul from the opera in Munich. He immediately told him he needed a rundown on the applications of Wecker and Feltman. The vice-consul groaned aloud.
"Can this wait till morning. It's ten p.m. now," he said.
The immigration officer was not impatient. "No, it can wait."
He hung up and went back to the wedding story. He was not, in any sense of the word, a sophisticated man. But something in that story smelled. How often do fiancees get swapped that way, he asked himself. What bothered him even more was that they had just come over as immigrants. Was there something screwy going on between the two couples, he wondered. The report from Munich might clear it up. There was no law against marrying your friend's ex-fiancee, but if the swapping was part of a private sexual arrangement, Uncle Sam wasn't going to let either of those gals back in. There were enough of them in Hollywood and Miami already.
If there was anything that Lowenkopf abhorred it was adultery. And what could be more horrible than a double adultery agreed upon in advance. For the first time since he had entered the case he saw red.
CHAPTER SEVEN
To his surprise Pepe Gomez saw his invitation to a shopping tour snapped up the next morning. Ilsa was delighted to get away from Harry and Frank. Somehow being with them both at the same time disturbed her too much and left her constantly tense. She was mortally afraid that Harry's temper would fray badly if he saw Frank being too attentive. Despite his agreement to protect her. And she was not too certain if she could maintain her own role of cool politeness. Nor did she much relish the other girl's attentions to Harry.
"Of course this would include the other young lady," Pepe said on the phone. He had a plan to get her away alone later in the day.
Ilsa hesitated. "She's feeling a little indisposed," she said at last. "Maybe she can join us later if she feels better."
As far as she was concerned the day would be ruined with Harry's new girl along.
Pepe laughed, delighted by the turn things were taking. He agreed to meet her with the car in a few minutes.
"I'll meet you at Sanborn's," she said quickly. There was no point in having everyone see her. She could explain later that she had gone for a walk or some shopping.
Pepe agreed to meet her at the popular coffee shop in the city's center, a mecea for American tourists. He arrived early and enjoyed a cup of American coffee and some pastry. This time, he thought, we will work the drinking more intelligently. He knew a bar where a couple of shots of pulque, the powerful native liquor, would do the trick. The rest of the plan would follow with no trouble at all.
He admired the tall, leggy American girls who sat boredly in the shop drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. American girls attracted him sexually. He could not keep his eyes off them, no matter where he was.
"Beautiful aren't they?" he heard a voice say at his shoulder. He turned to look at the speaker. He was a handsome man with a prominent nose and a spade-like black beard. Not an American he decided, first because he looked like a European. Second because he spoke in fluent though oddly-accented Spanish. He could spot an American accent a block away. It usually sounded like someone speaking Spanish through a garbage disposal.
"I come here whenever I'm in Mexico," the bearded man said with a smile. "Sooner or later they all come in and you can tell the lonely ones easily. They drink too much coffee and the ashtray looks as if they've smoked three packs."
Pepe was not accustomed to casual conversations with strangers and wondered what to answer. He nodded politely and was relieved to see Ilsa appear in the doorway. He noticed, amused, that the beard was looking at the German girl with great interest.
"That one is not American Senor," he said helpfully. Tipping his hat he left. As he turned he saw the bearded man stare at the girl fixedly.
"I'm sorry Senorita," he apologized as he reached the doorway.
"No, I'm late. My fiance called me just as I was leaving."
He pulled her away from the doorway quickly and led her to his rented Ford convertible. As he did he noticed that the bearded man had left his seat and was waving to a rank of taxis nearby.
"I've decided you should see Xochomilco, the lovely flower gardens near here," Pepe announced gaily. "Does that agree with you?"
"Oh yes," she said happily. "I've heard so much about them."
He stopped the car en route to offer her some refreshment. Ilsa who was avid for new experience and to know the customs of the country, drank the strange concoction eagerly.
"It's very mild," Pepe assured her as he gave her the second. He had warned the bartender to make his weak. The detective watched the girl down the second pulque with a smile. Then as he glanced around the room, the smile faded. The bearded man he had just seen at Sanborn's was in the doorway and looking straight at them.
There was no doubt in his mind that this was an agent hired by Mrs. Matson to spy on him. He took the girl's hand and left quickly through a side entrance. Like most detectives he did not like being spied upon himself.
"What's the matter?" Ilsa asked surprised. The strong drinks after a light breakfast had made her giddy. "I was enjoying that. What do you call it again?"
"Pulque," he said, bundling her into the convertible. "Well have more later. It's getting late and the boats may all be taken."
He drove skillfully through several side streets and was glad to see he had lost the bearded lover of American women.
A mile or two later he parked the car again and they had some more pulque. Or at least Ilsa did. Pepe's was mostly fruit juice. When he was satisfied the girl was too tight to care about anything, he led her back to the car. To his annoyance he saw the bearded man's taxi rounding the street as he left from the opposite corner. Then he shrugged his shoulders. What difference did it make. The man would only report that he, Pepe, had accomplished his mission. He could hardly prove anything else.
He would tell Mrs. Matson that he was with the girl and doing his job.
Ten minutes later he boarded the girl on one of the flower festooned boats and slipped the boatman a substantial tip to keep his mouth shut. He smiled as he saw the bearded man jump aboard another craft a few minutes later.
Ilsa saw the flower boats go by in a colorful blur, and lay back contentedly on the cushions in the rear.
While the boatman looked the other way, he rowed them far out away from the other boats. Pepe kneeled and began to undress the blond girl. Everything was going fine. She made no effort to resist his prying fingers as they loosened her dress. Then he saw something that amazed him. Instead of keeping a respectable distance in the cover of the crowded flower boats, the bearded one was moving as rapidly as he could right to the spot he was in himself.
Was the man insane he asked himself? Surely he would give himself away by doing that If he was not a fool, Pepe decided, he was the most inefficient private detecitve he had ever seen. At any rate he could not let him watch what he was going to do. That would kill the whole plan. He tapped the boatman on the shoulder and told him to head back to shore.
Fifteen minutes later he was in the convertible with her again. Ilsa was now so stoned that she could hardly stand up. Driving with a grim face, Pepe piloted the car to his apartment on the outskirts of the city. Let the fool see them go up. Who cared?
The bearded man followed closely behind all the way, but made no move to draw closer than twenty yards. Nor did he interfere when he saw them alight and go into the doorway of a new apartment house. Instead he smiled. He knew the building well. It was used by several of his Mexican friends to entertain their mistresses. After a moment, he turned to the driver and told him to take him back to town.
It was none of his business if the silly goose wanted to jeopardize her marriage, the Duke de Broccoli thought, as the car headed toward the Plaza de la Reforma. All the same he felt like an idiot flying down as he had. His sympathy turned to poor Matson instead. If Ilsa was going to take on a lover a few days before she was married, what would she do a month later. The Duke was a tolerant man but he thought marriage should be treated as a sacred thing-for a month at least after the ceremony.
He found Frank and Harry in a state of almost complete despair when he entered Frank's room. My God, thought the Duke, does he know already he's marrying a nymphomaniac?
"Hello Pietro," Frank said greeting him with a pallid smile. He introduced Harry who shook hands without smiling at all. The Duke noticed that a bottle of tequila on the coffee table was nearly empty.
"I'm sorry we're so low," Frank said, offering the last two fingers in the bottle. "Everything is screwed up.
"What do you mean?" the Duke said. "That's a hell of a way for two bridegrooms to talk. Oh by the way how are the lucky girls?"
Frank shook his head. "I don't know. Ilsa's disappeared. She told me on the phone she wanted to shop for women's stuff alone. Lee's gone off to the museum with my mother and uncle."
"Why didn't you go along?" the Duke asked.
"I loathe museums," Frank said. He did not add that he was afraid to hang around Lee too much for fear Harry would see the lovesick look in his eyes.
The Duke pondered this for a moment. "Well I think you're crazy, both of you. Here you are in one of the world's most exciting capitals and what do you do, moon and look miserable." He smiled. "I've got an idea."
"I know the city very well. I've been here on several international conferences. Dullest things in the world, conferences. But not in Mexico. Not if you know where to go."
"Where do you go?" Harry asked. He liked the Duke.
Occasionally the Italian reminded him of a movie version of a diplomat, but he had a good sense of humor. The idea of doing the town sounded good. He was sick looking at the four walls and trying to control his urge to tell Frank he loved Ilsa.
The Duke winked. "Come along. I'll just tell you one thing. This won't be a museum tour. You may see some lovely women but they won't be on canvas."
Frank brightened and then his face fell.
"We're supposed to meet my mother and uncle here for lunch." In fact they're late now."
"Too bad," the Duke said. "This would have been fun. Usually anybody who goes on this tour never wants to leave Mexico."
"Let's go," Harry said suddenly. The prospect of dining with Frank's mother was not too inviting. He felt like breaking loose. The entire week had left him as tense as a nervous cat.
"But my mother and uncle?" Frank began.
"They're late aren't they?" Harry snorted. "We ran into the Duke and we decided to have lunch. A long lunch."
"That's the boy," the Duke laughed. "Come! I'll show you a side of Mexico the tourist never sees. At least not when he's with his wife. Let's start with a drink shall we?"
Frank looked gloomily at the bottle. "All finished."
The Duke reached into his coat pocket and removed a silver flask. "Always come prepared. This is private stock."
They passed the flask around. By the time they reached the loby Frank and Harry were already feeling better.
He led them to a long black limousine parked near the hotel. "The Villa Amarillo," he whispered to the chauffeur.
"This one of the famous eating places Duke?" Harry asked, curiously. "It's not in any of the guides I've seen."
The Duke laughed so hard his black beard shook.
Then the driver got it and he roared too. He laughed so hard he almost swiped a passing bus.
"You won't find this one in a guide book Harry. It's one of the famous ones all right, but food is not the main reason people go there. Confidentially it's the finest whorehouse in Mexico City. I go there whenever I get tired of museums and official dinners here."
In his office at the U.S. Embassy, Gregory Lownkopf was making notes furiously as the vice-consul from Munich made his report. "You're sure?" Lownkopf said cautiously, on the long distance line.
He heard a laugh on the other end. "I'm not fooling. I showed the two dossiers to my boss, he thought somebody had invented a new way to have your cake and eat it. What do you suppose they're doing there? Are they going to swap wives every third week or something? Westover once wanted to marry Wecker too." The man laughed and said: "Hey do me a favor and tell me what the birthmark looks like. Everybody's seen her act but me."
Lownkopf blushed and cut the interview short. The State Department was sure going to hell when they hired sex fiends like that vice consul. But the Westover-Matson wedding bothered him. If there was any wife-swapping going on, he would have to kick them both out of the U. S. But moral turpitude was a hard charge to make stick. He needed evidence that one or the other of the girls was sleeping in the wrong bed. A few minutes later he got help from Helen Matson. She was so excited when she called that at first she was incoherent.
Finally he was able to make out what she had to say. He cleared his throat and told her what the Munich vice-consul had reported. She was so aghast the fine went dead for a second.
"You mean Frank's former fiancee is here with the other man, Harry, and Harry used to go with Ilsa?" She spluttered. "But that's obscene, it's immoral."
"It looks funny," he admitted. "I don't like it. But I need more evidence to show she's immoral. If I could get that, the set-up of the two couples would look very odd." But I can't keep her out of the States just because she used a stage name: Gelb in Germany."
"But the girl was a strip teaser in Germany and she had a slave chain from a former boyfriend. Probably Harry Westover," she snorted.
"I know," he said reluctantly. "I suspect them of wrongdoing and I wouldn't trust a girl who did that as far as you could toss an elephant. But it wouldn't be enough for a deportation hearing."
"What if I can show she's sleeping with a Mexican on the side," she said, thanking her stars that Pepe had insisted on doing the task.
"That would do," he said with a note of triumph in his voice. "Yes sir that would do it fine. With that kind of evidence you could deport the Queen of Persia. Where can we get the evidence?"
Quickly she told him of Pepe's plan. "But I keep calling and his answering service insists he's not at home," she wailed.
"Let me try," he said suddenly.
Quickly he got Pepe's two numbers from the embassy operator. He was not at home his wife said. Lowenkopf dialed the other number. He recognized it as an exchange in a well-to-do neighborhood that catered to foreigners and businessmen who led bachelor lives. What had probably happened was that Gomez had given instructions that no call be put through.
He felt elated suddenly. If this went off right, he was due for a step up.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Villa Amarillo was a low stucco building on the outskirts of Mexico City on the road to Guernavaca. Behind it could be seen the two giant volcanos of the area, Popocatapetl and Ixtaqhuatl. As they approached the yellow building, the volcanic cones looked like two enormous breasts-as if some splendid Amazon were sunbathing on her back in the lush Mexican forests. The Duke looked at them and winked to his two friends.
They couldn't have picked a better background. As you come up, the world is dominated by two magnificent symbols of fertility."
He led them into a side entrance, using a private key to open the door. Inside a large pleasant-faced woman in her forties greeted him avidly. Her breasts were the biggest Frank had ever seen.
"Pietro," she almost screamed with joy. "I have not seen you in six months. What have you turned into? A monk?"
He laughed and embraced her. "Listen Chica. I have two Americanos who are miserable. Who's here to serve us?"
"Nearly everybody except the Chinese girl you saw last time. She has gone to Hollywood to work. Do you want to eat as well?"
"Si," the Duke agreed. "But something edible. None of your home-cooked stuff."
She laughed. "I have wonderful Chili con Carne. Oh don't fret. It's all in cans. Go in and sit down."
Led by the intrepid Duke they walked through a long dark corridor to a great door of bamboo. The Duke surprised them by opening this door with his own key too. Frank's eyes widened when he saw what faced them. Harry's face was suddenly wreathed in smiles.
They saw a large square room open to the sky. The cobblestone floor reminded them of the great Medieval squares in Germany. There were two trees of heaven growing in the room and a pleasant fountain completed the picture. It looked very pleasant, very quaint and very old.
Sitting at tables located in various parts of the big room were men and women eating, drinking and laughing. The men were mostly Mexicans of some means. They were rich suits of the finest cloth, hats of the best white sombrero felt and shoes of the best Cordoban leather. The girls were not as well dressed; most of them wore brief dancing costumes of sequined black satin, long black net stockings and ballet shoes. They were the most beautiful girls Harry and Frank had ever seen together under one roof. Except that this place had no roof.
They included girls of all physical types and national backgrounds. There were beautiful, dark Mexican girls with flashing black eyes, tiny, graceful figures and white teeth; French girls with small waists and doll-like hands; American girls looking as if they had come from Los Angeles or New York, Japanese girls with exquisite saddle-shaped noses and slanting eyes, Indians with tiny dots on their cheeks; Italian blondes from the Lombardy highlands north of Florence, red-heads from Ireland and Beefy Swedish and German girls from Berlin and Stockholm.
"Gripes," Harry said. "You say this is a whorehouse? Duke, it looks more like a playroom for contestants in the Miss Universe contest. I never saw anything like it."
The Duke laughed as he led them to a table. "This is not really a brothel. I was just kidding. I just wanted to get your reaction. Actually, this is a private club run by some of the most interesting men in Mexico. The girls are in one form of show business or another. They come here for ballet lessons, dialogue coaching and acting techniques."
Harry and Frank stared at him in complete bewilderment. Suddenly the Duke burst out in a loud guffaw that seemed to shake the very timbers of the room. He pointed a finger at the two Americans. "You ought to get a look at your faces," he said. He shook his head. "Americans are ready to believe anything. Now actually this place is the commissary of Miracle Pictures. These girls are all extras. There's a camera on the other side of the room taking all this in right now."
Harry poked him in the ribs. "Oh, quit your kidding, Duke. This is no movie studio."
The Duke sighed. "I'll tell you the truth. This is what they call a Casa de Cita. In English it means date house."
He summoned a passing waiter. "Bring us three tequila specials and some chile con came."
Turning serious for a moment, the Duke explained what a date house was. It was a place where girls could quite legally come to "date" men of means. The idea was that the men could take them out to dinner and shows later. Nothing was settled in advance. If the men and the girls liked one another, it might turn into a big evening. They might see each other regularly. If it didn't turn out well, the girl had nothing to lose. She would at least have had a good dinner and a nightclub show. There was no stigma attached to the girl's coming here. It was a good way to make social contacts and, in fact, some of them did land jobs in show business here.
The only trouble was that occasionally prostitutes did come in under false pretenses. The management tried to keep them out, but of course they could not recognize everyone of the hundreds of girls who dropped in. For that reason it was best to make one's visits as discreet as possible. Just as one did not tell one's friends that he went to slightly disreputable bars, one did not mention visits to the Villa Amarillo.
He waved to three beautiful girls sitting at a nearby table with drinks to join them. They came over smiling. When the waiter came back, he ordered another round for the whole party. It was the gayest afternoon Frank and Harry had spent in weeks. The girls were pretty and good-natured and anxious to please. Two were Mexican and one was Swedish. Their names were Carmen, Rosarita and Ingebord. They were all unemployed showgirls and had just completed a long engagement in a cabaret in Mexico City. They had seen the Duke there before and hoped he might introduce them to some movie producers.
Ingebord laughed. "The Duke knows everybody in Mexico City," she said.
By the time they had downed their fourth drink, the three men were feeling extremely mellow. As if by some strange signal, an orchestra had begun playing Latin American dances on the other side of the room. The girls were sitting on their laps and all six of them were singing the Swedish National Anthem. This was followed by the Mexican National Anthem, the American National Anthem and the Italian. A dozen people at nearby tables joined in the singing. In no time at all the entire hall resounded with singing voices as a thousand throats chimed in.
"Say Duke this is a great place," Harry said. "What a terrific idea it was to come here."
"Check," Frank said. "I'd like to come here again."
"I'd like to come here every day," Harry said.
"I'd like to live here," Frank said.
The Duke roared with laughter.
"They're getting married," he explained to the girls. "I'm trying to keep them from getting nervous till the knot's tied.
The girls laughed heartily and kissed the grooms for good luck.
CHAPTER NINE
Gregory Lowenkopf dialed the number Mrs. Matson had given him and waited. He heard the phone ring six times. He was about to hang up when the answering service operator answered.
"Senor Gomez," he said in his sternest voice. "The American Embassy desires to speak to him. Immediately."
"He is not at home," the operator said in an awed voice. An idea seized him. "Let the phone ring a dozen times to see if he is," Lowenkopf ordered. He was counting on the Mexican girl's fear of goofing.
The girl hesitated and put the call through. Gomez had said he did not want to talk to anyone. Especially not a Mrs. Matson. But this was a man and the American Embassy. The stem voice frightened her.
The phone rang for several moments before it was answered. A deep male voice asked warily: "Yes? Who is it?"
"Senor Gomez?," Lowenkopf said. "This is Mr. Jones of the Hilton Hotel."
Pepe gulped. "But you have the wrong number senor. This is not Gomez."
"The operator told me it was," Lowenkopf said blandly.
"Oh you wish to speak probably to my brother," Pepe said, hastily. "Pepe is out for the day. I am his brother Thomaso. Excuse me I have a thing on the fire. Goodby." He hung up quickly.
Lowenkopf looked at his phone and quickly dialed Mrs. Matson's number. He had never heard anyone sound as embarrassed as Gomez.
"I think he's in now. Let's go down there. He sounds very nervous," he said, as soon as he heard her voice. "She must be there with him now."
She hesitated. "Good. But let me have ten minutes start. If he's watching for cars and he sees yours, he may be frightened. He's afraid of what my son may do out of jealousy," she lied.
The second she hung up, she ran out of the room. She had to make sure Pepe had done his job before Lowenkopf saw him. She ran to the lobby where she had left Lee Feltman and her brother John.
Mrs. Matson was astonished to find her brother alone in the bar. Lee was nowhere in sight.
"Where is she?" she asked dangerously. "I want to talk to her."
"Lee? She walked out a few minutes ago. I thought she'd be back by now. You know more about these things than I do. She may be in the powder room."
"I'll look for her," Mrs. Matson said. "Lowenkopf will be here soon. We're going to find Gomez. Wait till I tell you what I just learned upstairs."
She could not find her in the powder room. She went to the house phone and tried Lee's room. There was no answer there either.
"She's not in the hotel?" she stormed at her brother in the bar a few minutes later. "Did she say where she was going or why she left? There's something damned funny going on. I want to know what the devil she's up to and why Frank never told me she was the girl he was engaged to."
"Well actually," John said, "she left right after a name was paged by the desk. It wasn't her name. But she left and went outside anyway. It may not have been connected to her leaving at all."
"What name?," she wanted to know.
"Sounded very much like some vegetable. Only he was a Duke."
Mrs. Matson stared at him. "The Duke de Broccoli?"
He nodded. "What on earth is he doing here?," she asked astonished. "He said he would come in time for the wedding three days from now. And what's Lee got to with him?"
"I don't know" John said toying with his third martini. His sister always rattled him with her inane questions. "She just said excuse me and walked out. I haven't the slightest idea why. Helen," he said in another tone, "I don't like what you're doing to Frank. And I don't like being part of it. I wish you'd stop it."
"Mind your own business John," she said warningly. "I'm in no mood for a debate now."
He looked at her. "You know Helen, I'm just beginning to realize I don't know you at all. How the devil can you do this to your own son. You've already ruined one marriage. What do you want to do keep him tied to you forever."
"John," she said ominously. "Another word and I'm through with you. And you know what else I'm through with. Your daughter and anything I can do for her later."
"My daughter isn't a cripple," he said bitterly." She can get along without your help if she has too."
"Can she?", his sister said contemptuously as she walked away. John Thomas turned to look at his sister and realized that he disliked her intensely.
Lee Feltman had left John the moment after she heard the Duke's name paged. She had whispered an excuse to run into the hotel lobby, hoping to find Pietro. She was sick of Mrs. Matson and the way she bullied her brother. Surprisingly she found herself looking forward to seeing the Duke again. At least she would be able to talk to him about her problem She had to do something immediately about Harry. Maybe the Duke could help her.
Since she had come to Mexico, Lee knew she had made a horrible mistake. She had accepted Harry on the rebound and at a time when she was almost at her lowest ebb. But it was not enough to sustain a marriage, she realized. And he did not love her either. She was convinced of that after that horrible experience in Lis room and the way he kept eyeing Ilsa hungrily all the time.
For a little while she had imagined that she might go back to Frank. It was obvious that he felt contrite about leaving her in the lurch and that only a little encouragement from her would make him leave Ilsa. But she was not sure she wanted that either.
Something had changed in her. Frank was nice and good. But she did not love him either. If she had, she would have not been so deeply drawn to the Duke. Part of what had occurred in the Duke's study could be explained by the fact that she was drunk and confused and lonely, by the fact that Harry's cruel failure to love her had made her need some one. But she knew herself too well to think that was the main reason. She might have been tempted to stay with the Duke after Harry's rejection, but not to allow him to make love to her.
What had happened had happened for one reason, she thought. She had met a man who so completely dominated and captivated her that nothing else counted. Only she must not give it more emphasis than it deserve. There was no real indication that he cared for her. The sweet things he had said to her in the study were lovely, but he had probably said them to make her feel better. He was in some ways the kindest, most thoughtful man she had ever met. His careful dressing of her when she had passed out and the way he had glossed over what had occurred. Wasn't it another proof of his thoughtfulness?
The Duke's name was paged a fourth time, but no one came to the desk. She was about to turn away when she heard a porter say that the Duke's driver was going to pick him up soon and could take a message to him. She moved quickly to the porter.
"Excuse me, I heard you say the Duke's driver is waiting. Has he been gone long?"
"No," the porter said. "He left not long ago with two young Americans. The driver just returned. They cannot be too far actually."
"Where is the driver?" she asked.
"Just outside the door. Ask for Ricardo, car no. 23m, Senorita."
As she turned to go, the man added. "But they will be back soon. He has instructions to pick them up again in half an hour."
She smiled and gave him a twenty peso note. "I will surprise them. If Mrs. Matson or her brother ask about me, say nothing. It's a little joke we are playing."
The desk man looked alarmed. "But you should wait here. They will be back soon."
She shook her head. "I want to go."
He shrugged. He had tried to stop her, but if she wanted to visit the Villa Amarillo, it was up to her. The doorman would never let her in anyhow. Nor would Riccardo take her probably. He would not risk offending the Duke.
Ricardo cheerfully took the risk for a fifty peso note. It would be a good story to tell the boys at his favorite cafe tonight. How he had taken the Duke's mistress to the Villa Amarillo.
As she turned to go, the man said: "But they will be back soon. He has instructions to pick them up again in half an hour."
She smiled and gave him a twenty peso note. "I will surprise them If Mrs. Matson or her brother ask about me say nothing. It's a little joke we are playing."
The desk man looked alarmed. "But you should wait here. They will be back soon."
She shook her head. "I want to go."
He shrugged. He hat tried to stop her! But if she wanted to visit the Villa Amarillo, it was up to her. The doorman would never let her in anyhow. Nor would Riccardo take her probably. He would not risk offending the Duke.
Riccardo cheerfully took the risk for a fifty peso note. It would be a good story to tell the boys at his favorite cafe tonight. How he had taken the Duke's mistress to the Villa Amarillo. Mother that would make them roar. It was like dropping a match in a barrel of oil. And as long as no one was the wiser, who was hurt. From what he heard, the Duke was always getting out of such jams anyway. Just so long as he was out of gunfire. You never knew what women might do when they got jealous.
At the Villa Amarillo, the three men were feeling wonderful. The girls in their brief and revealing costumes were sitting on their laps and they were going through a round of toasts. To love, to Italy, the U.S. Mexico and anything they could think of.
The atmosphere of the Villa Amarillo had relaxed them completely. The wine had loosened their tongues. When the three girls rose for one of their periodic visits to the powder room, Harry fumbled for a moment and said:
"Listen Frank. You're one of my best friends. Maybe best I got. If you want to kick me around the block after you hear this, go ahead. I got it coming." Can I be honest with you. I mean can you take a real shock?"
"Sure," Frank said drunkenly. "And after that I got something to tell you. Maybe we'll kick each other around the block."
"Well come on," the Duke said. "Or maybe I'll kick both of you."
"Okay, here goes," Harry said taking a deep breath. "I love Ilsa. I want to marry her. I was engaged to her once and I walked out. Now she's got you. I'm not going to try to stop it. I just wanted you to know."
Frank stared at him morosely. "I used to be engaged to Lee. I don't know whether I love her or not anymore. I don't know anything. All I know is I'm not going to try to stop her."
The Duke looked at them both with new interest. "You mean you were both engaged to each other's girls?"
"Looks that way," Frank said. He was surprised as he spoke that it did not bother him much. He had not thought of Lee for hours. Ever since he had seen Dolores, he had been thinking of Dixie Aaron. Now somewhat befogged by the wine, he wondered what she was doing. Probably having a pizza at her favorite Third Avenue bar. He wished he was up there having one with her.
"We're still friends?," Harry said in a rather disbelieving voice.
"Sure," Frank said. "I think you ought to marry Ilsa if you love her. You have my permission."
The Duke de Broccoh looked at them and scowled. "What happens to poor Lee Feltman," he said. "Go back to Germany, jilted a second time?"
The young Americans looked up at him surprised.
"No I guess I'll marry her if shell have me," Frank said slowly. "I owe her that."
"Owe her?" the Duke said disgustedly. "You don't marry a girl like that out of pity or duty. She's one in a million."
Harry grinned. "Looks like you think so Duke. Why don't you marry her then? You're a bachelor."
The Duke waved a deprecatory hand. "Don't be silly. I'm not the marrying kind. I was born polygamous." He paused and looked at the far wall. "Only sometimes I think if I ever really wanted to try, she'd be the one. On the hell with it. Moso," he yelled to the waiter. "More drinks. How about some more Chili too amigos?"
Harry grabbed his stomach. "Not me. It's running out of my ears."
Frank was watching the Duke thoughtfully. "You like her very much don't you Pietro?"
The Duke shrugged. "What difference does it make. It's out of the question. She wouldn't even consider it." He took Frank's hand. "But be kind to her Frank please. She's been hurt too much already."
Frank nodded. The Duke seemed embarrassed by being caught in a sentimental mood and began to sing in Italian several bawdy Army songs he had known as a younger man. They were joined by several diners and the three girls who arrived in the middle of the solo.
The Duke stopped at the end of a verse and bowed low. "Gentlemen: their highnesses have returned, shall we continue as we were?"
Instantly all three men assumed very serious expressions and sat very straight.
The Mexican girls regarded the grave faces of the three men and laughed as they sat on their laps.
The Duke ordered several toasts in succession. They drank to love again, to Mexico, to the United States, to Italy, to each of the three girls and at last, because they could not think of anything else, to Shirley Temple.
By the time they had reached Shirley Temple, the waiter had to bring two bottles and the girls had to go to the ladies room. The Duke looked affectionately at his two friends and put his arms around their shoulders. The Duke was getting very mellow and the mellower, the funnier.
"Hey you know this is a lot of fun," the Duke said. "We should do it at least once a year."
"Once a month would be better," Harry said in a blurred voice. "Or maybe once a week. Especially when the weeks are like this one. I really needed something like this."
"How about you Frank," the Duke said. "You look sad."
"I was just thinking how much Carmen reminds me of Dixie."
"Who's Dixie?" asked Harry.
He told them. The Duke and Harry laughed. Then the Duke shook his head. "I'm not saying anything against Dixie, but I think you've got a wonderful girl in Lee. She's one of the most charming little girls I've ever met."
He winked. "I could really go for her myself." He turned to Harry. "Don't misunderstand I think Ilsa's lovely too."
Harry sighed. "I wish to God I knew where she was."
The Duke's eyes brightened. "I know, but I drink you're better off here."
"Where?" Harry said eagerly. "For Christ sake tell me."
"No. I don't want any homicide today. It's been too good a day."
He turned to Frank quickly, regretting his slip of the tongue. He had promised himself not to interfere, in Ilsa's Mexican romance.
"Another glass Frank?," the Duke asked in a half-drunken drawl.
Frank nodded absently. He was still thinking wistfully of Dixie.
"You worried about Lee?" the Duke asked discreetly. "You don't have to. That girl's a thoroughbred, believe me. I know."
He wasn't thinking about her. He was thinking about how much he missed Dixie. He lifted the glass to his lips.
"Come on, Duke," Harry said. "Where the hell's Ilsa? And what's that crack mean? You saying my girl's not a thoroughbred?"
"No, no," the Duke said. "I made a mistake, that's all."
"That was no mistake," Harry said truculently. "If you're any friend of mine, you'll tell me where she is."
"Look, Harry," the Duke said, "don't-." His eyes brightened as he saw the three girls come toward them. "Shh-well talk about it later. Mexicans get very restive when you discuss other women in their presence."
"Tell me, Duke," Harry said. "Or I'm getting out of here."
"Let's have another drink first," Pietro said. A few more drinks and Harry would forget he had ever asked the question.
They made room for the girls and the Duke poured another round of champagne. They were making a toast to an American dancer named Dick Monahan whom the Duke liked when they saw his driver approach. He spoke awkwardly.
"Senor, there is a lady outside in my taxi. She insisted on coming."
"A woman?" the Duke said in an anxious voice. "Who?"
"I don't know. Young, pretty, a foreigner I think, She said it was terribly urgent she sees you at once. Very nervous. Jumped in my car at the hotel as I leave. I could not stop her. She insisted you would be glad to see her."
The Duke put down his glass. "What does she look like?" he asked carefully. "Dark, thin, dark eyes?"
The man nodded. The Duke closed his eyes and shuddered. His eyes roamed the big hall to see where the rear exits were.
"What's the matter Duke," Harry said amused. "You being chased?"
The Duke rose hurriedly. "Listen amigos, if she asks you, I'm not here. I was never here. Tell I went to Guatamala, to Church anywhere. Just don't let her see me."
"Who?" Harry asked laughing. The girls watched the Duke and stared at each other bewilderedly.
"If it's who I think it is," the Duke said, "It is Dolores Gabor-Berenger. A German, Hungarian Portuguese dancer I used to have an affair with here a year ago. She's promised to kill me. I thought she had gone to Europe on a dance tour."
"But she can't come in here for Pete's sake," Harry said.
"She can come in anywhere," the Duke said, buttoning his shirt. "She's only sitting in the car because she thinks I don't know who she is. She's already shot at me twice. You don't know that woman. She'd run into a Turkish bath if she was after a man."
"What's she so mad about?" Harry asked. "Because you quit?"
The Duke nodded. "That and I made the mistake of spending a weekend with her friend in Havana. She lost face and for a woman like her, it's the most horrible thing in the world. Goodby amigos. See you later. Remember now. Don't tell her I was here. Or where I'm staying?"
"Wait a minute," Harry yelled as the Duke ran toward the rear exit. "Where's Ilsa. I've got to find her. Please Duke. Give it to me."
The Duke hesitated a second and shouted: "The Duke D'Alba Apartments-any cabbie knows it. Look for somebody named Gomez. Pepe Gomez! Adios."
"Where are you going to be," Frank asked concerned.
There was no time to answer. They heard a loud altercation at the front door and a Mexican voice pleaded loudly: "Senorita, you cannot enter here!"
The Duke sprinted toward the rear not waiting to hear more The girls stared at him with astonishment.
Ingebord, the Swedish girl who had sat with him accompanied him to the rear exit. The two Mexican girls returned to Frank and Harry's laps.
Now the quarreling at the door was reaching the point where several men were yelling. They were demanding that they allow the lady into the room.
Suddenly they saw the crowd at the door melt and a familiar figure descend upon them. Before they could do anything, they saw Lee Feltman reach their table. Frank and Harry stared at her with horror.
Lee stared at them with mouth open and took in the half-dressed girls on their laps. For a moment she could only stare at them speechlessly.
When the men found their voices they said "Lee." She blushed and said stupidly:
"I didn't expect to find you here. I was looking for the Duke."
"He went to church", Frank said automatically.
There was complete silence for a moment at the table. Then it was broken by an eruption from the two Mexican girls who shouted at Lee, ordering her to leave. Lee did her best to ignore them. She waited for Harry to answer.
Harry swallowed and said, "Sit down, Lee." He moved the girl off his lap. She fell to the floor. Lee's mouth hung open.
Frank was too crocked to worry about how he looked. But he remembered his manners. "Have some champagne," he said politely, and offered her a full glass. He saw Lee's face redden with anger and embarrassment. Lee took the glass and threw it in his face.
"You're the most disgusting scum I've ever met in my life," she yelled. She took her engagement ring from her finger and threw it in Harry's face. He caught and grabbed at her arm as she turned to go.
"Wait, Lee," Harry said sheepishly. "Let me explain. You see, the Duke wanted to give us a bachelor party and...."
Lee's temper did not explode often, but when it did, it was a lulu.
"Get your hands off me," she shouted angrily. "Don't touch me. And don't try to implicate the Duke in this. You just told me he went to church."
The two men looked helplessly at one another.
"Hey, Senor," a man from the next table shouted. "I like a girl with fire like that."
In a blaze of blind anger, Harry turned and threw the bottle at him.
"No," Lee shouted. "Don't throw it."
But it was too late. A second bottle followed the first as Harry reacted in a fury.
The man ducked and it struck the back of his neighbor's head. Instantly the room was a hubbub of excited Spanish and they were surrounded by angry waiters. Four of them grabbed the two Americans and tried to drag them into the manager's office. They would have gone meekly except for Lee. The German girl was seized by the Mexican women who angrily tore at her dress.
Lee began to fight back with a rage and a strength that amazed Harry and Frank. She was successful in holding off further attacks while the two Americans strained at the hands that bound them.
"Let her go," Frank yelled as the Mexican waiters continued to hold them back. Someone had told the mariachis to play much louder because he had to shout to be heard.
Suddenly one of the girls yelled in Spanish. "She needs a good spanking and I'm going to give it to her. That'll teach her not to come in where she's not wanted. Hombre! Give me your leather."
The girls forced the newcomer to stoop over the lap of the redhead who had offered the spanking. One of the Mexicans pulled off his alligator skin belt and gave it to her, yelling, "Ole!" The girl sitting down whipped Lee with angry oaths, calling the girl every name she could remember. The mildest was "interloper".
Frank winced and in a growing rage butted his head against the man nearest him to break away. The man holding him groaned aloud and let go. He rushed toward the prostrate girl at the same time that Harry kicked one of his captors fiercely in the shins.
Before they could reach Lee, however, several men seized their arms again and held them fast while the girl was beaten. Frank winced as he saw the girl's flesh become red with welts. Her lovely back was ugly with scratches.
The men shouted at the top of their lungs but to no avail. Then two things happened in rapid succession. One swing of the belt against Lee's backside sent her with a crash to the floor, smashing her glasses. Almost simultaneously they heard police whistles blown behind them.
"La policia!" one of the girls screeched and the crowd began to scamper like dry leaves in a wind. Not soon enough to escape Lee's wrath, however. The destruction of her glasses had turned her into a savage woman bent on revenge. Seizing a chair she beat two girls over the head and then began to throw bottles, glasses, ashtrays and anything else she could lay her hands on.
The police stopped her just in time. She was about to strangle the girl who had spanked her with the belt.
They broke it up and gruffly ordered the men and girls to dress and accompany them to the police station. Harry held the shivering, sobbing girl in his arms. The police watched him quietly.
When they reached the police station, the Americans, Lee and half a dozen Mexicans were asked to explain what had happened. Frank pulled one of the officers aside and whispered something in his ears. The man's lips curled in contempt and frank disbelief.
"What did he tell you?" the officer beside him said sternly.
"He insists he and his friends are completely innocent, but that in any event he wants his uncle at the American embassy to be informed. He's lying. It's mthing but a stupid trick. American tourists use it all the time."
"I'm not lying," Frank said irritably "Call him and ask if you don't believe me. In any case, we were jumped on by everyone because we were leaving. And they attacked this girl."
"I tell you I'm not a whore," Lee said indignantly. "I came in to find someone. I'm a tourist here. I came here to get married."
"I demand that you call the American Embassy," Frank said angrily. "I warn you I'll carry this to the foreign office."
The chief police officer turned a bilious eye upon him "Let's stop this idiocy, shall we? You will find me easier to deal with if you drop the attitude of the indignant big shot. I know you have no uncle in the American embassy. I know this girl is just another European whore who's come to Mexico to make her fortune. And I have nothing against it."
He turned to the other men in the room and smiled broadly. The men smiled back and one of them smacked his thigh at the detective's joke. The man who had spoken nodded his appreciation. He bowed in mock formality to Lee.
"You're admirably endowed Senorita. I'm sure the clients love you and that most of them come from the Hotel Del Prado or the Hilton or the Reforma. Now the card please. Where did you put it?"
Someone said something in Spanish that set everyone to roaring with laughter. The policeman tried to control a smile.
"Bueno," the police officer said at last "Where did you leave your card? Or are you trying to tell me you are engaged in prostitution without a license?"
"I'm not a prostitute!" Lee retorted. "I told you I'm a visitor. I came here to get married."
"To whom, may I ask?" the police officer asked. "To him," Lee said, pointing a finger at Harry, who blushed.
The policeman nodded. "And of course Americans always take their fiancees to the Villa Amarillo. Now I've had enough. Stop prattling about a marriage and tell me where your papers are."
"She's telling the truth," Harry said. "We're supposed to get married. It was in the local papers yesterday."
For the first time the police officer looked uncertain.
"Look at the file of papers inside," he ordered one of his men. "See if there is any marriage with these people involved."
A moment later the man returned and sheepishly whispered in his ear. The police officer shrugged. "Very well," he said, "you are free to go."
He was obviously very embarrassed and trying hard to swallow his chagrin. "Let them go," he said gruffly. He turned on his heel and walked out.
"How about apologizing too," Frank shouted after him.
Harry held him back. "Look let's quit while we're ahead, huh. I want to find Ilsa."
Lee accompanied them reluctantly to a taxi since she had no money of her own. She had left her purse in the car that brought her. But she made it clear that she did not want to talk to either of them.
She sat glumly back against the rear seat of the car as it sped in the direction of Pepe Gomez' apartment.
CHAPTER TEN
The moment Lowenkopf finished speaking, Pepe tried to figure things out. He had asked the answering service to stall off Mrs. Matson till he was ready for her. Then who was the man who had just called?
Meaning what was the true reason for the call? Then it came to him. There was no other likely answer. The answering service girl said the man knew he was at home. It could therefore be only one man.
The bearded one. Mrs. Matson's detective hired to spy on him. It probably meant that Mrs. Matson would be along with him soon. There was no time to lose. He went back into the bedroom.
Ilsa was lying on her back and staring at the wall. She was feeling headache and lousy in general. The drinks had made her very woozy and she had been sick on the way back. The long drive to Pepe's house and the fresh air had revived her. An intuition that something was wrong, cockeyed, came when they had left the flower gardens soon after they got there. Looking around, as Pepe concentrated on the road, she had seen the Duke de Broccoli.
At first she thought she was having a dream. But the face leaning out of the car just a few yards behind was unmistakable. It was the Duke and it was his beard floating in the wind.
Then what the hell was Pepe up to? She remembered that he had fed her a lot of drinks the day before and then she had awakened half naked in her hotel room. It must have been he who undressed her, instead of herself as she had thought. And now he was trying the same stunt.
He had tanked her up and had taken her out to the flower boats to make her, figuering that she would be too stoned to interfere. Then the Duke had spotted them and-Her mind stopped. Yes, but what the hell was Pietro doing there? He wasn't due till three days later. Her mind was too tired, too cloudy to think it out. One thing was sure though, she wasn't going to bed twice with the Mexican. Fumbling in her bag, she found a small bottle of benzedrine tablets which she took occasionally to get through long, dull parties. She popped two in her mouth and salivated until she could get them down. Then she tried to wave to the Duke, but the car was not in sight. She leaned back. She wasn't too worried about Gomez when she was sobered.
From what she had heard all Latins were out to make you and Pepe was no different. But he was not a hoodlum. If he could get you suitably crocked and take your clothes off, he would do it, but he would not try rough stuff. Besides she was not really sure he had made love to her the day before. It was still possible that she had staggered into the room on her own after the date and removed her clothes. Also she had the oddest memory of having embraced Harry West-over.
By the time Pepe opened the door of his apartment she was cold sober. She followed him inside and looked around appreciatively. The apartment was clean, modern and well decorated. Obviously Pepe had taste.
"Nice," she said and sat down on a couch. "But what are we doing here? Don't tell me these are the flower gardens of Xochomilco?"
The clarity of her speech somewhat disturbed him, but he did not show it. He mixed them two Tequila cocktails and sat down beside her.
"I thought we had enough. It was so crowded too. Here drink this. You'll feel fine."
"I feel great now," Ilsa said, ignoring the cocktail. "I think now that we have seen your lovely place, you should drive me back to my hotel."
Pepe looked surprised. "Before we have eaten the magnificent Chicken with mole sauce? I bought all the ingredients for the occasion." He moved closer to her on the couch.
"No, thank you," Ilsa said, inching away. "I think I'd better get back to my hotel. My fiance will be worried if I don't turn up."
Pepe's mouth hung open. What the devil had gone wrong he wondered. An hour ago she had seemed completely drunk. He had to get the plan finished soon and here the silly woman was anxious to leave already.
"Drink this," he ordered as gently as he could. "Please."
It was a big double glass and it would rock her to the core.
"And then you will drive me to the Del Prado?" she asked carefully.
"Absolutely," he said, not adding, "if you can walk after you've had it."
Ilsa downed it certain that it could not combat the effect of the benzedrines. They were both wrong. The drink made her reel with its slug of power. But it did not knock her out. It made her a little dizzy, yes, but she could walk. Now she stood up uncertainly.
"Let's go," she said smiling.
He sighed and pulled her down. "One more for the road."
She shook her head. He knew then there was only one way. Seizing her in his arms, he said "Don't go yet please."
She smiled and tried to disengage herself. "Pepe. I know what you brought me here for. But it's impossible. Even if I wanted to, which I do not, that man who followed us would be enough to stop me."
"The bearded one?" he scoffed. "Forget it. He's spying on me. All he'll do is report to Mrs. Matson that we came up here. That's what I want her to know."
She stared at him with horror.
"That is what you want my mother-in-law to know? Are you crazy? What are you trying to do? Kill my marriage. That's U she needs. She hates me like poison now."
"No, Ilsa", Pepe said. "I don't want to hurt you in any way or kill anything. But I'm a desperate man. I need the money she's offered me. And the only way I can get it is by proving I know something about you."
"Know what?" Ilsa said warily.
The Mexican detective blushed delicately and coughed. He threw up his hands. It was difficult to explain when she stared at him like a woman expecting a fist to hit her.
"You have a birthmark she has seen," he began slowly. "Do you not?"
Her eyes widened and she moved away from him frightenedly.
"I must describe it to her, Ilsa."
"Get out," she barked, and then she remembered It was his house.
"Senorita", Pepe said. "I need the money. I have seven children. They are hungry. You have no idea how much or how often they eat. And my wife-she watches American films on TV and boom she has to run out and get the same dress Loretta Young has at the nearest shop."
"I'm leaving," she said angrily. "If you won't drive me back to the hotel, I'll get a cab."
"Senorita. It's worth $2,000 to me," Pepe said unhappily.
"It's worth my marriage to me," she retorted.
"Your marriage is in no danger," he said. "If I learn about the mark from a third person-especially a female person. Am I right?"
"Yes", she said, cautiously. "But how would the other person know?"
He explained about his cousin Dolores in the hotel. How she would testify that she had seen the mark while undressing the girl.
"That's not very nice of her to discuss it", Ilsa pouted.
"True", Pepe admitted. "But it does not affect you. It is she who has been incorrect. You were merely sleepy and shall we say the Tequila, which is very strong, went to your head. She merely told me what she saw."
"Yes", she said slowly. "Why not. She's only one of thousands of people who might have seen it. After all I am a dancer ... and anyone who saw the dance in Germany might have told you."
"Exactly," he said triumphantly. "But of course we do not tell this to Mrs. Matson. She will incorrectly assume that you and I have done something wrong.
Otherwise how could I know your birthmark so well?"
"And when she complains?", Ilsa said. "Calls me names? Tells me I have been unfaithful to her son?"
"Then I cite Dolores' testimony and I myself will testify you are completely innocent. I'll even confess she wanted me to he about you."
She laughed slowly. It was a rather good joke on the old battle-axe she had to admit. And the beauty of it was that if Mrs. Matson fell into her own trap, Frank would learn about his mother's attempt to ruin her. Oddly enough it was not Frank she wanted to convince, but Harry. The thought that Harry might misunderstand and think she had done wrong bothered her.
"Can I trust you?" she asked. "To tell the truth if she does cause trouble."
"I swear by my wife and seven children," Pepe said quietly. She sighed. "Very well. I'll tell you. The birthmark is strawberry-colored-it is rather high up on my er...."
"Yes, yes", Pepe said quickly. "I understand. And the shape?"
"It resembles a small daisy," Ilsa said coloring. "With six petals."
Pepe's face was wreathed in smiles. He kissed her hand fervently.
"Senorita Ilsa," he said happily. "You have saved my life. In return I insist that you let me buy you an excellent wedding gift."
The doorbell jolted them both. Ilsa dressed in haste and Pepe went out to admit Mrs. Matson. When the door opened he saw the bearded man who had been following them all morning. He cursed and started to slam the door in his face, but the Duke's foot was too quick. He pushed in the door and rushed inside, looking for Ilsa.
"Get out of here," Pepe thundered," and tell your employer I will not be spied upon by any stupid blunderer. He reached for his shoulder holster and had just pulled out a small Italian biretta when Ilsa screamed behind him
"No, don't shoot. He's a friend," she shouted. Pepe looked utterly confused and put the gun back. The Duke ignored him and threw a slave chain at the girl, then he turned on his heel and began to walk out.
Ilsa took the chain. It was a duplicate of the one Claire had stolen, but it had an inscription to Ilsa Wecker instead of Gelb.
"Don't go Pietro," she called and ran after him. He shook her arm off, haughtily.
"I did not come here to be shot at by your lover," he said.
"I'm sorry," Pepe apologized. "I get nervous sometimes."
The Duke explained that he had come to town earlier than he had planned after Claire had confronted him with the bracelet in a jealous scene. He had made an exact copy and wanted to give it to Ilsa before Mrs. Matson noticed it was gone.
He added that Claire had started an investigation into Ilsa's background and had boasted she would ruin her completely.
"If Frank's mother doesn't beat her to it," Ilsa said bitterly. She told him what Pepe had been ordered to do. He whistled.
"We've got to do something," Pietro said, when suddenly the doorbell rang again. "That must be her," he said quickly. "She'd better not see me or shell know that new bracelet's a phony." He turned to Pepe.
"Amigo, forgive me for being so rude. Can I possibly go out the back? Odd, you know this place seems quite familiar. I used to know a girl in the neighborhood. Might have been this house in fact"
The bell rang shrilly in the front. Pepe shoved the Duke toward the rear. He had no time for chit chat now.
"Sorry," the Duke said apologetically. "You'd better see to the front."
When Pepe opened the front door, he was shoved aside roughly by Harry Westover who strode angrily into the apartment.
"Where the hell is she?" he bellowed. "You son of a bitch, if you've touched her I'll kill you."
Pepe stared at him confusedly. Before he could register anything the door swung open again and Frank Matson and Lee Feltman entered.
"Look," Pepe said in his most dignified and outraged manner. "You are trespassing on my private...." He got no further. His vocal cords were stopped by an angry uppercut from Harry's fist. Pepe's staggered and fell to his knees. He rose and was coming in for a bull's rush at the American when they heard Ilsa scream "Stop!"
Harry ignored the Mexican and turned to look at her. A clout from Gomez' right fist knocked him right into Ilsa's arms. She stared at him and held him tight. The Mexican's hard fist had hammered his neck. "Harry!" she wailed. "Harry, wake up." He opened his eyes a moment later and said: "want to marry you." She looked at him as if he were mad and let him slip to the floor. He picked himself up with a groan as he felt the back of his neck.
"You're marrying Lee," Ilsa said, trying to understand what he had just said. "Not me," the dark haired girl snapped. "Not me." Pepe stared at them helplessly. "Please leave!" he begged. He had prepared the scene so beautifully for Mrs. Matson and now they were turning it into a farce. It was useless; they were shouting at each other in a babel of angry voices when the front bell rang sharply again. Pepe shuddered. Who on earth could that be? "Go inside into the other room" he implored them. "And be silent. They can evict me here for making a disturbance like this. This is supposed to be a place for discreet adventures." Sometimes Americans threatened to drive him out of his mind, they were so completely unpredictable.
He herded them into the bedroom and was turning back when suddenly the back door bell rang. Pepe put his hand to his forehead and cursed fluently in Spanish.
He opened the door quickly. The Duke de Broccoli ran inside, one hand mopping his brow with a silk handkerchief.
"Pietro!" Lee Feltman said astonished and yet curiously glad to see him. "I thought you were in church?" Pepe looked completely baffled.
"In what?" the Duke said. He saw Harry's eyes stare upward. "Oh yes. In Church. I was. I was. I just came back here to-to-"
"The Duke and Sendr Gomez are old friends," Ilsa said quickly as she spotted Pepe's embarrassment. The shrill ringing of the front door bell relieved them of any more explanations. The Duke put his arm around Pepe and almost dragged him into the front room.
Pepe moved along in a daze. "I'm sorry to be back amigo," the Duke said. "I did know someone here. She lives on the third floor. Her husband was having a cigar in the doorway as I passed. As soon as he saw me he rushed at me with a knife. I had no choice. Do you understand?"
Pepe shook his head. The phone rang but he ignored it. "Go in there," he said pointing to the bathroom. A second later he went to the door. It was Helen Matson, and she was in a towering rage.
"What the devil's the matter with you Gomez," she raged. "Are you deaf, I've been ringing and ringing. Don't you ever answer bells?"
"I was in the bath," he said still dazed.
"I told them I had to see you first before they came. Is everything finished. I mean...." she blushed.
He nodded slowly, shuddering as the Duke flushed the toilet.
"Good," she said smiling. "Now tell me the birthmark quickly. What does it look like?" Fortunately she had not heard anything, he thought.
The smile brought him to his senses. "The money first."
She removed a checkbook from her purse. "No," he said. "No checks. Travelers checks."
"Don't you trust me?" she said petulantly.
"I would not trust my own mother in such a transaction."
She stared at him shrewdly. "You did make love to her?"
He nodded. "Where is she now then?", she persisted.
He craned his head toward the bedroom and gave her his wickedest winks and grins. She blushed again and removed twenty $100 checks from her pad. A moment later he gave her a satisfactory description of the birthmark. Just in time because the front bell rang again. She rushed to admit Lowenkopf. He looked like the wrath of God personified.
"You may tell Mr. Lowenkopf of the U.S. Embassy everything," she told Pepe majestically. Lowenkopf waited ominously, staring at Pepe.
"I was describing Miss Wecker's-er-birthmark," Pepe said smiling.
"On her backside," Mrs. Matson said loudly. "He saw it when he made love to her. She's in his bed right now. Let's go." She started for the inner room, but Lowenkopf stopped her in horror.
"Madame we can't go in there without his permission. This is Mexico."
"Oh you can go inside anytime," Pepe said. He was beginning to feel much better. "Anytime at al!"
Lowenkopf coughed. "Is what Mrs. Matson alleges true? I mean did you have relations with the young lady. You are of course not obliged to answer but I think if you intend to do any further work through our embassy you had better tell us."
"But of course. I wish to cooperate," Pepe said innocently.
"Then you admit you had intimate relations," Lowenkopf said sternly.
"I do not," Pepe said, smiling broadly.
Mrs. Matson's eyes widened. "But he gave me a perfect description of the birthmark on her backside. Where did you ... how did you see it if you didn't make love to her?"
Pepe hesitated. Anything he said could be heard by the trio inside he realized.
"Well how do you know what her birthmark is," Lowenkopf said.
"I told him about it," a new voice said behind them. They turned to see the Duke de Broccoli in the doorway of the bathroom. "You see I knew."
"Then how did you see it," Mrs. Matson said in the voice of a TV district attorney. Pepe swallowed and began to say something.
"Well actually," the Duke said easily. "I happened to watch her do her act, Bouncing in Bavaria, about a year ago in Munich. Quite good too."
Mrs. Matson looked as if she wanted to kill them all
"They're lying. Let's go in and see her. She's in his bed. Even that is enough to show the kind of girl she is."
So saying she marched past them and stiff-armed the door. As she did the visitors saw Ilsa, Lee, Harry and Frank sitting on the bed and the floor. She turned to Gomez in complete consternation.
"You Judas," she screamed. "You promised me to see her alone. Give me back that money."
"I'm sorry I cannot do that, Mrs. Matson. You asked for proof that I knew her birthmark and that would mean I had done my job."
"Wait a minute," Lowenkopf interjected "you mean you were hired to do that by Mrs. Matson?"
"Yes," Pepe said with a sheepish smile.
Lowenkopf looked extremely uncomfortable and stared at Mrs. Matson.
"You're lying," Mrs. Matson retorted.
Pepe contradicted her by showing the travelers cheques she had just given him. "Then why did you give me this?"
Lowenkopf coughed. "Did Mrs. Matson pay you to do what you did specifically to ruin this girl's re-entry chances?"
Pepe shrugged. "A gentleman never prefers charges against a lady, until," he looked at Mrs. Matson, "she accuses him of lying."
Lowenkopf looked at him uncomfortably. "I really don't know what to say Mrs. Matson." He turned to the two couples. "Are you all aware that you were engaged to each other's fiancees only a year ago?"
"What of it?" Harry asked blandly. "Any law against that?"
"Well it's just damned funny that's all. It looks to me like a very odd arrangement?"
"What do you mean odd?" Harry asked, ominously. "You'd better be careful unless you want a suit for slander buddy."
"Of course," Mrs. Matson broke in. "They've arranged it this way so they commit mutual adultery. Why it's the most horrible, the most obscene thing I ever heard of. That's why Westover suggested he and his fiancee stay at our home. That's why they told Frank to have a double wedding in Mexico," she said. "They're all sleeping together."
Lee blushed "That's not true. You have a dirty mind."
Gregory Lowenkopf looked at them all. "If anything like that's going on you'd better forget any idea of bringing those girls back in."
Harry stood up and came within inches of Lowenkopf. "It's a dirty he and you know it" They were interrupted by the front bell again.
"For God's sakes," Harry said. "What the hell is this place the annex to the airport?"
Pepe went out. A moment later he was back with Mrs. Matson's brother. He was red-faced and angry as he faced his sister.
"I learned at the embassy that you were here Lowenkopf," he said grimly. "I also hear you've been investigating my nephew's private affairs. Lowenkopf. What the devil are you up to?"
"I'm sorry Helen," he snapped. "It's one thing when you ask me quietly to help in a family matter. But when you have the embassy involved officially with long distance calls to Munich, that's different. I am a public official after all."
"Stay out of this John," his sister snapped.
"Well Mr. Thomas," Lowenkopf began, "Mrs. Matson here led me to believe something was wrong and that the girl marrying your nephew was guilty of moral turpitude."
"That's insane," John Thomas said.
"John," Mrs. Matson warned. "Stay out of this."
"Frank? Do you want me to stay out of this," John said.
Frank shook his head.
"All right now what's the charge against her?" John said.
"Well it's against both," Lowenkopf said lamely. "Mrs. Matson has grounds for suspecting that these two couples are well-co-habiting with each other's mates."
"Did she actually say that?" John said in a dangerous voice.
"No, not actually in those words," Lowenkopf said, feeling a little warm under his collar.
"Then they're just your own suspicions aren't they?" John snapped.
"For your information, my sister asked me to hire this man to spy on them." I'm quite ashamed to say I did so. To my own nephew."
"John," Helen Matson shouted. "Don't say anymore."
I'm sorry Helen. I am grateful to you for what you've done for my daughter, but I'm not going to ruin Frank's happiness. He is my nephew too."
Lowenkopf reddened and put on his hat. "Excuse me, I've got to get back to the embassy." Turning to the group, he said humbly. I'm sorry for anything I've said that may have offended you." He avoided looking at John Thomas.
"You're not going to marry Lee Feltman Frank," his mother wailed. "Don't if you expect to live in that house."
Frank gulped. "If shell have me, I'll marry her mother. If I have to live in a tent. That's final."
He turned to Lee. "I'm sorry Lee. I've acted like an idiot. I'll marry you tomorrow. I'll marry you tonight, if you want."
Lee stared at him with mixed feelings. Suddenly she began to cry and shook her head. "No, Frank. It's too late."
The Duke came closer to her and put her head against his chest. She began to cry softly. Frank watched them thoughtfully.
"Don't worry about my mother," Frank said awkwardly. "She can't stop us now."
Lee stopped crying and dried her eyes. "I'm not worried. I just don't think I love you any more. I'm sorry."
Frank looked relieved. So did his mother. She put her arms around him. "Don't worry darling. Well find you a nice suitable girl with the proper background. Right on Long Island. You'll see."
John Thomas snorted. "Don't be a fool Frank. Don't you see what she's doing to you. Your mother simply cannot live unless she runs other people's fives. She even tried to run mine by holding my daughter's trip over my head. Be a man for God's sakes. Stand up for what you believe!"
They all waited while Frank wrestled with his feelings. Suddenly they saw his expression harden as he turned to his mother.
Frank tightened his lips. "I don't want a nice girl in Long Island damn it, mother. I've got a girl and I'm going to marry her. Next week."
"But she just said no," Mrs. Matson said bewilderedly.
"I'm not talking about her," he blurted out "Who then?"
"Dixie Aaron," he snapped. "And don't try to sic any more private detectives on me or I'll never talk to you again. I've had about enough of spying and interfering."
"Thataboy Frank," Harry yelled, putting his arm around him.
"Who is Dixie Aaron?" his mother said anxiously.
He smiled. "The most talent stripteaser in Greenwich Village Mother. She does a cha cha cha in a G-string and beads."
Mrs. Matson did not hear the last words. She fainted after the word "stripteaser."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Harry Westover turned over on his side on the fifteenth floor of the Essex House Hotel and looked blearily at the green sward of Central Park. Beside him the nude form of Ilsa stirred and slowly came awake.
"Shall we have breakfast here or downstairs darling?" he asked softly. He had asked her the same question every day for four days.
"Here you idiot. We can't make love after breakfast in the restaurant."
He kissed her hungrily and groped blindly for the telephone.
At the Idlewild Airport, Lee waited gloomily for the jet plane that would take her back to Frankfurt. She felt like crying as she saw the towers of Manhattan across the bay but the grief was too deep. She looked at her watch again. Fifteen minutes left in America. Then goodby. She thought of Harry and Frank and the Duke, of Mexico. Then shaking her head, as if to dispel the cobweb of her thoughts, she turned to a cigarette machine a few feet away. A tall familiar form stood beside it
"Hello," he said simply. She looked into the bearded face of the Duke de Brocolli.
She blushed. "Pietro! What are you doing here?"
"Come," he said quietly. "I have a car outside."
"No," she said. "It was kind of you to offer me a job as your secretary so I could stay in America but...."
"I don't want you as a secretary," the Duke said. "I want you as a wife." He took a small jeweler's case from his coat pocket and opened it to reveal a blue-white diamond ring. She gasped, and blushed deeply.
"No," she said uncertainly. "I've had my fill of American engagements. We'll be engaged for three or four weeks, then I'll be on my way back. I just can't take it any more. I'm sorry, Pietro. You're a nice, wonderful man, but I just can't take any more."
"I'm not joking," the Duke said seriously. "I admit marriage is not normally my suit. But I mean it. I'm driving you now to get the marriage license."
"You are?" Lee said surprised. For the first time a waver appeared in her voice. Then she became cautious again. "But that's just a license. It doesn't mean anything."
He showed her a copy of the latest newspaper. The society column was marked with a pen.
"The Duke de Broccoli," the announcement read. "Electrified the international set today by announcing that he will marry Miss Lee Feltman of Frankfurt, Germany. The ceremony will take place next month at...." and the story went on into further details of the Duke's career.
Lee's big dark eyes widened and filled with tears. She reached up and pushing aside the spade-like shrubbery on his chin, kissed him warmly.
As they sped toward the Duke's estate in his limousine, the Duke kissed her and felt wonderful. There was no doubt of it, he thought. He had to marry this one. Then, as they passed a long sleek Cadillac convertible with a magnificent large-breasted blonde at the wheel he found himself weakening. A few miles further, a tall, leggy American girl in shorts who was lobbing tennis balls over a net magnetized his eyes.
"Darling," Lee said. "Kiss me again."
The Duke kissed her again very affectionately. If he ever stopped looking at pretty girls he'd know he was dead. But that did not change the fact that he loved Lee very much. He made a mental vow, however, not to look quite so obviously when she was with him. Women did not take kindly to such things.
Lee watched him and smiled inwardly. If the Duke had pretended he was blind in the presence of any pretty woman, she would have thought him very ill. But she would pretend to be annoyed just to keep him in rein. With a man like Pietro, you did not encourage such things. It was like offering green apples to a small boy. His eyes were bigger than his stomach.
"Eyes front", she commanded sharply. "You almost brushed that car with the girl. You wouldn't want to hurt the poor child would you?"
"Heavens no," he said quickly.
He said nothing and looked at no one else till they got to his house.
The butler was embarrassed when he saw Lee with his master.
He coughed delicately. "There is a visitor waiting your Grace," he said. "In the main salon."
The Duke reddened. "Who Saunders?"
The servant hesitated. "Mrs. Van der Poole. She arrived here an hour ago and gave instructions to the cook. For dinner."
The Duke looked very embarrassed. He stared uncomfortably at Lee. Lee watched him expectantly.
"Saunders tell Mrs. Van der Poole my fiancee and I have been detained," the Duke said suddenly. "Tell her we won't be back till tomorrow."
"Yes sir," Saunders said. "But what shall I tell her to do with all that Lasagna she asked the cook to make."
"Tell her to eat it herself", Lee said quietly. "And if there's any left over she can stuff her ears with it. Come on Pietro."
The Duke nodded uncomfortably.
"And please ask her to call in advance when she wants to visit us," Lee continued with a twinkle in her eye. The Duchess de Brocoli doesn't like surprise visits."
The butler looked at the Duke.
He winked at him. "You heard the Duchess, Saunders. No surprise visits."
Without another word, they returned to the car and drove off.
"What do you want to do now Darling?" he asked as they moved away from the driveway.
"Let's get married at once", she said firmly. "At a Justice of the Peace."
He colored. "But dearest I've already told the press that we'd be married next month."
"This can be a secret ceremony", she said firmly. "There's no law saying we can't have a big wedding later."
The Duke gulped and and stroked his beard. He looked at the beautiful brunette out of the corner of his eye.
She was a lovely thing all right. And he wanted to marry her. But he could feel the ball and chain being hooked firmly on to his leg as she talked.
In her apartment in Manhattan, Dixie tried to fix breakfast in the kitchen. It was not easy. Frank continued to try to kiss her as she scrambled the eggs and watched the coffee.
"Darling", she said. "Stop it. I can't fix us breakfast if you keep kissing me."
"A wife's supposed to obey her husband", Frank said, grabbing her again. He kissed her mouth, chin and throat tenderly and felt her young, supple frame shiver against him.
"You keep this up", she warned. I'm going to have my meals out."
He laughed. "It'll be awfully embarrassing having me chase you around Longchamps or the Sixth Avenue Delicatessen."
She sighed and putting everything down returned to his arms.
The telephone rang. It rang several times. No one stirred to get it.
"Aren't you going to get it?" Dixie asked. "It's probably your mother again."
"Nope", he said, kissing her again. "I'll call her back in a couple of hours. I don't like breakfast interrupted. Besides I've resigned from Mama's army. She isn't my top sergeant any more. I have a new top kick now."
