enovel Everybody's Babe Robert Badrig [Future Story Codes]

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Everybody's Babe ....(74k)    by Robert Badrig

CHAPTER ONE

By the time the last reel was played Out the woman had reached him, touched him, captivated him as she had captivated numberless men throughout the world. She had done more than that. Her flickering shadow on the screen had roused him to a point of desire which was beyond the bounds of decency. How could he help it? Young enough to be impressionable, it was difficult to be constantly on his guard. Yet he instinctively knew that he should appear wise and objective, that he had to assume an air of nonchalance before such beauty.

Try and do it, said Laurence Kent to himself. How could you be objective about a girl like Eve Evans? A movie star as beautiful as Liz Taylor, as tempestuous as Sophia Loren. None of the sluttish, barefaced nudity of the Bardot girl. When Eve Evans disrobed, she seemed to be doing it just for you; though you sat in an audience of hundreds, she was yours, yours exclusively.

Your own private whore, thought Kent, and asked to see the bathing scene again.

The picture was called "The Kiss Of Semiramis," and for once Prestige Pictures had hit upon a spectacle with spirit, color, scope. The whole truth about the barbaric Persian queen was there, her insatiable lust, her pursuit and destruction of purity, her devastation of the Mesopotamian provinces, her final repentance unfolded before Laurence Kent.

To think that a wholesome American girl had done such a magnificent job as queen harlot of the East. Passion might be any girl's heritage, but Eve Evans was Semiramis. Savage, seductive, Circean. Kent watched the bathing scene again and saw Eve-no, Semiramis-lash out against her handmaidens because the wine she would bathe in did not match in color the coral tips of her breasts. And when she emerged, dripping with wine, that beautiful white body beaded with liquid amber, she was like some exotic lotus flower ready to be plucked, to be savored and loved.

The picture was ended, the lights flashed on, but Kent continued to sit quietly, brooding in his chair. On his left, Hank Sheridan, the author, brought out a cigarette case and Kent accepted a smoke from the tall, lean man with the iron-grey mustache.

"Well?" asked Sheridan.

"What a woman!" The spell of Eve was still upon him. "She's the embodiment of sex and lust, of wanton desire-and yet-"

"And yet she has that school-girl complexion," supplied Eddie Sterne, the public relations man. "But like you said-what a woman! Ah, she almost makes me forget my mother-in-law."

Kent flashed a look from the thoughtless, boyish countenance of the publicity man to the more intelligent face of the author.

"Eddie is clowning," Sheridan explained, "and yet, Eddie sums it up beautifully. Eve makes you forget everything and everyone else. Even your wife and mother-in-law."

"Your wife, too?" Kent smiled.

"Why not?" Eddie shrugged. "My wife can't compare with her mother. My mother-in-law can cook better, can tell a lustier joke, and holds her drink like a gentleman."

Kent came to his feet. "Well, this was fine. I enjoyed every minute of it, though I have some reservations about that picture ... Ah, forget it! You aren't catering to students of history or archeologists like myself. That Eve! That breath-taking woman! I'd like very much to meet her."

"Come with me," said Sheridan and led the way out of the projection room. Eddie Sterne brought up the rear.

"You know, Sheridan," said Sterne, "I think the studio is making a mistake in not hiring my mother-in-law as Eve's stand-in. They look so much alike from a distance. From a far distance, I grant you-"

They walked through the corridor, took the elevator to the top floor and emerged in the reception room.

The receptionist, a woman with silver-grey hair, looked at them with baby-blue eyes out of a doll-like face. She arose with supple grace, nodded to Sheridan, and looked at Kent with interest. Leading the way to the double doors of the executive suite, she held one portal open while they entered. Eddie Sterne, for once out of character, bent low over her hand and kissed it. "My beautiful Madeline!" he said. But she only patted his cheek and closed the door after them.

Kent couldn't help but notice this by-play. "Who is that remarkable woman?" he asked Sheridan.

The older man sighed. "That's Madeline Moore, a star of the silent films. When the talkies came, the beautiful Madeline was finished. She hasn't spoken a word since."

Kent looked in wonder at the closed door. Eddie Sterne swung him around to meet the short, pudgy man who advanced to meet them. Kent looked beyond him and about the lavish room. Eve Evans was conspicuous by her absence.

Sheridan said, "Mr. Kent, this is Mr. Stret, the president of Prestige Pictures. Mr. Stret, this is Laurence Kent, the archeologist who was so successful in finding the Governor's son."

The president of Prestige Pictures extended his hand. It was soft and pudgy, like himself, but with a man-size grip. He was pale-complexioned, the nose long and hooked, the fight brown eyes keen and observant but with a twinkle behind them. The best tailor in Hollywood fashioned his clothes and still he looked like a sloppy dresser.

"Mr. Kent, this is a pleasure." His voice was as charming as any movie star's. "I've always wanted to meet the man who found the Governor's son."

"That was a piece of luck," Kent deprecated. "I was in Egypt at that time-lucky enough to be on the scene when the young man's expedition went haywire. It wasn't so long ago when I was a rank amateur myself, so I could easily recall those first horrible mistakes. The Governor made too much of it when I brought the boy back, but the truth is that I was plain lucky."

"You found him when no one else could," Sheridan pointed out. "Don't belittle your own achievement. You'd be surprised how quickly Hollywood accepts you at your own value."

"What possible value could I have in Hollywood?" Kent wondered. "An old archeologist like myself-"

He was playing his cards right. They did have something up their sleeves and he needed a lot of money for that expedition of his.

"You sound like Methuselah!" The soft, white hand waved them to their seats. "Look at him, Eddie. He can't be more than thirty. The tall, rugged, outdoor type. Looks a lot like John Wayne when John Wayne was a lot younger." He turned to Kent. "Are you sure you don't want a movie contract?"

Kent shook his head. "Your make-believe romances are a fine menu for the masses; but to me, the most romantic thing in the world is a shovel and the site of an ancient kingdom."

Eddie Sterne looked at him in amazement, but Kent could see the mounting respect of the two older men as they considered his refusal. Within himself, Kent remained apprehensive. How much had he thrown away with his rejection?

Stret changed the topic abruptly. "How did you like the picture?"

"A beautiful story; the acting was superb." He left it there.

"Have you some reservations?"

"Afraid I have," he answered honestly. "Semiramis was a Persian, but your setting was Egyptian, both indoors and out."

Stret shrugged. "What would you have? We took those sets after Liz Taylor and Dick Burton got through with them. Got them for peanuts. We've made a great picture for one fortieth of the cost of 'Cleopatra.' After all, we didn't make this picture just for you Egyptologists."

"Of course not."

"But you did like Eve Evans."

"I can't begin to tell you how much."

"I'm very glad to hear that."

Sheridan interposed. "Mr. Kent came here with the hope of meeting Eve."

"I wish I could show her to you." All pretense fell away from the president of Prestige. "But I can't."

Here was the first clue, but Kent managed to look blank. "Why not?"

"She's disappeared," said Sheridan.

"Oh, come now!" Kent interjected. "A star like Eve? Are you going to make her wear that old publicity hat?"

"She doesn't need that kind of publicity," Walter Stret explained, "and we haven't breathed a word of this to anyone." He turned to Sterne. "Eddie, if any news of this leaks out, you lose your job."

"I know, Mr. Stret, I know."

The apprehension in Eddie's voice was genuine; the look on the older men's faces reflected a problem which was perplexing and enigmatic.

"I'll admit," said Kent, "that I haven't seen a word about this in the press."

"And you won't until we've found Eve."

"Is that where I come in?"

"That's where you come in, Mr. Kent."

"And I can write my own ticket?"

"Anything within reason."

"A hundred thousand." Kent said it quickly, he needed that much for the expedition.

He heard the low whistle from Eddie Sterne, saw the hesitation of both older men. He told himself he had to stick to his guns. It was all or nothing.

What was a hundred thousand to the earning potential of Eve Evans? A girl who could make people stand in line for hours was surely worth that pittance. That pittance! He caught himself; he was beginning to think in Hollywood terms. A hundred thousand dollars was more money than he had ever seen. But it could make his dream of an expedition come true.

"A hundred thousand," Stret demurred, "is a hell of lot of money. I'll venture to say you didn't charge the Governor anything like that."

"You're right," Kent admitted. "I didn't charge the Governor a cent. He only paid the expenses, which came to less than a thousand dollars." He paused. "But let me point out that I was there, on the scene. And I felt a sympathy for the boy, who had made the mistakes I, myself, might have made."

"And you feel nothing for Eve?"

Kent was silent.

"Kent, you can't be that callous," said Sheridan.

"I'm not callous," Kent defended himself. "But I need the money."

"You'll have it!" Stret snapped at him. "I won't haggle over a star like Eve. You'll get your hundred thousand when you bring Eve back."

"And if I fail?"

"Prestige will pay your expenses."

"Why, then-" He almost stretched out his hand to shake on the deal, but he caught himself in time. Supposing Stret looked as though he would pay poker with deuces wild.

What if he failed? What if he couldn't find Eve? That pet project of his would still remain a dream, far from an actual undertaking. He would have to interest some museum, try to inspire dome doubting Thomases on the board of governors; he'd have to make all the concessions and then be governed by them. Restricted by the limits of time, and handcuffed by their impatience-

What do you do when the shovel first strikes the sand? You wait and hope and pray. You know all along that the odds are against you, and yet you accept the chances. Well? Wasn't this like that? There could be no certainty of ever finding that star, but a girl like Eve-how could you hide a light like hers under a bushel?

"Why, then-" Kent repeated himself, "there's nothing to stop us." He held out his hand.

The president of Prestige met him half-way. "Good! I'll have a voucher made out for immediate expenses. Five thousand will see you started, I imagine. Eddie Sterne and Hank Sheridan will go with you of course."

"Why of course?"

"To keep an eye on things."

"I'm not in the habit of padding my expense account."

Kent saw Sheridan shake his head in warning; he heard Stret speak more softly, easily. "To keep me informed, to give you any help they can."

"I'm not aware that I'll need their help."

"Who can tell?" The pudgy hands waved that aside; the rounded shoulders rose and fell. "They might even succeed where you might fail."

It was Kent's turn to shrug. "It's your money."

"Exactly. Now, if you'll excuse me-Sheridan will fill you in on the details."

"Why? Haven't you anything to add?"

Walter Stret looked at him blankly for a moment. "You mean about Eve? You want me to tell you about Eve?" A frown appeared above the high arched nose. "Why, I could spend the rest of the afternoon talking about Eve and still not do her justice, but Monica Grant is due any minute. We have to sign her to a new contract."

'Is she that important? More important than Eve?"

"Let's put it this way-" said the Great Man of Prestige, and then he stopped. He had begun reasonably enough but now his voice snapped. "Get it through your head that if you fail to find Eve, Monica will have to fill her shoes. We can't wait forever on Eve's whims and fancies."

Suddenly he looked beyond Kent, towards the opening door. A look of dismay flashed across the fleshy features and those eloquent hands were spread towards Kent accusingly. "Now see what you've donel Now Monica will hold out for a thousand dollars more each week!"

Kent caught a glimpse of Monica, who was accompanied by the doll-faced receptionist, but he swung back to the Great Man, his anger rising within him. "Get it through your head that I don't like being pushed around. A thousand dollars more a week? Charge it to the hundred thousand I didn't get. Or do you want to call the whole thing off?"

"Our bargain is made, Mr. Kent. Aren't you a man of your word?"

"I am," Kent shot back. "Are you?"

A gasp was echoed around the room. Probably no one in the world had been so rude to the Great Man since he had acquired greatness. Kent shrugged and turned to go.

His way was barred by Monica Grant. The two of them stood looking at each other.

So this was Monica, this was Eve's replacement.

Monica was small, dark, and intense. Her velvet brown eyes were shaded, and lengthened by artificial lashes. The nose was slightly aquiline and the suggestion of the bird of prey was there although it was denied by the sweet tenderness of her mouth. The top of her head came to the tip of his chin, and she was dressed in a cool linen suit, of the color of sand. The underblouse of green did not hide the wealth and the roundness of her.

So this was Eve's replacement ... But while Eve was exclusively yours, Monica promised no such privacy. If Monica disrobed, Kent carried on the thought, you would almost hear the band beating out the bump-and-grind rhythm. You could almost hear the cries of "Take 'Em Off! Take 'Em Off!"

So this was Eve's replacement. But where could you find another Eve? He turned to go but Monica stopped him with an easy intimacy. Her voice floated past him as she addressed the others, but the velvet brown eyes stopped him, stopped him with an invitation and a dare.

"Who is this angry young man, Mr. Stret? Is he my new leading man? Oh, I just adore angry young men! They're such a challenge, don't you think?"

Stret kept his silence, nursing his grievance. It was Sheridan who made the introduction. "Monica, this is Laurence Kent."

"Are you an actor, Mr. Kent?"

"God forbid! I'm an archeologist, Miss Grant."

"Why? What's so terrible about acting? Have you ever seen me act?"

"Unfortunately-"

"But you think archeology is the thing! When you, yourself, deal with dead people-with mummies, and digging, and dirt-"

"Funny, isn't it?"

"It's not funny at all when I remember you've never seen my pictures. You should see a lot of me, Mr. Kent."

Was there a promise underlying her words? Kent bowed over her outstretched hand. Should he, or shouldn't he? He gave her the benefit of the doubt and kissed it gallantly.

"I just adore cosmopolitan men."

He looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "Then don't breathe it to a soul. I come from Lansing, Michigan."

She didn't bat an eye. "And do I admire the truthful ones!"

Her loves were many, and her loves would vary, thought Kent. He faced Sheridan, ignoring the president of Prestige.

"If your boss hasn't changed his mind, I'll be at the Rosehaven Garden apartments for the next two days." He turned back to Monica. "If you're here to sign that new contract, make him pay through the nose. You're exactly what he deserves."

The brown eyes looked at him with a depth of appreciation. "How can I ever thank you?"

"You'll manage," Sheridan said dryly.

Kent turned toward the receptionist. Madeline Moore looked at him sadly and shook her head. At the door, Kent bowed over her hand and kissed it with more sincerity than he had shown Monica Grant.

Monica managed to show her gratitude that very night.

He had put aside his plans for the expedition, held in abeyance his dream of discovery. If he were to finance the affair himself, he must earn the prize which Prestige dangled before him. One thing he knew: it was not impossible to persuade some reputable museum to undertake the task and still keep him in command of the expedition. If the Metropolitan of New York might demur and hesitate, the smaller museums might jump at the chance. But even then he should show his faith by the amount of money he could invest. That money from Prestige was becoming important. It was an imperative need.

So he had to find Eve. Eve of the light brown hair and the deep brown eyes, Eve of the classical features with the form and the proportions of a goddess. Although he had spent the greater part of the afternoon watching her shadow upon the screen, there was a great deal about her that he didn't know.

What a performance she had given in the part of the dissolute Semiramis! It would take a skillful actress to play a part like that, or a mediocre one whose natural characteristics were cruel, unscrupulous, and lustful. Was it possible that Eve, Eve of the perfect beauty, was the modern incarnation of the shameful and scandalous Semiramis? Now here was a riddle to challenge him. Was Eve, herself, a harlot queen? That question preyed on his heart and mind, and he knew he would have no peace until he had the answer.

He had been rough with the Great Man of Prestige, had questioned him as no one else would have dared. And now it was a toss-up. Would Stret confirm or deny their pact?

To that last question Kent had his answer with the coming of Monica. She came with the evening, with the first twinkling of the stars, with the half-appearance of the moon over the horizon.

Answering the chime of the door, Kent found her standing here. Beyond her, in the driveway, her yellow-cream Cadillac was carelessly parked.

"Why, Miss Grant!' he said.

"Miss Grant!" she mimicked him. "Oh Larry, how can you be so formal when you've done so much for me!"

He clasped her hand and led her inside. "Now don't tell me you took me at my word and held up that poor man!"

"Didn't I though!" There was laughter in her voice and a sparkle in her eye. "I got a lot more than I ever hoped to get."

"Then you've made a run on the bank," he said in mock despair, "and left nothing for me."

"But I have something for you," she asserted. She opened the silver mesh of her evening bag and took out a cigarette case, which she held out to him. Her eyes were sparkling, her mouth widening into a smile. She seemed to be savoring his surprise, anticipating his pleasure.

The case was golden, and was engraved "TO LARRY WITH ALL MY LOVE-MONICA"; it even held ten cigarettes of the brand he smoked. His surprise was so real that her laughter came freely, spontaneously. My lady works fast, he thought, and stepped back to appraise her.

She was dressed in an ankle-length evening gown of vibrant blue with a fur trimmed stole to match.

She swung the stole off one shoulder while she clutched the fur deceptively, trying to anchor it upon the other. The naked shoulder rose to hide the full roundness of her face; the plunging neckline made a ridiculous attempt to hide the full roundness of her breasts. Her voice dared him, her look mocked him. "Why, Larry, you're all eyes!"

"What else is a man supposed to do when a woman appears in a gown like that?"

"Behave yourself," she said and squealed with delight when he picked up the loose end of the stole.

The stole became their prize in a tug of war and they started a game in which they teased and tantalized one another. She feigned surrender, then reneged; his pretense was despair and acceptance of defeat until she provoked him again with a loosening of her grip and the game went on.

"This is childish," he reasoned. "Sooner or later your stole is going to tear."

"Ah, my poor stole! I'll have to hang up the shreds in my boudoir as a trophy of war."

"Is that what this is? A state of war?"

"Poor man! Haven't you heard of the battle of the sexes?"

"I'm just a novice," he said and relinquished his hold. "And so am I."

But hers was a veteran's surrender and the stole trailed at her feet and was trampled upon. She stood on tip-toe and received his kiss; she clasped her hands about his neck and pressed herself close and hard against him. Then, sensing his need, and whip-lashed by his want, she tried to temporize and withdraw.

"Let me go, Larry!"

"Now?" He couldn't believe his ears. "You've lit a fire, and now you must feed the flame."

"Please let me go, Larry. This isn't the way I planned it."

"How can you be cold and calculating at a time like this?" A sudden thought struck him. "Or are you just a dishonest tease?"

"No, no! I won't have you thinking so poorly about me. You mustn't ever bejiieve such a thing."

He stepped in again, meeting her half-way. Holding her close, he slipped both shoulders free from her gown, bent down and kissed the coral tip of each full breast and knew that her defenses were crumbling. He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

'You big lug!" She went down fighting. "This isn't the way I planned it."

Afterwards, he looked at the sweeping lines of her body as she stretched sensuously upon the velvet spread of his bed. She seemed surprised at her own gratification. Didn't she know that love-making was a feast for both parties?

"Thinking of food-" he began.

"I wasn't thinking of food. I was thinking that this isn't the way I planned it. Not at all."

"Why? Was it so bad? Didn't you have any fun?

"I had heaps of fun. But what has that got to do with it? It wasn't according to my plan."

He sat down beside her, letting his hand travel over the roundness and the symmetry of her. "What was your plan, Monica?" he asked.

She caught his hand and sat up. Her velvet-brown eyes had become intense. "Tell me this, Larry: did you have some pleasure with me?"

"Oh, baby-"

"And you'd like to do it again sometime?"

"Every now and then."

"You can!" She was breathing hard against him. 'You can have me whenever and wherever you like. Only you must do as I say."

"What must I do, Monica?" He was playing with the lobe of her ear.

She held his face between her two palms. "Don't go to Egypt," she said. "Don't go looking for Eve. Don't bring her back."

His hand fell away from her ear. She pressed herself desperately against him. Her nostrils flared.

"If you must go, make a pretense of it. Don't bring her back alive!"

She tried to pull him down upon her but he pushed her back violently and stood up. Towering over her naked body, he was vehement and furious.

"Get up!" he said harshly. "Get up and get dressed. Get the hell out of here."

"Are you talking to me like that? I'll have you horse-whipped!"

"If you do, I promise the newspapers will hear of it. Think how interested they will be in your proposition. Think how they'll laugh at your mistake."

"My mistake-?"

"Of course. What made you think I was a charter member of Murder, Incorporated?"

Trembling, shaking with rage, she was up and dressed in no time at all. She slammed the door after her, and a moment later he heard the roar of her Cadillac.

He stood under the piercing spray of the shower, wondering if he would ever feel clean again. How could such an exquisite body contain such a filthy and murderous mind?

CHAPTER TWO

He awoke with a sense of disgust, the feeling of revulsion strong within him. About his bed was a smell of carnation, the essence with which Monica had anointed her precious body, and he knew that he would never like that lovely flower again. Here she had lain and played at love while her heart was filled with hate, while her mind was bent on murder.

"Ah, Hollywood!" he said.

He couldn't help wondering about this city of gilded fables, couldn't help thinking it was the saddest city of them all. If you were to make a mountain of Hollywood's shattered hopes and dreams, it could cast its shadow over the peak of an Everest and that sadness and despair would surely overflow all the circles of Dante's Hell. No wonder they lied and cheated and knifed each other in the back. What was it Fred Allen had said? "You can take all the sincerity in Hollywood and place it in the navel of a flea." And have room to spare, thought Kent.

He got up, opened the window wide, breathed deeply, and went to the shower. Draped in a towel, he emerged from the bath and heard the peal of the chimes.

Eddie Sterne was on his doorstep, with an envelope in his hand.

"Good morning, Eddie. What have you got there?"

"Nothing much. Just five thousand smackeroos. Advance against expenses."

"Then the search is on."

"The search is definitely on," Eddie nodded. "When do we start?"

"Not for a day or so. I've got to make some notes about Eve. Who can tell me about her?" He left the door open while he shaved.

"Are you kidding?" Eddie Sterne looked at him curiously. "Anyone and everyone can tell you about Eve."

"What can you tell me, Eddie?"

"Me? Not very much. But then I'm only her public relations man," Eddie defended himself. "Besides which, I'm true to my mother-in-law."

"Quit clowning, Eddie."

"Who's clowning? Kent, you don't know my mother-in-law. There never was such a woman! I could be unfaithful to my wife, but never to my mother-in-law. No, I'm not one of Eve's victims."

"Are there many of them, Eddie?"

"Eve's victims? Their names must be legion. Anyone who has seen her shadow on the screen may become enslaved for the rest of his life. You must have felt that yourself, Kent."

He had, but personal feelings must be kept out of this; this was the moment for objectivity, when he should deal with hard facts rather than with personal thoughts and feelings. "Don't talk like a press agent," he said impatiently. "Give me a particular instance or two where she ruined a life." He went on with his shaving.

"Well, she was a bit exclusive," Eddie admitted, "but there was a Texas oil man who offered to share and share alike his half dozen gushers."

"And it wasn't enough?"

"On the contrary," Eddie shook his head. "Eve said she had learned to ration herself to five gallons of gas a day. What would she do with all the rest?"

"Uh huh."

"And then there was that Indian maharajah who wanted to make her his maharanee or something. The poor guy showered her with gifts and offered to slit the throats of all his other wives."

Kent almost cut himself. He managed to steady his hand and said casually, "And she agreed?"

"No," Eddie spoke sadly. "She sent him packing-with all his gifts, and protestations, and proposals. Can you imagine what a story that would have made! A mass murder for one woman. It would have been a bigger thing than Grace Kelly's romance with the Prince-would have made newspaper headlines all over the world. I cried when she said no. Even my mother-in-law couldn't console me."

Kent combed his hair. "But don't you see, Eddie? She isn't one bit like a femme fatale. What you've given me are negative examples."

"How can you be so blind? How can you ignore her dangerous potentials?"

At the studio cafeteria Kent had orange juice, black coffee, and a cigarette. "I'll need an office for today," he told Eddie.

"I'll get you one."

"And a stenographer. Someone I can trust."

"Boy! You draw the line fine." Eddie thought for a moment and then brightened. "It will have to be Madeline Moore."

"But she can't talk, Eddie."

"No handicap at all. She writes a very fluent hand, Kent."

He was alone with Madeline Moore in the office that was his for the day. He looked at the calm, patrician features of the once-upon-a-time star and had the same feeling about her as he would with a trusted friend. Kent smiled and was rewarded by a responsive sweetness.

"I think Eddie Sterne has made the wisest selection of his entire career. As my confidential secretary you're to help me uncover some facts about Eve Evans." Kent paused and looked at her directly. "Did you like Eve?"

She returned his gaze, nodding in the affirmative. "Will you help me find her?"

She sat down at the desk, brought the pad before her, and took up the pencil. The words actually flew upon the pad. She tore off the slip of paper and held it up for her to read.

Her words brought the shock of surprise. "Are you sure that Eve wants to be found?"

Was that it? Didn't Eve want to be found? Was she fed up with Hollywood, fed up with the tinsel and the glamor, with the fakery of stardom? Who was Eve? What quality lay within her that made her repudiate the things for which others fought and lied and cheated? All those bright-eyed youngsters who came every day trying to storm the fortress of Hollywood-had Eve been one of them? What heartbreak was the cornerstone of her success? What disillusionment had driven her to this decision?

But it didn't make sense. Eve was in the driver's seat. She could choose her own stories, make Prestige buy any outstanding novel for her starring vehicle; she had a voice in casting and could choose her own director.

He turned to Madeline. "Is it true that she only got fifty thousand for a picture?"

Madeline nodded and amplified on her pad. "Plus a percentage of the profits."

"Then she did pretty well-"

"What an understatement!" Madeline smiled as she wrote this. "Her take-home pay was fantastic. She succeeded where Marilyn failed."

"That would be Monroe, wouldn't it?"

She nodded.

"Was there anything in her contract to make her dissatisfied, make her want to give everything up?"

Madeline shook her head. She sat down, tore the last sheet from the pad, and began afresh.

"Whatever it was that could make Eve renounce the world at her feet was in Eve, herself. You must understand that she was not like other girls-she was no easy prey to the casting director, was never a supplicant at his couch. One day she had to do a dancing sequence in our version of 'Salome.' She was one of the six dancing slave girls, and she stood out like a pearl among the agates. Those flashing brown eyes of hers with their flecks of gold, that tawny hair, the high cheek bones, and the perfect body of a dancer. Monica Grant was the star, but she couldn't hold a candle against Eve's dancing, and the director, Whitlock, made the mistake of using Eve in the distant shots and bringing Monica in for the close-ups. They worked it that way until Walter Stret walked onto the set one fine day.

"He didn't say anything; he even let them finish the picture that way, but Monica was furious. She must have known what was coming. By the end of the week Eve was under contract for a hundred dollars per working day, and Monica had her rival. Her rival in more ways than one.

"But it was Monica's fault, her idea to begin with. Talk about the intrigues of opera stars-have you ever seen two movie stars on the same set? It's like two cocks in a pit, two fighters in a ring. And one was a pro who knew all the tricks; the other a rank amateur, but with native intelligence and an adaptability that was just short of the miraculous.

"She must have had the wisdom of a serpent-I guess she wasn't named Eve in vain. Of course there was a man involved-Monica's boy friend. Oh, but that is such an innocent description of an affair like theirs! He was Monica's director, her mentor, her lover. Craig Whitlock."

Bending over Madeline's shoulder, reading the words as fast as she whipped them out, Kent could see it all. The fight of the sirens and the plotting and the manipulation of two experienced contenders against the novice before them.

Eve Evans looked at herself in the full-length mirror and saw a stranger staring back at her. Her eyebrows had been plucked beyond recognition and were replaced by perfect crescents over her eyes. Her brown hair had been bleached and dyed to a tawny, honey blonde. That Nordic nose of hers with the barest suggestion of an upsweep had photographed well and they had called it classical. Classical! Eve laughed with contempt. Had they ever seen a Grecian nose? Had they ever seen a profile on a Hellenic coin?

Her figure would have adorned any dress, but the wing-sleeved butterfly robe of South Sea flowers set it off to perfection. The low scoop of the neckline gave a promise of her breasts, and her shoulders swept gracefully to the column of her neck. But if her gown was gay, her eyes were dreaming, and wistful, and sad.

She heard the shower of the man in her bath and she knew that he was making a ceremony of this, that he was cleansing his body before it joined hers. Oh if he could only cleanse his mind as well!

Was she asking too much, wanting too much, seeking the impossible? Didn't she, the realist, know that you only get what you pay for? And he had been kind, hadn't he? He had proved himself to be a friend, and now he was here to collect payment.

From my body, she thought sadly, and with never a thought to mind or heart. But the heart wanted so many things and the mind nourished so many intangible thoughts that rose out of her innermost self.

The heart wants love, she thought, love, pure and unadulterated, then the appeal of the body could be heightened and strengthened by the appeal to the mind. Not just the frantic clutching of two bodies like animals in heat. Slake that thirst, and what have you got? Your mind is as lonely as ever, living in dreams once more; and you're steeped in disgust with yourself for the compromise you've made.

Craig Whitlock, the man in her shower, was her director, and better than most. There was no crudeness about him. He was not like that casting director or her former agent. Craig had made no demands upon her until he had proven his value. He had taught her to stand and walk with a dancer's grace, to hold her head high so that the camera might catch the curvature from breast to face. "Turn about, my dear. Don't you know that the left side of your face photographs better than your right?' He had taught her to act, and though he'd never admit it, they both knew she had a natural style, seemingly simple, seemingly artless.

A curious man, Craig Whitlock. Tall, and good-looking as any actor, he was still in his thirties and had established a reputation for excellence. Leaving nothing to chance, he prepared every scene with minute care. He was never without pad and pencil. Any vagrant thought, any possible improvement was carefully and legibly written down in his notes. They said that Craig Whitlock directed from the pad more than the script, but he did make a damn good job of it.

Eve wondered if he had made any notes regarding her capitulation; she wouldn't put it past him. Wouldn't that be a part of his routine? Was this cleansing of his body a votive offering for her surrender? And must she accept? But how could she refuse? If this was what he wanted-

Was there any truth in the rumors about Craig and Monica Grant? That Monica had left him in a huff because he had agreed to direct Eve's picture? Had she, Eve, stepped between the two of them and caught Craig on the rebound? Not that she wanted him, not like this, not with only a pretense at love.

She heard him call for another towel and she hurried to hand him one though the door, which he held ajar. She heard him rubbing vigorously, and she returned to the bedroom.

His jacket had fallen from the foot of the bed and some of his papers lay strewn nearby. She picked them up, looking at them without curiosity until her eye caught the heading of one. "Dearest Monica-" it read.

"Dearest Monica-" Had he come to her, Eve, with the desire for another woman in his veins? Was she to play the receptacle for the ardor another woman should have? Whatever compunctions she might have had melted away, and Eve read the letter. Reading it, she felt herself debauched.

"Why do you behave like a child?" the letter continued. "Why can't you deduce for yourself that Eve was forced down my throat, that I had to make this picture with her and had to make it good. I was being watched, watched constantly. Walter Stret was a daily visitor on the scene. Was I to jeopardize my reputation because of Eve?

"So I've made one good picture with Eve. What of it? Now I'll make two bad ones, two quickies, and that will be the end of Eve. But I've got to be care-full; I've got to make her believe that I'm her friend, although the lessons in reverse have already started. Now the fool thinks that her left profile is best; soon I'll have her come bouncing into a drawing room like the dancer she is. She has shown remarkable aptitude in acting; it's really amazing how quickly she's picked it up. I'll have to take extreme care in trying to undo that. And the poor fool is so grateful that it's pathetic, but I'll make doubly sure of her by making the supreme sacrifice.

"I have no heart for it, no mind to it, not one inviting thought about it. And though I hold her in my arms and kiss her willing lips, I'll be thinking of you, Monica, my dearest-"

On the verge of hysterical laughter, Eve caught herself. This was no time for self pity. (And what a useless thing that was!) She stuffed the letter under the pillow and was going out of one door when he came in from the bath. He stretched himself upon her bed.

She looked at him. Draped only with a towel, he smiled and beckoned. Eve looked at him with contempt.

"Get up!" she said harshly. "Get up, get dressed and get out of here."

He sprang from the bed, caught her before she could close the door, and pulled her roughly towards him. She felt his arms encircle her, crushing her to his naked chest, arching her back, swooping like a bird of prey over her breast. She managed to free a hand and raked him across the left side of his face with her pointed manicured fingers, and gloated at the sight of blood. He pushed her away and she stood not two feet from him, looking at him with a sardonic grin and admiring her handiwork.

His hand went to his cheek, felt the wetness and looked at his crimson fingers in dismay. "Is this your idea of play, you damned whore?"

"That's for your lessons in reverse," she taunted him. "What's one bloody face between enemies? You should be grateful. Now you won't have to make that supreme sacrifice." She looked at his blank face with icy scorn. "Don't you get it? Must I repeat it for you word for word? 'I have no heart for her love-making, no mind to it, not one inviting thought about it.'" She saw the light of understanding flash across the bloody face and she turned her back upon him.

"Get dressed," she said more calmly, "and get out of here."

"No," wrote Madeline Moore, "Craig Whitlock made no time with Eve. Funny thing about those two. They were like two professionals in a ring, always with their guard up, constantly watching each other. Surprisingly, they turned out some fine pictures, and 'The Kiss' was the best of them all. Now they re waiting to find Eve before they release it. Walter Stret wants to sign Eve to a new contract."

"Supposing I don't find her?"

Madeline's eyes never left his, yet her hand flew over the pad. "I have a feeling that if anyone can find her, and talk to her, and make her want to come back, it will be you."

"Oh, come now-"

"No, I mean it. She's a lot like you, Kent; and I can say this although I haven't known you very long. You have a dedication of spirit, very much like hers. She must have had it! For what other reason would a queen renounce her crown?"

"Maybe." He couldn't help laughing. "And what am I dedicated to?"

"You think a spade is the most romantic thing, don't you? But wait until you see Eve!"

Now he laughed whole-heartedly.

"Go on and laugh. But tell me honestly, if you can, that you aren't intrigued by the mystery of Eve."

Kent shook his head. "Know what I think? I think the most romantic person I've ever met is the lady known as Madeline Moore."

She reached up and patted the face that bent over her shoulder, patted him as she had done to Eddie Sterne. It was a fond, approving gesture, like a mother's reward for a child's thoughtfulness.

He straightened up and lit a cigarette. "Who else can tell me about Eve?"

"Monica-"

He took the pencil out of her hand and crossed off the name. She looked at him curiously. "So she's reached you, too!" The vicious dot of the exclamation point broke the point of her pencil. She grabbed another.

"But she will never reach me again."

"How can you be sure?"

"Now I know that she's a Lamashtu."

"What in the world-"

"The ancient Babylonians," he explained, "believed in the potency of seven devils and portrayed them as semi-human monsters with heads of animals. The Lamashtu was a terrible female demoness and is pictured as the winged monster of devastation."

Madeline appeared fascinated and the pencil was still. Kent took a turn about the room.

"I was beginning to show off," he confessed. "You know, I'm good for an hour or more on the lecture platform. But this isn't getting our work done. Whom else should I see?"

"I don't suppose you'd want to see Whitlock-"

"Hardly. From what you've told me, I've learned to hate that gift to the cinematic world. Why won't Eddie Sterne tell me about Eve?"

"I'm sure he's told you everything he knows; and what he knows is highly colored. He's only the publicity man."

"Who's her agent?"

"Used to be a man called Johnson, but Eve broke with him before she signed her last contract. He was another of those leeches."

Poor Eve, he thought, the hounds were really out in force. He saw Madeline start a fresh pad.

"I was a friend she never knew she had; and there was another. Hank Sheridan."

"I can always talk to Hank. He's coming along with me.

The pencil came down urgently. "And what about me?"

Kent looked at her. "What about you? Why would you want to come?"

"I just know I'll never get to a lecture of yours; and I want to hear about those seven devils. Oh-I just want to go along for the ride."

Kent smiled. "All right, if you can make it. Talk to Eddie Sterne. Maybe he can think of an angle."

"As good as done," she flipped back.

Now that she had his approval, her back stiffened, and the pencil hurried along. "If I can persuade you so easily, what must Monica have done? She can bait the hook with flesh; she can tease and tantalize-"

He looked up, recalling Monica's naked body upon his bed. "I'm a lonely man," he defended himself, "in love with the past. I've been momentarily blinded; I've felt the wind of desire, but I've never sold myself to the devil."

The baby-blue eyes looked into his with wisdom and compassion. "You'll do, laddie. You'll do fine until a brighter knight with shinier armor comes along."

It was almost ten o'clock when he let himself into his apartment. The hand that reached for the light remained in midair. The lights were already on and Kent saw a man sitting in the easy chair. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Hello! Who the devil are you?"

The man rose from the easy chair, rose to a height of six feet, looked at him with grey eyes. His brown checked sport jacket was beautifully tailored, and the white collar of his shirt was open under it. He had the good looks of an actor.

"I asked who you were," Kent said impatiently. But suddenly he knew. "Who let you in?"

"The management let me in, Mr. Kent," the man replied calmly. "I told them we had an appointment."

"Then you're here under a pretense."

"We do have a lot to talk about. I'm Craig Whitlock, Eve's director."

Kent waved a reluctant hand and Whitlock sank back into the easy chair. "Why didn't you send for me, Mr. Kent?" He picked up his cigarette. "I'm curious about that."

"Do I have to explain my thinking to you? If you have something to tell me about Eve, get on with it." Kent took the chair that was opposite Whitlock. "I have a busy schedule, so I'll have to hurry you. I have to pack and be at the airport in the morning."

"There's no hurry. You won't make that plane."

Kent tried to spring out of his chair and found that he couldn't. Two pairs of hands kept him glued to his seat. Looking up, he saw a tall, athletic looking hood on his right and another on his left. Only they weren't dressed like hoods; they were better attired, more polished. Suave. They must have been hiding in the bath, thought Kent. I've walked into a trap.

He saw the grin on Whitlock's handsome face and suppressed his anger for the moment. "What's bother-,ing you, man? What do you want?"

"Answers to my questions. Why didn't you send for me?"

"I didn't think you'd be impartial about Eve. I didn't believe you'd tell the truth."

Whitlock thought it over and nodded. "All right, I'll buy that. Now what about this?" He took out the gold cigarette case from his pocket and tossed it to Kent. "Try explaining that!"

It was the cigarette case Monica had given him the night before. Whitlock must have discovered it during his absence. Looking at Whitlock, Kent saw a mounting fury upon the perfect features. Was that what jealousy did to a man? At this moment Whitlock could play Hyde to Dr. Jekyll, and play it to perfection.

"Dear Monica," said Kent, "she's such a grateful little thing-"

"Grateful for what?" Whitlock rasped out.

"For services rendered," said Kent, knowing that the words would not help his cause.

"Give it to him, boys!" Whitlock commanded. Kent bolted out of his chair like a stallion out of his stall.

With the cigarette case still in his hand, he slammed into Whitlock, reaching and gouging into that pretty face, toppling the man along with him into the easy chair, falling to the floor as into a dive, and bouncing to his feet. He saw the bloody face of the director, saw the two thugs advancing upon him.

Cornered by the two of them, Kent saw Whitlock stagger to his feet and lurch towards him. Now he swung with all his strength and the cigarette case went crashing through the window. They all heard the startled voices outside. "Hey! What's going on? What's going on?"

"Somebody call the cops! There's a riot in there-"

Kent fought back the best he could but the two of them were experts in their field. In a moment one of them had pinned his arms while the other punched and brought his knee to the groin. Kent doubled over and the man slashed viciously at his back.

It was the time element alone that saved Kent. His assailants were hardly gone when the manager came hurrying in.

He took his shower as he had the night before. But where Monica had left him with a lasting feeling of slime, this time he could wash away the blood. To his way of thinking there was a rough sort of justice in this.

Were they quits now? he wondered. Had Whitlock avenged Monica, and was Monica satisfied with the payment collected?

Or was he being naive?

CHAPTER THREE

They had left Hollywood and Vine three thousand miles behind them. Now that they were winging into New York, Kent was distracted by his thoughts. What was he doing with a bunch of movie people? They were nice enough in their way, a lot better than the average movie group, he supposed. Eddie Sterne was an entertainment in himself when he spoke about his fabulous mother-in-law. Madeline Moore was a delight. Hank Sheridan, intelligent, informed, and interesting. But Kent felt he would have been happier if he could have studied his notes about Tirhaka, a Pharaoh of the 24th Dynasty. He was deeply absorbed by Esrahaddon, the invader, who had captured Memphis and the royal harem. What had happened to the famous royal concubines?

But that was back in 671 B.C....Kent became aware that Sheridan was looking at him curiously.

"I'll give you that shopworn penny."

"For my thoughts?" Kent didn't feel like talking to the writer about what had happened so long ago. "Sheridan, that picture of yours about Semiramis had surprising authenticity in spite of its settings and costumes. Where did you get your information?"

"I first read about her in the Decline and Fall, looked her up in the Britannica, got hold of some small translations from the Armenians-a pity I couldn't have read the originals. But surprisingly, it was Eve who put me hep."

"Eve Evans?" His mood of abstraction melted away, "You're kidding-what would a movie star know about something that happened almost three thousand years ago?"

"Quite a bit, and that's evident from the way she did the picture. But besides sharing her own knowledge, she sent me to the source, to the fountain-head."

"And who was that?"

"An archeologist like yourself. Clay Patterson."

"I've heard of him," Kent nodded. "He did some fine work in Mesopotamia."

The lights flashed on and the stewardess came down the aisle. "Please fasten your seat belts. We are approaching the Kennedy airport."

New York was a night stop, Paris just a passing glimpse; they lost no time making train connections to Monaco. But once aboard the train, Sheridan took Kent to task.

"I've got to hand it to you, Kent. You certainly have a one-track mind. Or don't you believe in the fringe benefits of this trip?"

"Have we got time for that?"

"What's the almighty rush?" Sheridan countered. "Eve? She'll keep. I doubt very much that she's ready to be found. She's only been gone two months. Maybe she wants three."

"What benefits are you talking about?"

"I'd have loved a week in New York. There are so many plays I should have seen-things my competitors are doing. And you rushed right through Paris! What do you think that does to a woman like Madeline?"

Kent looked quizzically at Madeline. "Did you want to buy a dress?"

She shook her head as if to say he was hopeless.

"I'm sorry," said Kent, "but in archeology you have xo hew to the line or you'll get no place. Still, I didn't mean to clip off the fringes." He paused for a moment. "How would you like a couple of days in Monaco?"

Madeline's eyes brightened; her fingers fairly flew over the pad. "Oh, could we, Kent? I'd love to look up Grace. She'd never forgive me if I didn't."

"You mean the Princess?" He saw her answering nod and turned to Eddie Sterne. "And you, I suppose, want to try your luck at the Casino?"

"How can I? My mother-in-law collects my salary."

"That fabulous mother-in-law of yours! I'm getting to like her more and more." He faced Sheridan. "That means you and I will be at loose ends for a day or two."

"We could," Sheridan suggested, 'look up Clay Patterson."

"The archeologist? Sheridan, I'd like very much to meet him. Does he live in Monaco?"

"He used to live in London but now he has a villa in Nice, one that would do credit to a movie star. How he's done it I'll never know. Isn't it true that you chaps are paid only with fame and glory?"

Not far from the river Paillon and only a stone's throw from the Promenade des Anglais, villa Flora sprawled itself like a luxurious wanton among the silken peonies and roses. The twin tiers of the villa rose above the garden, a circular driveway, and an inconspicuous garage. A stair of wide, stone steps led to the house proper and up these steps walked the girl whom the world knew as Eve Evans.

Now that it was past the supper hour, the servants would be having their own dinners, thought Eve. She made her way unobtrusively about the house and entered the screened patio. She had hoped to find Clay Patterson, and there he was, filling his pipe. The after dinner brandy was on the wrought-iron table beside him.

For a full moment he wasn't aware of her and she stood looking at him, her eyes soft and tender. His hair was a bit grayer, his back slightly bent, but his eyes, a soft, medium brown, were the eyes of a dreamer.

"Mr. Patterson-" Eve tried out her new voice. "Mr. Patterson, I wonder if you could tell me about your daughter."

He looked up in annoyance, came to his feet, and managed a slight bow. "You have me at a disadvantage, madame. Who are you?"

She just looked at him.

"Madame, have you lost your tongue?"

She nodded, smiling. "And found another." She came closer, flung her arms about him, hugging him fondly. "Oh, Daddy, Daddy! Don't you know me?"

"Carol?" He held her at arm's length and looked at her. "My Lord, Carol! What have you done to yourself? You don't even sound the same."

"Of course not. I've had some lessons in phonetics and the huskiness is gone."

"But your face, Carol-what have you done to your fade?"

"Plastic surgery," she answered. "How do you like my new nose?"

"Are you now playing a Greek hetaera? Did you have to go to that extreme?"

"I'm playing nothing." The threat of huskiness crept into her voice. "Eve Evans has vanished into the limbo from whence she came."

"Just like that? But why take such frightful measures? Supposing it hadn't turned out well-" , "Oh, Daddy! Do you like it?"

"Listen to the girl! As if she'd gone to the beauty parlor and came back with a new hair-do. I see you've done that too. Your hair's darker now, with a glint of red. Carol, I'd never have recognized you."

"My nose," she said. "How do you like my nose?"

"It's nice enough," her father said condescendingly, "it's Greek and purely classical. But you had such a nice, Nordic nose before. Who did the job? How did the doctor dare touch it?"

"It was Albert Dumont of Marseilles. He's quite famous, you know, and that's why I went to him, and what a job I had trying to get him to do it! He thought I was being flippant with my pretty Nordic nose. 'Madame,' he said to me, I'm a busy man. I can't waste my time with frivolous females. I don't care to gild the lily.' It took me quite a while to convince him that I was in earnest, that I would pay in cold cash and in advance the exorbitant sum he demanded."

"He did a good job," Clay Patterson conceded. "Now no one would know that you were Eve Evans."

"I feel like drinking to that," said Carol.

"Then let's have that drink before the company comes." Patterson rang the bell.

"What company?"

"Hank Sheridan." Her father smiled, then, seeing the look on her face, hastened to reassure her. "I don't think it has anything to do with you. He said he was bringing a young man who wanted to meet me. A grave digger like myself."

"If he's like you," she looked at him fondly, "he can only be young in heart."

"Laurence Kent can't be more than thirty."

"Laurence Kent?" That seemed to ring a bell. "Isn't he the one who found the Governor's son?" Carol bit her lip, her eyes narrowed in thought. "The pattern is clear, isn't it, daddy?"

"Quite clear," her father nodded. "Your picture company must have hired him to find you."

"They'll find me," Carol Patterson brooded, "but they won't know me." She brightened.

"No one would know you. The only association between Eve Evans and Carol Patterson is the one in my heart."

"A safe place!" Carol smiled.

"Then you're through with the frivolous life, and I can have my daughter back again. That's worth the sacrifice of a nose, and a voice, and the light-browi, hair. Now I can look forward to worthwhile things."

"Such as my marriage and a brood of brats?"

Patterson defended the unborn. "They'll be the nicest brats in the world."

"Aren't you forgetting something? I've yet to meet their doting father. And that's important, you know."

"An indispensible necessity." The smile on Patterson's face broadened. "But I'm sure you'll meet him and sweep him off his feet with that classical Greek nose of yours."

They heard the chimes and saw Julie, the maid, go to the door and admit the callers. Clay Patterson got up.

"Care to come in and face the piercing eyes of Hank Sheridan?"

"I suppose I should; sooner or later I'll have to." But Carol still hesitated. "Bight now I don't feel up to it. Just let me He down on the chaise here in the dark. If you leave the door open I'll be able to look and listen."

"In case your ears burn," the twinkle came back to her father's eyes, "just remember that pitcher of ice water at your side." He went in to greet his guests.

The pitcher was empty.

Carol continued to sit in the dark and wondered if her ears were sufficiently pink. It seemed as if that young man, Laurence Kent, could talk of nothing but Eve. You could almost discount the fact that he had undertaken the expedition for money. Finding Eve, Kent admitted, had become an obsession with him. There was one underlying truth he had to know.

"What truth?" Carol heard her father ask.

'If she really is what she seemed to be in that picture. The queen harlot of the world."

Carol heard Sheridan laugh uneasily, heard him say, "Oh, come now, Kent-" She saw her father rise suddenly, his face darkening, facing Kent with a look that was akin to hatred. He clenched his hands, turned about and strode to the open door of the dark patio.

Carol spoke so softly that only her father could hear. "Easy does it, daddy. Remember that the queen is dead."

"Long live the queen!" said the old man loudly and turned back to his guests. He was almost amiable again as he looked at Kent with pointed interest.

"If I spoke out of turn-" Kent appeared contrite.

Patterson waved that aside. 'I could tell you about Eve," he admitted. "Perhaps I could set your mind at ease. But why should I? If it isn't the money that motivates you, then what is it?" He looked at Kent fully. "Young man, is it possible you've fallen in love with the image of a harlot?"

Carol came to the edge of her seat and from the darkness looked intently into the living room. She saw the flush mount upon Kent's face, saw his hesitancy and bewilderment as he attempted a denial.

"I don't think I'm that susceptible, sir."

"Why not? Your whole attitude suggests an amorous sensibility. Why should you think yourself immune? There comes a time when any young man may wake up to the pitch of a woman's voice-" The old man looked towards the patio. "A voice with the right husky note-"

Not now, thought Carol.

"Or the color of her hair-"

It's changed, Carol remembered.

"Or the tilt of her nose-"

And that, tool

"Or the flash of her eyes, the symmetry of her lips, or the curves with which a woman is endowed-" Keep it clean, daddy!

"It may be the way she talks, or the way she walks in a rustle of silk-" You old match-maker!

"But don't you understand, sir?" Kent broke in. "I've never met her in person." Carol almost got up.

"And yet you've fallen for her. Fallen hard."

She settled back in the chaise and wished there were more ice water. The talk had moved into a safer channel. Her father, disposing of Eve, wanted to know why Kent wanted the money so badly.

"I want to start an expedition in pursuit of a historical fact." Kent paused and looked at Patterson. "You remember Tirhaka?"

Patterson nodded. "Pharaoh of the twenty-fourth dynasty."

"You remember his war with Esrahaddon-"

"The Assyrian? Of course. That Assyrian came down upon the fold in 671 B.C."

"Then you must also remember that Tirhaka was badly defeated. Esrahaddon captured Memphis and the royal harem; he took great spoil. But Tirhaka didn't give a damn about the welfare of Egypt. His only concern was for that favorite concubine of his."

"Yes, yes!" Patterson said excitedly. "What was her name?"

"Narghiz," replied Kent. "My lady Narghiz must have been quite a gal. For her sake Tirhaka bled the country in order to get the ransom money. He sent it to Esrahaddon with Setrak, a trusted lieutenant of his.

"That lieutenant actually did liberate the royal concubine, but he broke faith, refused to pay ransom, refused to return Narghiz to Tirhaka. Instead, he turned about face, and with all that gold and the beautiful captive, he sailed the galley up the Nile. They traveled night and day and reached the vicinity of Aswan. There they disappeared."

"And you want to find them? By Hathor, that's a worthwhile expedition!"

"Do you honestly believe I have something?"

"You might at that. But again, you might be chasing the will-o-the-wisp. I'm afraid you are something of a romanticist, Kent." Patterson tried to be realistic. "They are opening up a whole new Avenue of Kings near Luxor-it may be two miles long, but here you are with your heart set on what might prove to be a wild goose chase."

"I know," Kent acknowledged humbly. "But someone has to find out what happened to Narghiz."

"Why? Are you as much in love with your dream of the golden captive as you are with your dream of Eve?"

Kent remained silent. It was Sheridan who spoke up.

"If you ever do go, Kent, I'd like very much to come along. Paying my way towards the expedition, of course."

Carol smiled in the dark. Trust Sheridan to see a story; it was almost tailor-made for him. She, herself, could visualize the color and the drama of ancient Egypt. War and plunder, the taking and the rape of the royal harem, and a king who was mad with grief. There would be action in the rescue of Narghiz which would prove no rescue at all. There would be the meeting of the lovers, their cupidity, their treachery and their flight up the Nile ... Carol could almost see the golden sails against the green hills, and the desert dawn coming up soft and mauve and then bursting like thunder into brazen brilliance.

She was not the only one who had been fascinated by Kent's story. Carol could see that Sheridan was a willing advocate, but that was understandable. Now she saw a softening in her father's attitude as he looked at Kent.

Call that young man a dreamer or a historian with romantic turn, and you still wouldn't do him justice, thought Carol. There was something about him, an intensity of feeling that sprang from the depths within him. It was there to see: in the look of his eyes, in the catch of his voice, in the hands that gestured so freely. If he was a dreamer, he was the kind who drove towards his goal, unsparing of himself, pitiless and harsh with himself as he must prove to be with others.

Call him a dedicated man, thought Carol, and you'd be nearer to the truth. But that was the most wonderful quality in the world, and the rarest. This Laurence Kent was a truthful man who believed in the truth of his dreams.

Then there was such a thing in the world! When you got away from Hollywood you found that a fabric of lies was not everybody's cloak. A girl could go her way nourishing her thoughts and dreams, believing in the fundamental goodness of man. The price one paid for stardom was falseness. An ordinary girl could get along with her own nose, her own voice, her own hair.

Funny thing about Laurence Kent ... He had fallen in love with the Eve she had been, poor man! And now he was tortured with doubts about her, troubled as a jealous lover might be troubled. And all because of a vision she had projected! People-kind, hopeful people who believed in the morality of the world-had asked her: "How in the world could you play Theodora? Now, honestly, wasn't she the bitch of the world?"

"And to think that you played Semiramis-" With a bite on their lips, puzzled, wondering.

Wondering how such a nice girl could play the shady lady.

So he called me Queen Harlot! Well then, Sadie Thompson, here I come! Make way, Madame Bovary ... But she couldn't laugh it off. She knew to the day, to the very hour exactly how and where she had seized that power between her finger and thumb.

A formidable power. A power which could fascinate men and exasperate women.

Carol Patterson lost her mother when she was ten. Post-operative care had not been what it should have been and Elsie Patterson had contracted pneumonia. She lost a lung, lost the will to five, and lost her life.

Thereafter Carol had drawn closer to her father, had sensed that in some unknown way his loss was greater than hers, his grief deeper, more heart-breaking. In the thoughtless fashion of a ten-year-old, she had loved her mother, taken her for granted; but she could see it was her father who had lost what he needed, needed and wanted and mourned. It was a need which Carol could never fill, a want which she couldn't give. All she could do was to give him a daughter's love and understanding, and constant companionship.

Whenever she could get away from school, she accompanied him on his field trips, living in tents, in the back seats of automobiles, in a man's world of tobacco smoke, of sand and stone, in the rubble of an ancient world. Pick, shovel and brush were important tools in her father's profession; and Carol, herself, had been lowered down the face of a cliff with block and tackle. There were times when she rode horseback, times when she rode on the back of a camel. She knew the streets of Hamadan and Kermansha as well as she knew her native London; and she had floated on the waters of the Tigris and the Euphrates and decided they were superior to the Thames and the Avon. She became adaptable.

At twelve she accompanied her father into Mesopotamia, to the foot of Mummy Mountain in Derabgerd, Persia. A tall, leggy girl, awkward and coltish, she had the freedom of the camp, going and coming at will, bent on mysterious and pointless expeditions of her own. Her guide and mentor was Omar Ben Ah, die son of the Arab who had charge of the workers.

Omar was a handsome, black-eyed boy of sixteen who looked upon her as a pest and a nuisance, whose only virtue lay in the fact that she came from the land of the Saxons, and lived in the fantastic city called London; she even sang a song about a bridge that must have fallen. But it was Carol who wormed the secret of the potent drink out of him.

Mumlya, Omar explained, was a mineral pitch that came out of the rocks of Mummy Mountain. If you took this pitch and mixed it with myrrh, which could be bought at Derabgerd, you would have the omnipotent wine of Semiramis. The power of the ancient queen would be yours.

"The devil you say! And would it make me beautiful enough to command any one who crosses my path?"

Omar smiled doubtfully but Carol made him take her to the oozing rocks and placed a thermos bottle beneath them.

When she had bought the myrrh from the apothecary at Derabgerd, she mixed it with the mumlya, and ignoring Omar's advice to be careful and not take too much, she drained the tin cup and looked at him wildly as the spicy fragrance shook her.

It wouldn't be accurate to say that an instantaneous change came over her. She was still the gangling kid of an awkward age, but she believed in the potency of the drink and believed herself beautiful.

"Now," she commanded Omar, "get down on your knees and kiss my feet!"

An Arab boy is proud, perhaps the proudest human on the face of the earth, and for one incredible moment Omar stared at the wild girl before him. He saw the twin pigtails, one on each shoulder, saw the slender nostrils flaring, saw the wet lips agleam with the fragrant substance. He bent and kissed the dust of her sandals.

Whatever other tests she might have thought of were relinquished. Both their fathers had seen what had taken place and were descending upon them. Omar's father was crying because of his son's shame.

That night she was given a cathartic. The next day she was shipped to England, to Miss Munsing's school for young ladies.

As Carol Patterson, she had held the power of Semiramis in check; as Eve Evans, the Hollywood picture star, she had eased the reins a little and in easing them found that she could capture the world's male population. But now that she had called quits on that story-book career, she wondered about the reborn Carol Patterson. What effect, if any, would she have on that earnest young man, that fellow with the dream, that man who was in love with Eve.

She wondered about Kent. What was his attraction? Where was his charm? The breadth of shoulders and the slimness of waist? She shook her head. No, she had acted with many a male lead and they'd all had that. No, Kent was different in the way her father had been different. Kent was the dreamer her father had been. He was a truthful man. Like her father.

She made herself stop and stare as Kent and Sheridan took their leave. Was she building a father image of this stranger? But what if she did? Wasn't that the normal pattern of behavior? Didn't all girls try to find in a man the qualities they found endearing in their fathers? But did he have them? Did he? She had to make sure and until she did she mustn't lose contact with him.

So he was going to Cairo in search of her. Carol smiled to herself, thinking how completely she had covered her track. Poor man! Even if he found her he wouldn't know it; and he'd never get a penny for all his trouble. It would be curious to see how Laurence Kent would take defeat. A most interesting situation, one which could prove a man's character. She had to be in a ringside seat when that happened.

They were going to Cairo by ship and somehow she must attach herself to that party. But how? As a lonely vacationer? She shook her head. As Carol Patterson? Why not? That would certainly give her entree to the party.

She thought to herself: Carol Patterson had always been interested in dancing. Perhaps as a dancer on her way to Cairo she would not be too much out of character. She could even arrange for an engagement. All she had to do was to contact the theatrical enterprise in Marseilles. A telephone call should do it.

Her father found her still sitting in the dark. He turned on the lights. "Well? Did your ears burn?"

"Papa, papa! Please ring for some more ice water." To his surprise, she got up and kissed him.

CHAPTER FOUR

The rattle of anchor chains awoke Kent. Dressing hurriedly, he went to the promenade deck of the liner American Beauty, and watched the unbelievable colors of dawn with its streaks of orange and mauve.

Here was the birth of Monte Carlo, taking life, taking shape out of a shadowy world, emerging white and splendid across the emerald sheen of waters. Yonder would be the casino, the temple of the gods of chance, seemingly aloof, untouched by the passions of men. All at once the bay was stirring with life, but Monte Carlo, itself, was still. As if, thought Kent, it were there by appointment with a photographer. As if it were holding its breath for a picture postcard.

He became aware of a silhouette on his right and another on his left; his nostrils quivered from a contrast of scents. From his left came the heady, camellia-like odor of the Orient; from his right came a faint whisper of roses. Afterwards, whenever he remembered, he would always marvel how he had instinctively turned to the latter.

She's remarkably pretty, was his first impression, and then he damned that trite phrase. Hers was a piquant sort of beauty with a dark mezzotint of red in her hair and with a classical loveliness of Grecian profile and a slender bodily grace. She was dressed in a green knitted suit with a red sweater and gloves that matched. Perched upon her head was a leopard hat that went well with the golden flecks of her deep brown eyes. She might be twenty-three or twenty-four at most, he judged.

That dawn was so fantastic, he had to share the beauty of it with her. "Marvelous, isn't it?" he said.

"Is it?" She turned her back and walked away.

He felt himself flushing and covered it up with the business of pipe and pouch and flaring match. The silhouette on his left spoke softly but with a rapture that amazed him.

"I think it's beautiful! I think it's divine!"

He exhaled the smoke before he replied, before he looked at her. "Thank you for a concurrence of opinion. Now I can smooth the ruffled feathers of my pride."

The girl on his left ignored that. "And yet, I have awakened to lovelier scenes than this."

"Where would that have been?"

"On the Nile, with the dawn coming out of the desert sky."

"Oh?" Kent turned his attention fully upon her.

She was dressed in a long, white robe, with a heavier outer robe, and still the curves of her pliant young body were evident. Her small feet were encased in blue slippers, and the blue veil of her scarf did not hide the Arab features. Her hair was dark, almost as black as her luminous eyes, and those eyes seemed to light up the oval of her face. In spite of this difference in looks, she somehow suggested the girl who had turned her back upon Kent and walked away.

"That girl-" He paused. "Did you see her put me in my place?"

"A snob." The young lady on his left dismissed the thought of the other. "Why bother about her?"

"Why, indeed?" It wasn't hard to concentrate upon this one. "You were speaking of the dawn on the Nile. How did you happen to see it?"

She drew herself up proudly. "I am desert born and desert bred."

"Then what are you doing here in Monaco?"

"A quaint idea of my enlightened father was to send me to France for an education. Think of it! Ten years of my life spent in a high-walled school in southern France. A waste of time and learning. What am I to do with my study of French or the history of England? How will that ever profit me?" She made a wry face. "Alas for the empty days, days I might have spent in the saddle, riding with the men of my father. Alas for the nights I might have spent under the desert sky."

There was no affectation about her. Her regret was simple and it touched him, absorbed him fully.

"If I am over-curious, I ask you to forgive me." He looked at her in wonder. "But who are you?"

"I am Nazel ed-Durr. An Arab girl. A Bedouin."

He knew the creed of the Arabs, the strictness of the code that brooked no infringement on the pattern of their behavior. He became uneasy with his knowledge.

"But aren't you supposed to have an ayah from whose watchful eye you should not stray? Or is your father so enlightened that you may show yourself and talk to strangers?"

She accepted his rebuke with a wistful sigh. "How odd that you should know the Arab girl's life! How common and immodest I must appear. Forgive me ... I thought I might live and walk freely for a while longer. I thought that Egypt was yet to come."

"But the dawn has a thousand eyes. Your ayah might awaken. She might ask questions-"

"You won't betray me?"

Kent shook his head.

"May I not know the name of one who would befriend a wayward Arab girl?"

Was there a note of mockery in her voice? Was she having a bit of fun? Kent couldn't be sure. He smiled at her immediate response to his name.

"Ah, the adventurous young American who found the governor's son!"

They made a bit of a fuss about that, thought Kent. Papers all over Europe had carried that story. Evidently it had penetrated the high-walled, convent-like school Nazil had attended. He smiled again, looking beyond her.

The smile left his face. "Quick, Nazil!" he spoke hurriedly. "Your ayah is hurrying with the cumbersome weight of her years. Zud, zud, before she rubs the sleep out of her eyes!"

With a gasp of dismay, Nazil fled and vanished into the lounge. Kent turned his back to the rail and watched the lumbering gait of the closely veiled ayah. She gave him one dark, suspicious glance and rumbled past him like a mountain in search of Mohammed.

Kent turned back, but the fantastic beauty of the dawn was gone. He had seen two lovely girls come alive before him. Curious, this meeting of his with the two of them. Curious that both had come upon him at the same time.

How very natural that he should turn first to the woman of his own world. Between himself and her there should have been some sort of common ground. Didn't they have the same standards, the same measure of life? But she had become remote and more mysterious than the child of the desert. Like a child Nazil had opened her heart to him. She was an open book. Or so he thought.

This was the era of enlightment; that inconceivable day had arrived when the lords of Egypt were accepting new ideas. Nazil's father, whoever he might be, had sent her to a European school so that a daughter of a sheik might not go untutored in this day and age. To a certain extent the older generation of the East condoned the superficial changes; to a certain extent they conformed with the ways of the West. But the line was strictly drawn. So much and no more.

Of what earthly use was ten years of schooling to an Arab girl? No doubt her father would marry her off and she would spend the rest of her lifetime in the household of some petty noble. Where could she use her fluency in French and English if her horizons were to be limited by the high walls of an enclosed garden?

Kent filled his pipe again and blew out a gust of smoke. Nazil was an open book-but the other? He found that he was piqued, annoyed with the Western girl. He stared steadily at the blue-green waters and told himself that this meeting was without significance. He shut his eyes but could still see the glinting dark brown hair, the velvet brown eye and the Grecian nose. To his nostrils came once more the faint whisper of roses. Who was she?

He called himself a fool. With his streak of romanticism he was as much of a Johnny Raw as any Babbit from the mid-west who booked passage for a Mediterranean cruise; he found himself alarmingly susceptible. Hadn't he been fascinated by the very image of Eve? Hadn't he dallied with Monica Grant? And wasn't he now completely absorbed by this mysterious girl? Could it be because he had delved so deeply in the past that he was trying to swing into the present? If he didn't, he'd be estranged from the world, as lonely as Timon of Athens, and born 2671 years too late.

The dining room of the American Beauty was crowded and there was a fifth chair placed at their table. Although it remained vacant at breakfast time, they looked at the empty seat with annoyance. Somehow that empty chair seemed to intrude upon their privacy.

"Let's hope," said Eddie Sterne, "that our absentee companion will continue to remain absent. Let's hope that he suffers so much mal-de-mer that the very thought of food will nauseate him, and we won't have to pass the butter, or hear him say, 'May I have a dash of salt'"

They nodded in agreement; their satisfaction lasted until noon.

She came in looking every bit as lovely as when she had stood at Kent's side watching the dawn. A steward accompanied her and made the introduction.

The men got up. Madeline Moore looked at her with curiosity and approval.

"Miss Patterson," Sheridan repeated. "Are you by any chance related to Clay Patterson?"

"My father," she answered, and then appeared surprised. "Oh, you must be that cinema group who came to see papa two days ago! How wonderful!" She found herself seated next to Kent. "Aren't you the young man who found the dawn so glorious?"

Kent acknowledged this with a smile. "And you're the young lady who didn't."

"I did," she responded quickly, "but you broke the spell by talking about it."

"Then I deserved those two words. Those words took me down a peg."

"Honestly, I didn't mean to be rude." She smiled at him and turned to Madeline. "Why don't you talk to me?"

"My dear," wrote Madeline, "I wish I could-"

Kent saw a look of misery flash across Eddie Sterne's face. That young man is really fond of her, he thought and then wondered irrelevantly what Eddie's mother-in-law would say. He saw a look of understanding on Carol Patterson's face. She was watching Madeline, who had started a fresh page.

"Glad to have you aboard. These three men are proving to much for me. Take one if you please, but not Eddie. He's married."

They worked in pantomime. Carol pointed at Sheridan with a questioning look.

Madeline shook her head and wrote, "He's too old for you." She saw Carol look at her intently and added, "He's mine!" stabbing almost through the pad. She finally ended up with, "And I'd scratch your eyes out!"

Carol looked at her with appreciation. "How could I ever have overlooked you? You're a woman worth knowing!" She bit her Up and added hurriedly, "But that narrows down the field." She turned to Kent and touched his arm. "Tag!" she said. "You're it!"

Was this the girl who had squelched him with two words? Madeline laughed with her eyes and the others laughed with Kent.

Madeline's hand was flying again. "We needed fresh blood so badly. And you walked into our parlor, you poor little fly-"

"That's what you think," said Carol with a candor which no one believed. "This time it was the fly who enmeshed all the spiders on their way to Cairo. Why do you suppose I made myself scarce when the two charming men called on papa? I planned and schemed like a Borgia come to life. I said to myself, I'll join that party and see what they look like with their hair down. Besides," she added honestly, "I have an engagement in Cairo."

"What engagement?" asked Kent.

"To dance in one of the night clubs there." She looked at them. "Didn't you know I'm a dancer? Well, I am. One of England's best."

"If you're that good," Madeline wrote skeptically, "then you wouldn't have lacked bookings in London Town."

"I like to travel," Carol answered simply. "But those Egyptians-" Eddie ventured, "-don't they go in for belly dancing?"

"And I'm such a nice girl, aren't I? Definitely not the kind who exposes her navel for the tourist trade." She was laughing at them. "You're right, but you'd be surprised what I can do with a tambourine, a gypsy costume, and the fiddles that break your heart-

"Speaking of heart-break," she turned to Kent, "aren't you the young man who is carrying the torch for Eve what's-her-name?"

"But I've never met the lady," he protested.

"Are you sure she's a lady?"

Eddie Sterne stared at her; Madeline shook her head in disapproval; Sheridan pushed back his chair and his words were clipped with anger.

"Now just a minute-"

"Ah," said Carol softly, "I didn't know I was in the camp of her friends." She placed an apologetic hand on Sheridan's sleeve. "I'm sorry-please forgive me for my father's sake."

Sheridan was mollified. "Child! Don't ever jump to lame and foolish conclusions."

She took the rebuke in humility but turned her anger on Kent. "Now see what you got me into!"

Kent couldn't hide his astonishment.

"Don't look so innocent," she renewed the attack. "It's all your fault. In trying to disparage the absent lady, I was trying to capture your interest, arouse your curiosity, make you acknowledge my own importance-"

"Ad absurdum."

"Absurd, am I?" she shot back at him. "I'll leave it to the company here if it isn't a woman's natural process of reasoning."

"What's she talking about?" wondered Eddie Sterne.

But Carol wasn't through with Kent. "You don't think it's a far-fetched, do you? Remember, you're my allotted spider. Remember, I tagged you, and you're it!"

They paired off for bridge, at shuffleboard, and in hiking twice about the deck. In the pool they swam shoulder to shoulder, and then, lounging in arm chairs, had their dry martinis. They laughed and talked and flirted, ignoring the danger signals that they were skating on very thin ice, that they would plunge head over heels in love. She was Hathor, she was Venus, she was Anahit; and she made him forget all about Eve.

When they strolled about, they held hands; when they were silent and apart, their eyes would seek one another, absorbed, mystified, the wonder of it descending upon them; descending upon them not like a torrent, but softly, gently, like the rain of heaven. By six o'clock that evening, just twelve hours after his first glimpse of Carol Patterson, Kent had fallen in love. The wonder of it swept over him; he was at home in the world, was a part of it. Now he was glad he hadn't been born 2671 years ago in the distance of time, glad that the fates had held him in abeyance so that his life might be interlaced with Carol's.

There was entertainment after dinner, and a famous Negro tenor was centered in the spotlight. He bowed to the applause, plucked a bar on the banjo he carried, and his voice filled the room with his Requiem for Annie.

Some gals make me hot, Some gals leave me cold, Make me spend all my silver, All my silver and gold, Make me cry like a river When I've sold my soul.

Oh, my loves have been sad, And my loves have been many, But I've found no other love Like the love of my Annie.

Some gals ask for nothin' But a kiss and a hug; Some gals want the moon And a home with a rug; Some gals make you swoon, Tear your heart with a tug.

Oh, my loves have been sad, And my loves have been many, But I've found no other love Like the love of my Annie.

They went on deck and didn't complain for the lack of a moon or the scarcity of stars. Who needed them when the breath of the girl was as sweet as the wind from the Aegean, and the stalwart young man could turn soft and tender? They leaned against the rail, watching the foam and froth of the waters.

"Carol," he said, "this has been the most wonderful day."

"And the best is yet to come." She lifted her face. "Before you say good night, you're going to kiss me, aren't you?"

He took her in his arms, saw the throb of the pulse at the base of her throat and he kissed her there, and that was her undoing. She pressed his head against her breast, then, seeming to remember something, she gasped and pushed him back. The huskiness came back to her voice; again it was the voice of Eve.

"Ye gods, Larry! I only wanted a kiss. It should have been light and innocent."

"I'm sorry, Carol. I lost my head."

"Let's be honest about this. I lost mine ... I shouldn't have pressed you here."

"Here?"

"Larry-please, Larry-"

"Then one little kiss upon your lips-"

"After what happened? I wouldn't dare."

"If I promise to be good-"

"I couldn't make a promise like that. Don't you see?" she whispered. "I couldn't be good with you."

There was no director to instruct her, but her bosom heaved; there was no make-up man at hand, but her lips glistened; no script girl gave her a cue but she turned about and fled.

The next morning there was a wind-swept curtain of drizzling rain. Kent, in need of exercise, donned his slicker before breakfast and walked out on the deserted deck. He went once around the ship, thought of going in when the door of the salon opened and a girl in a blazing yellow slicker darted out. She sprang into step with him, sent an arm through his own, and he looked into the flushed, radiant face of Nazil. He frowned and stood still.

"Don't be angry with me, Kent effendi." She swept away his resistance. "The rest of the day will hang heavy enough. Can't I have this half hour with you?"

"Your ayah," he began.

"Sleeps peacefully. Her snores are attuned to the matter of the rain."

"Button up your slicker, Nazil. You'll catch your death of cold."

"That sounds like my ayah. How can I think of death when I have so much life in me, or fear a cold when I have so much fire within?"

"How old are you, Nazil?"

"I'm not a child; I'm seventeen."

He had thought she was older than that; he had forgotten that an Arab girl reaches womanhood while her European sisters remain adolescents.

"Thou wrinkled hag!" He laughed at her and spoke in Arabic. "Where is the youth thou shouldst bring to thy husband? Where is thy dowry of fresh, young beauty?"

"My husband," she retorted, "will get nothing better than he deserves. Why does he tarry so long?"

Youth was ardent in her, impatient within her. The laws of biology, thought Kent, are the same all over the world.

She looked at him in dismay. "Have all my charms vanished with the passing of my seventeenth year?"

He answered lightly, "Millions of figs shall be eaten, thousands of moons shall wax and wane before the passing of Nazil's beauty."

"My Romeo!" she said in English and hugged his arm close to her breast.

He scowled. "Get no ideas into that foolish head!" And almost to himself, "It is madness even to talk to you."

"Why, Kent effendi?"

"If we are seen what will be your lot? No Arab husband will lift your veil and proudly claim that none but he has seen your flower-like face."

"A fig for him," she laughed.

"Nazil, Nazil! Will you bring dishonor and disgrace to your father's house?" She was silent.

"And as for me," he shrugged, "a knife may find its sheath between my shoulder blades."

It was probable enough, true enough to give her sober thought. He saw the stark reality fall like a cloak upon her, melt her careless indifference, and she appeared like a woman grown. Kent couldn't help but be touched at her concern.

She released his arm, shuddered, and drew away. Suddenly she darted about. "Quick, Kent effendi! The ayah comes!" She ran across the slippery deck and entered the salon.

Kent looked about and saw the mountain in motion. The ayah, with a gleam in her eyes, drenched to the skin through her yashmak and many folds of petticoat, was thundering down upon him. He was a man who had not swerved aside from the charge of a water buffalo, but now he took to his heels and ran.

Breakfast over, they wondered what they could do on a rainy day.

"I don't feel like bridge," wrote Madeline, "and this rain makes me sleepy. But why don't you carry on?" She flashed a smile at Carol. "I leave you in excellent hands."

The men rose as she left the table, kept staring after her, kept thinking about her. "She's every inch a lady," was Kent's unstinting appraisal. Eddie Sterne gave an audible sigh, and Sheridan looked sad, almost sorrowful.

"Oh, if she would only talk again."

"But why can't she?" asked Carol. "If she could talk before, why can't she talk again?"

"She took it hard," Sheridan explained, "harder than most when the talkies came. You have no idea of the panic that swept over Hollywood. Stars who could command a salary of six figures suddenly found their options released, found themselves without a contract And Madeline's voice never had the proper pitch.

"She was married then, big with child when her husband deserted her. The bastard went on to greener fields. On top of it all, she lost her house in Beverly Hills. Things pyramided themselves, and it was chaos, utter confusion. Her voice teacher, having taken all he could from her, told her brutally that she would never make the grade."

"And she believed him?"

"She never spoke after that, not even after her child was born. It was a girl with Madeline's own beautiful looks, but Madeline never sang her a lullaby; she was afraid to.

"I tried to make her snap out of it, tried to make her see a psychiatrist, but she would have no part of it. The house went on the auction block and barely paid her creditors. She dismissed her servants, sold both Cadillacs, moved to more modest quarters.

"She had learned her lesson in humility and, with a great step backward, turned from a star performer to a simple receptionist. And didn't complain...."

Sheridan paused to finish the last of his coffee, wiped his iron-grey mustache with his napkin, and took out a cigarette. Carol held the match for him and he expelled the first puff with a sigh.

"Did you guess that I was in love with her? That I still am? Well, it's true. But she would have no part of me; she thought I was motivated by pity, and only pity. They say I'm an eloquent writer-" Sheridan laughed wryly. "A fig for that eloquence! I couldn't convince Madeline she was wrong."

"Is there no hope?" Carol wondered. "None at all?"

"She wouldn't go to a psychiatrist, no matter how much I begged her; she had no time for such foolishness. But I took her case history to Doctor Bruce Taylor, the one psychiatrist I know who is good, very good. He thought shock might do the trick, but Madeline never made an appointment."

"Shock?" Eddie Sterne looked up. "That shouldn't be so hard. As Kent said, she's every inch a lady-a patrician if ever there was one. It seems to me if you were coarse enough, or vulgar enough, it shouldn't be too hard to shock her."

"Don't meddle in things you don't know anything about," warned Sheridan.

"These days," Eddie Sterne defended himself, "everyone has read a bit of Freud. Everyone has a smattering of knowledge of analysis."

"A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing," Sheridan insisted.

"Sheridan is right," said Kent; and to relieve the tension, he smiled and suggested, "Why don't you first practice analyzing your mother-in-law?"

Sheridan smiled sadly but Eddie looked grim.

"You fool! Who else do you think is my mother-inlaw?"

CHAPTER FIVE

The dread of parting had accompanied them all the way from Port Said; how they managed to laugh and make light of it was a mystery to Kent. Had tiieir laughter sounded wistful to each other? Had their brave little jokes seemed pointless and artificial? They must have; for with their arrival in Cairo Madeline, Eddie, and Sheridan stayed unobtrusively in the background. This was the parting of the ways, and Carol and Kent clasped hands almost formally.

"Goodbye, angel."

"Larry-" Her voice caught on a low, husky note; she hesitated and spoke more lightly. "But you will come and see me, won't you?"

"Tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that-as long as we remain in Cairo." He bent and kissed her.

He looked at the Nubian who had collected her bags, looked at the short, slim, middle-aged Greek who was the proprietor of the Golden Pool. Kent resented his open appraisal of Carol's charms. What was that damned Greek thinking? Did he sense that Carol Patterson would be a new sensation in the night life of Cairo?

"Look, Carol," he said earnestly, "if there's any time that you'll need me-in any of the twenty-four hours of the day-all you have to do is call me. And I want you to promise that."

"I promise," she said instantly and couldn't hide the tremor in her speech. "Ah-I'm like a boy who's changing voice. Excitement does that to me."

"I'm glad you're not a boy-"

"And so am I."

"You're every inch of a woman."

"Yes-All of me-"

"And you're tailor-made for me."

"Be careful, my dear." She lowered her eyes. "Or you'll be committing yourself ... And this is not the time or the place-"

But she raised herself on tip-toe as he bent over her and the second kiss was long, and deep, and lasting. She stepped back, and then closed in again, but the moment was not to last. The ayah appeared on the scene.

Things had gone far enough, she muttered with venom. Was she mad, her Nazil, to kiss the cursed infidel before a station full of people? By Allah, her father should hear of this!

All this flow in Arabic while her eyes bored into Kent; and if looks could kill, Kent's funeral procession would have been on its way.

Carol couldn't understand a word she was saying. Mystified, she looked on with amazement while Kent tried to explain.

"My good ayah, all is not as it seems-"

"Silence, o afflction of thy mother!" she thundered at him and whirled Carol aside. But the girl whirled back with laughter in her eyes.

"Another of your conquests, Mr. Kent?" She broke from the ayah's grasp and ran towards the Greek.

The ayah hadn't turned from Kent. Her baleful look turned to one of appraisal, seeming to take mental note of all of Kent's physical attributes. She turned a deaf ear to all of his explanations and moved majestically away.

Kent saw Carol reach a late model Buick, saw her get in beside the Greek, who started the car with a screeching of rubber. Carol's hand fluttered in farewell.

The ayah's majestic waddle reached the limousine which stood at the curb. Beyond her Kent could see the eager face of Nazil looking at him through the open window of the car. Kent realized that Nazil had taken it all in.

Confused and uncertain, he hesitated. What could he say? He followed the guardian half way thinking that he had to explain; he had to make the ayah see the light or the mountain of trouble on which he stood might crumble and bury him in an avalanche. But even as he hesitated, Nazil's guardian climbed in, and her first thought was to adjust Nazil's veil. It was then that Kent noted one detail that held some hope of explanation. Nazil wore a dress of azure blue, identical in color and pattern with Carol's dress.

What devil of mischance had made the two girls wear the same dress, in the same place, at the same time. No wonder the ayah had jumped to conclusions! He heard her voice rise in denunciation.

"Your father shall hear of this, my precious bundle of morality. That I can promise you. Are you mad to do what you did? To have an affair with a man before you are wed! Time enough for that after you marry; time enough when your bloom has faded, when your husband takes himself another wife, when you have become a bittersweet ... But the shame you now bring to your father's house, the dishonor and the disgrace-"

It didn't end there; that was all Kent could hear; not all that he could see. As the car left the curb, the ayah must have been distracted, for Nazil pulled the veil aside and sent him a kiss with a white, fluttering hand.

Sheridan and the rest came up to surround him. Madeline thrust an arm through his in a gesture of comfort.

"We've had enough of your delaying tactics, Kent," Sheridan declared. "Where do we pitch our tent?"

Kent came back to earth and gave them a rueful smile. "Pitch our tent? In the old days it would have been Shepheard's. Nowadays it's the Cairo Hilton."

At the Cairo Hilton Kent called for the manager and explained their singular situation. "It might happen that we three men might go out and Miss Moore might be left alone and, unfortunately, Miss Moore cannot speak. If she wants to contact you, may I suggest that you send someone up immediately whenever she sounds three taps with her ring on the mouthpiece of the phone."

"Just three taps on the mouthpiece?" The manager showed his understanding. "But of course, Mr. Kent. I'll see to it that you don't lack for service or accommodations ... Now I have this suite of seven rooms-"

They made a bee line for the showers.

Kent rubbed himself down thoughtfully. This was the last known residence of Eve. Eve's secretary, Angela Strickland, still held the fort here, waiting for any summons that might come from her. She was keeping her eyes and ears open for any news of Eve's whereabouts. It would be best to give her a ring.

Kent had hardly finished dressing when the phone rang. He picked it up with a cheerful "Hello!"

"Mr. Kent?" the feminine voice was well-modulated but not quite under control. "This is Angela Strickland, Mr. Kent."

"Yes, Angela?" He could hear the stress in her voice. "Is there anything the matter? Have you had any word?"

"Not from Miss Evans. But just now a man phoned. He said he was a reporter from the Cairo Courier."

"Angela, there is no such paper!"

"I know it, Mr. Kent, and I'm frightened. He said he wanted a story about Miss Evans. I h-edged and said I was about to take a nap, but he was insistent. I finally agreed to see him in about fifteen minutes. I called the desk and found out that you had arrived-so I called you-"

"You did the right thing, Angela." He paused. "What is your room number?"

"Three thirty."

"I'll be down in a minute. Don't let anyone else in until I come."

He heard a sigh of relief and a grateful "Thank heaven!" before he rang off.

She received him with outstretched hands, an uncertain smile, and the informality of the sheerest negligee. Her body conformed with her voice; it was well-molded if a trifle overbuilt at the top. A petite brunette, Angela had dark hazel eyes and, like most people in and about the movies, had her share of good looks. It would take a girl like Eve, assured of her own surpassing beauty, to disregard her secretary's perfect features.

Kent smiled as he looked her over. Angela's smile was responsive, without any embarrassment.

"You see, Mr. Kent, I wasn't lying. I was about to take a nap."

He nodded his approval. "Very charming as a bedroom scene, but hardly the thing for the man who frightened you over the phone. Have you any idea who he might be?"

Angela shrugged; her breasts rose and subsided; she tried to secure them in their flimsy sheath. "How should I? Your guess is as good as mine."

She was probably telling the truth, but Kent turned aside in annoyance. She was much too distracting in that attire. "Didn't you even think of getting dressed?" he asked. , Angela shrugged again and accepted his suggestion. 'If you say so." She walked to the bedroom door. I'll leave the door open so we can talk."

"Yes." He promised himself not to turn or to look. What interest could he have in this cordial young lady who seemed ready, willing and able to take on all comers? Then, out of nowhere, the advice of an old adage ran through his brain: "If you would sleep with my lady, curry favor from her maid."

Was Eve as extravagantly lusty as her secretary? Was Angela a copy of Eve, a copy without finesse perhaps, but a copy nevertheless? Was he right in his supposition that to play the bitch, one must ply the trade? Was he right in thinking that the queen of Hollywood was the queen of harlots?

And if she was, why should it bother him. What was Eve to him but a name, a face, a figure? And a job.

That was his perspective. He mustn't become involved. This was a job, a chore to do, a means to an end. Thank fate that a girl like Carol Patterson had come along, a sweet, uncomplicated girl about whom there could be no doubt at all. What did it matter if Eve Evans had the moral standards of an alley cat?

"Tell me about Eve," he said. "Was she anything like you?" This was a bit bold. "Warm, generous, outgoing-"

She looked at him reproachfully through the open door; her hazel eyes took on a somber hue, like the leaves of autumn in the first blast of winter. "You think I'm a sad case, don't you? You think I'm a woman on the prowl."

"Now, Angela-"

"Oh, yes you do....And by Eve's standards perhaps I am. But what fun did she get out of life?

"You want to know about Eve? She was the loneliest woman in Hollywood. Night after night she'd curl up with a book about some ancient kingdom; or she'd listen to some music. Operas were her meat;

Verdi was her favorite ... She seldom had any callers, and when she did, they were the older people. The intellectual kind. The writers and the artists. People like Sheridan.

"Whenever the phone rang-and there were plenty of rising young stars who kept the line busy-her answer was the same. She wasn't at home. She couldn't be bothered ... Something had soured her. It must have been that affair with Craig Whitlock, her director-do you know about it?"

Kent nodded.

"I could no more be like Eve-" Angela paused, finding the thought impossible. "She found out about my weakness when I accepted a date from one of her rejects. She laughed, thought it was a great joke. For once in my life I felt humiliated, and I became more discreet thereafter. But Eve didn't preach or point the finger of scorn, didn't flaunt her pride ... Know what I'm trying to say? Eve had an understanding heart and a world of tolerance for us, the weaker vessels.

"Don't know why I'm telling you all this; generally I don't confide in her admirers. You do worship at her shrine, don't you? You go right ahead. There's no purer flame."

"No," said Kent, I don't worship Eve, but you have set my mind at rest."

"Do you mean that she's nothing to you but a job? Do you mean I could have a clear field with you, all to myself?"

Kent shook his head. At the same time he heard the doorbell.

They exchanged places. As they passed through the door, their bodies touched, and, Kent noted that Angela hadn't changed from her negligee. She had merely added a tunic that molded her figure voluptuously. He shook his head. Angela was Angela, and if Eve could be tolerant, why not he? Well, their talk had been interesting.

More interesting were the voices that reached him. He left the door ajar.

"Miss Strickland, I'm Ira Warren, and I'm sorry to break in on your nap, but I did want to get that story ... Oh, by the way, this is my colleague, Cliff Weaver."

"Two of you? To get one little story? Oh, come in, gentlemen. Have a seat."

Angela busied herself with cigarettes and she was discreet enough to place them with their backs to the bedroom door, smart enough to play the hostess.

"Now if you will excuse me, I'll get dressed."

"But you look fine the way you are," insisted Weaver.

She gave him a reproving glance. "No lady receives her callers without proper clothing."

"But you look fine the way you are," insisted Weaver

"Let the little lady go," Warren smiled. "But, Miss Strickland, a word of advice. Leave the door ajar."

He paused and the unspoken threat was covered up with, "That way we can talk."

"Oh, talk," said Angela and then brightened. "Promise not to peek?"

"Our word as gentlemen."

Angela appeared doubtful. "Now look here-" and then thought it over. "I'll leave the door open by six inches. If you push it wider by another inch, there'll be no story. None at all."

"That's fair," Warren admitted.

The minx was as good as her word. She left the door open according to the agreement. She passed Kent without a word and took off the tunic and negligee.

Stark naked, she turned to Kent, smiled, and pointed; and Kent, following her direction, saw her clothes upon the chair. He held out her panties but she chose to go to him and placed a hand upon his shoulder. There was no way out of it. He had to bend and hold them for her while she stepped in and slapped the elastic into place.

The smile on Angela's face amounted to laughter and Kent promised himself not to be outdone.

He took her naked torso in his arms and whispered into her ear, "For the first time in my life I help a girl into them!"

"Always the other way around, huh?" She bit his ear and pushed him off, pointing to her bra.

Cliff Weaver's voice came from the living room. "Just how much of a story have you got for us, Miss Strickland?"

But Angela was having trouble with Kent; he couldn't hook the fastener of the bra. She snatched it off and pointed to the sheer blouse draped upon the chair. Kent held it for her and she flowed in, filling it with abundance, and for a moment tightening his hands upon the full roundness of her breasts. They were playing with fire, but Angela kept on eye on the door.

Weaver had hunched forward in his chair. "Now tell us exactly: what are the latest developments regarding Eve?"

"Don't hold out on us, Miss Strickland," Ira Warren added. "It isn't smart."

"But, gentlemen-I'm such a foolish girl, really. You'll have to bear with me."

She was bearing up nobly under Kent's attempts to hoist her skirt, bearing up but not helping him any. He had knelt and she had stepped into the skirt, but in raising it, he had risen with it, his head brushing against the swell of her thighs. And once again she had pressed his head.

Kent rocked back on his heels and sighed. She gave him a wicked smile.

"What was that?" Warren called out.

"I just dropped my shoe ... Do you mind if I don't wear stockings? Sandals are plenty on a day like this." She held out her hand and helped Kent to rise. "Had enough?" she whispered.

"Pick up the marbles." He almost groaned aloud and to cover it up, Angela made her entrance.

"Did it take you all that time to put on so little?"

Angela looked at Weaver askance. "I don't think I'm going to like you-"

"Never mind about liking us," Warren said harshly. "Just answer our questions."

"Fire away."

There was something familiar about Cliff Weaver, thought Kent. And his partner, Ira Warren. If he could only think clearly-that damned minx had forced him to his knees and amused herself at his expense. He cursed her for a tease, for creating a desire that had no place at a time like this. Here was a situation he had to cope with. If he could only get a look at their faces-

"Miss Strickland," Cliff Weaver was saying, "this is not a movie set."

"And don't play the coy little maiden," added Warren.

Angela appeared surprised and looked frightened, almost subdued. She may be a hussy, thought Kent, but she's good in pinches.

"I'll tell you whatever I know."

"That's better," said the man who crouched forward. "Now tell us exactly: when was the last time you saw Eve?"

"Two months and two weeks ago to the day she left for Marseilles."

"Why was she going there?"

"Why," Angela looked surprised at the question, "she was en route to London. She had to change planes in Marseilles."

"Was London her home town?"

"As far as I know-"

"Was Eve Evans her real name?"

"I think so."

"Don't you know?"

"How can you be sure of anything about a woman like Eve? She told you what she wanted you to know and would stand for no intrusion upon her privacy."

"Did she have a boy friend or two? A lover, maybe?"

Angela shook her head.

"Don't give us that," said Cliff Weaver. "You want us to believe that a woman with her looks lived like a nun?"

"I don't care what you believe," Angela retorted.

Weaver almost came out of his chair, but Ira Warren waved him back. "Play it smart, baby. Don't hold out on us." And seeing her subdued once more, "How did she go? Just how much baggage?"

"Only an overnight bag."

"Just an overnight bag and all the way to London? What are you trying to give me?"

Angela looked at him scornfully. "Must I do your thinking for you? If she was headed for her home in London, she must have had some clothes there.

And she had a lot of money; cashed a check for twenty thousand; took it in hundred dollar bills ... Couldn't she buy whatever she wanted?"

"Loaded!" Weaver exclaimed.

"You can say that again." Warren nodded in appreciation. He turned his attention to Angela. "You've been a good girl, Miss Strickland. Now let's get down to the latest developments."

"There aren't any-"

"What about the movie crowd and this man Kent?"

"I've heard they were coming. Due any day now-"

"They're here, baby; in this hotel, baby. Don't tell me you didn't know that."

"Really?" Angela looked surprised. "You must be wrong-I'm sure they would have contacted me-"

She gave the impression of truth and bore their close scrutiny for a long moment. Ira Warren shrugged.

"You may be telling the truth. Now let's have some more of it. What's her address in London?"

"I don't know."

Weaver began with, "Don't give us that!" but it was Warren who took over.

"You've been' a good girl so far. Why spoil the record? Why don't you give us her home address?"

"Because I don't know."

"Honey-" But Warren couldn't hide his exasperation "We've been good to you, haven't we? We didn't get rough, did we? But we can-and you know we can. Sooner or later, you're going to tell us. You're going to tell us willingly or unwillingly. We can be awfully persuasive, awfully insistent, and we wouldn't want to do awful things to a sweet chick like you."

Angela was trembling, but she had the courage to carry on. "How can I tell you what I don't know?"

"You know. A smart chick like you always knows." He paused. "We're ranning out of time, and I'm running out of patience." But when Angela said no more, Warren sighed. "All right. You asked for it."

Weaver jumped up and Angela started to run behind the couch, but Warren tripped her and she fell sprawling. "Grab her," said Warren. "Grab her and gag her. We don't want everyone in the hotel to break in on us."

"Let the girl alone," said Kent.

He had had a ringside seat, but this was the first time he had faced the men and the shock that ran through him spread itself to mind, muscle and will. Here were the men who had ambushed him in that motel in Hollywood. These were Craig Whitlock's hirelings.

The advantage of surprise was his and Kent made full use of it. He leaped forward and sent a crashing kick against the crouching Weaver, who was trying to gag Angela with his handkerchief. The kick caught Weaver on the shoulder blade, sprawling him helplessly on top of a vicious Angela, who clawed at his face.

The girl began to give a good account of herself.

Although he had caught Weaver by surprise, Kent. found Warren was ready for him and could fight by the rules he had set. With no holds barred, and knuckles that were like wedges of iron, they swung at each other, both connecting, both blows telling. Kent felt a shock on his jaw that was like the kick of a mule. His own blow sank deep into the softer portion of his opponent's torso, barely above the belt. He heard an incredible bellow of air and a gasping suction of wind. Kent closed in for a final blow.

Tottering, almost out on his feet from that one blow, Warren met him head on and ignored the punch that rocked his head. His great arms wrapped themselves about Kent and suddenly Kent found himself in the coils of a python.

He struggled and found himself helpless. Where did the man get his source of strength after two such crippling blows? Kent tried to butt his head against his enemy's shoulder, but found it well-padded and powerful enough to damage his cheek. It was his turn to gasp.

Gasp and suck wind. Warren had found his reservoir of strength and those arms of his were crushing at Kent's ribs, trying to break them, trying to splinter every bone in his frame. If this kept up a minute longer-He turned his head, saw the other partner, Weaver, towering behind him, reaching low for the haymaker that would put him out for good.

In desperation he brought up his knee, but even before it went home, before he could hear Warren's cry or feel the loosening of those arms, Weaver's blow had connected and all the rockets in the world exploded before his eyes. He fell on top of the man who had almost broken him.

He never felt himself being kicked aside and Warren pulled out from under him; he never sensed their going. When he came to, he was in the bedroom again, on the bed, with a red stain on the pillow, and Angela ministering to him. Kent tried to sit up but her insistent pressure held him to the pillow, and he thought to himself, All the fight has gone out of me. I couldn't lick a cat. I couldn't even resist Angela.

And who the hell would want to? What a nurse she made as she bent over him! The sheer blouse was in tatters. First one breast came into view and then the other came almost to his lips. On her own lips was a smile, a Mona Lisa sort of a smile. Like a cat with a bowl of cream. Give her just a bit of leeway and Angela was sure to win the battle of the boudoir.

She was concocting a drink. What was she up to? he wondered.

"I'm giving you a sedative so you can go to sleep."

"Here? On your bed?" And at her nod, "But Angela-" and paused and knew the words were ridiculous, "-but, Angela, I might compromise you!"

"Honey-" her words were honest enough, "honey, I've been compromised before. Now you take this like the darling you are."

He waved it aside and moved painfully to the edge of the bed, sitting up out of sheer bravado. The room spun and whirled and he grabbed at the remnants of her blouse; and practically naked, she became his willing prop. He managed to gain his feet, and still leaning upon her, he looked down. She was a sight.

She deserved a word of thanks. "Angela, you'll never know what this has meant to me-

She actually glowed under his appreciative eye.

"Were I anybody else but a man in love, I'd fall in love with you. But you see, I'm like a man possessed."

Angela met his eyes bravely. "Is it Eve?"

How could he tell her about Carol Patterson? He could only play the game, looking wistful in silent agreement.

"Then I hope you find her." Angela played the renunciation scene nobly. "I truly hope you'll find her. Then, maybe, she'll come alive."

"Dear Angela-" Careful, said his mind, don't overdo it! "Dear Angela, is there anything about Eve that you can tell me?"

She thought for a moment and then brightened. "I know something about her that nobody else does."

He waited expectantly.

"Eve has a beauty spot-" Angela bared her left breast, "-right here!"

"Thank you, Angela." He marched nobly out of the door.

CHAPTER SIX

Kent spent the two hours of the siesta in patching himself up and making himself presentable once more. When the others awoke, appearing completely refreshed, Kent took them on a sight-seeing tour.

A hired car carried them over the bridge which spanned the Nile and they climbed the hills of Mokatta, more than five hundred feet above the town.

They labored up to the citadel perched upon the spur of the hill; they climbed upon the ramparts and saw Cairo at their feet.

There were the ancient walls and the lofty towers; there were the gardens and the squares, the palaces and the mosques, with all the delicacy of spherical domes and slender, fantastic minarets. There were the islands in the wide span of the Nile, like so many green rivets in a sheet of silver. An abundance of trees lined the banks of the Nile and away, southward, were the great, silent pyramids. Westward was a panorama of sandy waste and barren cliffs, but almost at their feet were the two Cairos, the modern, and the medieval.

To Kent the modern Cairo with its fine hotels, clubs, and tennis courts was the less appealing. In the tortuous, narrow streets of medieval Cairo he saw another world, an old, changeless world, looking on stolidly at the ever-changing panorama of Nassar's domain. Dramatic contrast! Pointing out Place Ata-begh as a point of interest, he could only direct their eyes to the heart of the Arab city, to the beggars and the teeming people. He tried to explain the characteristics of the Arabs and the Syrians, of the Greeks and the Armenians.

They were fascinated by the sight and spellbound by his words. Madeline clung to Kent's arm and seemed to drink in his flow of talk while her eyes appreciated the ever-changing view before her.

"How many conquerors has this place seen?" Kent wondered aloud. "Shall we go back to the Pharaohs and the Assyrians? To Alexander and the Roman legions? To the medieval princes and the crusading knights? To Mohammed, who conquered and established a religion?"

Kent shook his head. "All that took place in the distant past, and it is that past from which I must divorce myself. The epic of events of long ago has no bearing on the job we've got to do." He came back to the present as if awakening from a dream. "Somewhere in that city is the answer to our problem. Someone in that city can solve the mystery of Eve ... But who?"

The four of them, lined up upon the parapet, looked down upon the city. To three of them Cairo appeared gay, colorful and carefree, but Kent wasn't fooled. To him the city was a sinister place, secret as ever, seeming to laugh at his speculations.

They dined in a Armenian restaurant, and the tomato dolma was delicious. The wine brought a touch of color to Madeline's cheeks. Her eyes sparkled and her lips curled into silent laughter at some witticism from Eddie.

Kent saw Sheridan's usually composed features go soft and mellow as he looked at Madeline, and Kent couldn't help but wonder at a love that endured without some measure of recompense. Seated between her son-in-law and Sheridan, Madeline presented a pretty picture despite her years. She winked at Kent, smiling at him.

"If you ever get tired of these two," said Kent, "if they begin to bore you, would you consider my proposal of marriage?"

Smiling, almost on the verge of open laughter, Madeline shook her head. They looked at her expectantly when she brought out pad and pencil.

"Not a chance! You can't seduce me away from my one true love." She laid the pencil down and looked at Sheridan.

Sheridan went white to his lips. A surge of emotion brought him out. of his chair, made him tower over her, made him lose his self-control.

"Then why the hell don't you marry me?" he asked hoarsely.

The smile left Madeline's face, the laughter left her eyes; an entreating hand rested on Sheridan's arm. The silent tears came.

Eddie Sterne glowered. Sheridan went back to his seat, his rebellion short-lived. In another moment he was steeped in remorse.

"Forget it. Please forget it." Hank Sheridan said. He couldn't help adding, "But you can't really say I haven't been patient."

Madeline huddled over her pad. One glistening tear fell upon her scribbling. "Patient for what?" She abandoned the symmetry of her lettering. "For the fading beauty of a dummy? Oh, Hank, I'm the poorest shadow of a woman, but you're the fool of the world."

Sheridan smiled half-heartedly. Madeline looked stunned. The dinner was spoiled.

Kent wondered at Sheridan's outburst. Had that long-enduring patience worn thin? Had Sheridan's nerves really snapped? Kent looked closely at the writer. Not a hair was out of place; the pepper-and-salt mustache was evenly trimmed, and he wore his tweed's with a nonchalant grace. Although the twinkle hadn't reappeared in his eyes, the look of tolerant good nature resettled on his face and Kent could only speculate ... Was it possible that this was part of a shock treatment in store for the lovely Madeline? He saw Eddie Sterne look at his potential father-in-law with an appreciative glance.

They returned to the hotel and for a little while they were a disunited group. Kent, busy with his pipe, saw Sheridan light his cigar, saw Madeline sitting quietly in the arm chair while Eddie Sterne brooded by the open window.

What was Eddie thinking of? Was he planning to take up where Hank left off? Kent remembered Eddie's words. "She's every inch a lady-And if you're coarse enough, or vulgar enough-"

Kent didn't have long to speculate. He saw Eddie almost wipe the brooding look from his face. He squared his shoulders and confronted his mother-in-law.

"The evening is still young," Eddie began. Madeline looked up.

"-and believe it or not, there's an outdoor movie in town. How would you like to go with me?"

The busman's holiday seemed to appeal to Madeline. She reached for her pad. "Sounds like fun," she wrote. "What shall I wear?"

Eddie picked up the pad and read it aloud before he answered. "Why," he said, "wear something approriate and we will have fun-Wear something with a plunging neckline, without a bra; a full skirt, no panties-"

Madeline sprang out of her chair and slapped his face. Kent caught her by the arm, swung her into an embrace and dried her tears.

"It didn't work, Eddie," he said. "And don't you think she's been through the wringer enough for one day?"

He led Madeline to her room, made her sit upon the chaise, and gave her an aspirin. He looked at her.

"They tried, Madeline; they tried because they love you so much ... I wish there were something I could do or say-But you probably wouldn't give a damn no matter what I did or said. They're the ones you love."

She held out her hand; he took it and she came to her feet.

"Now climb into bed like a good little girl. Forget about everything and go to sleep."

She raised herself on tip-toe; he lowered his head for her goodnight kiss.

He returned to the living room. Sheridan was playing a spiritless game of Casino with Eddie. They looked up.

"Kent?" asked Sheridan. "Would you care to join us?"

"Some other time," Kent replied. "I'm off to the Golden Pool. Carol is dancing tonight."

"Oh," said Eddie, "may we come?"

"Why not?" Kent responded, but at the same moment Sheridan vetoed the idea. "How can you break up my game?" He looked at Eddie and the younger man took the hint.

"On second thought-"

They were being tactful. Kent smiled and took his leave.

The Golden Pool was like an oriental garden, dimly lighted by Aladdin's lamps, with a backdrop that pictured Mohammed's paradise. Raised upon a ledge before this scene the stringed orchestra sat and strummed while almost at their feet lay an oval-shaped pool out of which rose a gushing fountain. The pool was alive with modern houris, almost naked, disporting themselves, moving with calculated, sensuous grace. On three sides of the lavish room were partitioned alcoves of latticework, where drapes could be drawn and privacy could be insured. Extravagant and exotic as any cafe in Paris or Vienna, the Golden Pool catered to the cosmopolitan world of Cairo.

The crowd was blase, and the American crooner got only a smattering of applause when he finished singing about his lost love in Manhattan. The audience perked up when Carol became the attraction. She stood still for a moment, motionless as a statue, but her eyes glittered with excitement. When her tambourine crashed, she began to move, and the full length of her gypsy skirt flared about the symmetry of her legs; as she whirled, the golden coins of her necklace danced about the column of her neck. She became a slim, barbaric figure and from that moment on the audience lost its look of indolence.

She quickened your pulse, thought Kent. She shared with you her own excitement and wove a mystic spell, one which could snare you in quicksand or lift you to the very gates of heaven.

He told her as much when her dance was over. She had come to the booth to sit with him. "Why, you're as good as Eve Evans ever was!"

"Really?" Carol gave him a curious look. "But I was never too greatly impressed with Eve."

"Could this be professional jealousy?"

"Why should I be jealous of Eve? Are you in love with her?"

"How can you fall in love with a woman you've never met?"

"You've seen her pictures. Did you find her exciting?"

"Yes-"

"Entrancing? Captivating?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Did you feel like making love to her? Sleeping with her?"

Kent looked at her solemnly. "You want the truth, don't you?" He hesitated. "The answer is yes."

"Damn her! Damn her!"

"Carol? Don't carry on like that. Remember, you're the only one I love."

Again she gave him that curious look. "I'm beginning to wonder about that. If it were at all possible-if Eve were here beside me-which one of us would you choose?"

"How could there be any choice?" he asked. "For all I know, my lady Eve might be the bitch of the world."

She looked as if he had slapped her. "No, no!" she protested. "Please don't say a thing like that." She paused. "Can't you give her the benefit of the doubt?"

"Well," he said, "her secretary gave her a clean bill of health. But if Eve is anything like her secretary-"

"Oh! I see you've tangled with Angela." Carol almost bit her tongue.

"God forbid!" Kent laughed; he hadn't noted the slip of the tongue. "You don't tangle with a girl like Angela. She might want to make a career of it."

"You do have a wandering eye. First it was Eve, and now it's her secretary."

"But I've given you no cause for jealousy," he pointed out. "I intend to stay very close to my fireside."

Their looks met and held. Their excitement charged the air between them.

"Larry-" Carol extended her hand.

"No, no!" he said and placed his hands behind his back. "This is not a proposal of marriage. I only wish it were. If I could only find Eve-"

"Then you'd forget all about me." She turned upon him. "Didn't you say you found her exciting?"

"Well-yes-"

"In your own words-and I could cry because you didn't lie to me-in your own words, didn't you say you found her entrancing, captivating?"

"But, honey-"

"You dog! Didn't you say you wanted to sleep with her?"

"Carol, I swear to you-"

"Go on," she said, 'lie to me! Tell me that she's not a bit exciting, that she's just an ugly bitch, and I'll slap your shameless face!"

Kent got up and his hand seized the heavy drapes, swinging them into place. They were alone in the latticed booth. He turned upon her, towered over her, caught her by the arm and brought her to her feet. "Will you listen to me!" he thundered and encircled her in his arms.

"What do you want to say?" She met him full tilt, with her own brand of passion. The flashing eyes dared him; the parted lips invited.

His head swooped down upon hers; their lips touched; his tongue shot out and invaded the sweetness of her mouth. The taste of wild honey flamed in their mouths and from outside came the muted rhapsody of the stringed orchestra. They swayed like lovers in a waltz, like pagans in an orgy.

If he had thought to subdue her by the tempest within him, he had to revise his estimate of her. She had shared that ecstasy and could still assume a mask of indifference.

"Was that a sample of what's in store for Eve?"

"No, by Hathor! That's what is in store for you. Eve, Eve darling, I swear to you-" And he stopped.

"Do you know what you just called me?" Her voice was husky and breathless. Her eyes flashed with hope. "You called me Eve-you called me Eve, darling-"

He shook his head. "I'm so confused, I don't know what I'm saying."

"Indeed you are!"

Kent took her across the street to the London Bridge Hotel. He kissed her goodnight once lightly on the cheek. A repeat of the kiss they had shared in the booth would only arouse the devil in him, make his hunger keener, wilder than ever. He had to go home and think things over. He had to find Eve ... Why had he called her Eve, Eve, darling?

By the time he crossed the bridge of Ksar-en-Nil he was talking to himself and heedless of the clock that rang the second hour of the morning. He had never felt more stupid or confused. When a car drove up and stopped before him, he looked at it blankly, unwilling to accept something new in the circle of his thoughts. He almost ignored the tall dark man who stepped out until that man confronted him.

His English was polite but uncertain. "A light, Meestaire?"

He had to forget his worry about Eve, his problem with Carol; he had to accept this intrusion; and having accepted it, he obliged the man without hesitation. His glance told him that the man clutched a gun in his pocket. Kent looked about but the bridge was deserted. Only the moon kept watch over Cairo.

"I drive you home, Meestaire?"

"But it's such a nice night for walking."

"Is dangerous." The man shook his head. "Pleese, you get in."

There was no help for it. Although the man was polite enough, Kent knew that the violence could be touched off immediately. This was no time for useless heroics. He entered the limousine and sat down. The man with the gun sat next to him.

The car started quickly.

Queer that they didn't blindfold him ... What was it all about? Who was behind this? Kent turned to the man beside him.

"Are you doing this for Craig Whitlock?"

"No, Meestaire." The answer came promptly.

Kent held his peace. He sat very still in his place and tried to fathom the behavior of his companion as if it were a mysterious document. But this was not some dark page of history to be translated through hieroglyphics or a code of symbols. The man at his side, this man with the gun, was a mystery of the present, as real and as exciting as any discovery he had ever made.

The limousine made its way across Cairo, went up and passed the hills of Mokatton. Houses became few and far between; they became richer in appearance, representing the more affluent citizens of Cairo. The limousine entered an estate which was bordered by a line of iron spears, and the car made its way through the guarded gate, rolled up the circular driveway, and finally stopped before a three-storied mansion. Kent followed his conductor up the five steps to the pillared porch, through a walnut-paneled door and into the foyer.

Seeing the interior, Kent drew a sigh of relief. It was a house which commanded respect, a house with a wide center hall, with rooms aligned on both sides. This house might be the residence of a rich merchant or any wealthy Arab or Syrian. Still trying to make sense of the situation, Kent followed his conductor into another, larger room.

"Please have seat, Meestaire." On that note of hospitality Kent's conductor turned upon his heel and left the room.

Kent sat. The room was a mixture of two worlds.

The heavy, luxurious pile of the Kashan rug contrasted with the Louis Fifteenth furniture. The heavy, oriental drapes came into close contact with the veined-marble table that held the telephone.

Kent noted the number.

"Good evening, Mr. Kent."

Kent got up and turned about. "Good evening, sir."

"No. You don't know me, Mr. Kent."

"I regret that, sir."

Kent looked at the man carefully. His host was impeccably dressed in evening clothes and he was tall and dark, with eyes that were almost black, with a nose that was aquiline, hawk-like. His black beard and mustache were neatly trimmed; his breadth of shoulders tapered into the leanness of his hips. The heavy lids veiled his expressive eyes, but the square formation of his chin made it obvious that this was a man of will and action.

In spite of his European clothes and perfect English, the man was unmistakably oriental. Could he be an Arab leader of some repute? Kent wondered and waited.

"Oh, do you?" The man smiled grimly. "Do you honestly regret that we are not acquainted? But we can remedy that-and we must go about it quickly. My future son-in-law must not remain a stranger to me."

Kent managed to shut his mouth and not look as stupid as he felt. "Forgive me if I am exceptionally ignorant and fail to appreciate the honor you would bestow upon me. But-there are so many things about which I am in the dark-"

"Must I clarify the situation?" queried his host. "May I present myself?" His back became a ramrod of pride. "I am sheik Aslaned-Durr." And as Kent looked at him blankly, "I am the father of Nazil."

"Nazil!"

That name was clarification enough. Kent remembered the dark beauty of the vivid girl, recalled her quick contempt for convention where he, himself was concerned. He had been apprehensive about that; he had raised his voice against her forwardness; he had even warned her of the possible cost of an impossible friendship. But even when he had been most concerned, he had thought he could cope with any eventuality.

Now he wondered. Looking at the stern lines of the sheik's face, seeing the clamp of the iron jaw, Kent was fully aware of the thoughts that possessed the father. Custom and ritual had been flung to the winds; ties and creeds had been broken, and a parent's feelings were outraged. Nazil had smiled upon him, talked and walked with him, and he, not her husband!

A split second was enough for this sequence of thought, and he found it no mean problem to solve. He took a deep breath and met the Arab's dark eyes honestly.

"Sir, I cannot belittle the honor you would do me. But I have only seen Nazil on the ship which brought us across the sea. Perhaps I have done wrong in speaking to her. I cannot plead ignorance of the custom of your people and her ayah was justifiably angry. But the water which divides the East from the West is the common meeting ground of the two, a place where they may talk and eat and laugh together, yet always with the utmost respect for one another's creeds and customs.

"That is the way it was, Oh Aslaned-Durr. It is true I spoke to Nazil beyond the watchful eye of her guardian, but this I will swear by the Allah we both hold sacred, that between us there passed no word of love, no hint of passion, no secret embrace."

"I thought you were an honest man, Mr. Kent." The dark eyes smoldered with contempt. "I'm sorry I must change my opinion of you. You are something of a rogue, I'm afraid."

"What I have said is as true as the words in the Koran."

"Blaspheme not!" The sheik turned upon him in anger. "I wonder that a daughter of mine could have found merit in you!"

Kent turned cold. "Surely you wouldn't deny justice to a man who stands falsely accused?"

"Justify yourself if you can." Aslaned-Durr sank wearily upon the couch.

He won't believe me no matter what I say, thought Kent. But he had to try. "Who accuses me?"

"The ayah."

"She is old and her vision is impaired-"

"There is also Nazil."

"Ah," Kent spoke softly, almost gently. "Is it Nazil who says I wronged her and took unpardonable liberties?"

"None other."

"I beg of you to look at me, O sheik, I beg you to consider me carefully. Do I seem like a wretch whose only purpose in life is to go about plucking fruit from the forbidden tree? Do you honestly think I am an empty-headed lover of women?"

The dark brown eyes intensified, the rigid gaze never wavered. "You could be a liar and a cheat; you could be the seducer of young hearts. It is Nazil, herself, who accuses."

"May I hear that accusation from her own lips?"

The eyes of the sheik swept over him, and Kent saw the first shadow of doubt darken them. "Wait here," said Aslaned-Durr and strode quickly out of the room.

The moment of waiting was long, filled with impossible conjectures. Kent sat clutching the arms of his chair until the double doors of the sitting room were flung open. He heard the quick steps of his host and the laggard ones of the daughter. He saw the tight grip on Nazal's wrist. Kent rose to confront her.

If she was frightened, excited by the tumult within, she carried it off well and stood rigidly before him. One wide-eyed glance swept over him before she lowered her eyes on a note of modesty. A flash of color tinted her cheeks.

"Here he is, my ladybird," said the sheik harshly. "Is this the popinjay whom you would love? Look up, Nazil! There lies no interest in the tips of your shoes. Belated modesty does not become you. Have you forgotten your wanton liberty, my polluted dove? Tell me: is this the man?"

Once more her eyes swept over Kent. The look she gave him was eloquent with appeal; it begged for his support, promised conscience-stricken atonement. But Kent's eyes remained icy blue and her own became filled with despair.

"It is he, my father."

"Nazil-"

But the father stepped forward. "Can her eyes be trusted, Mr. Kent? Surely, age has not dimmed the light that colors her poor, romantic world. Surely, you will forgive her wantonness when you remember that it was your arms that held her, your mouth that found her sweetness."

Kent paid no attention to the sheik. He continued to look at Nazil, though she refused to meet his gaze.

"Why have you done this to me, Nazil? Why would you bind our two lives and shatter any hope of the true love we might find in this world? Why would you make a mockery of marriage, Nazil?"

She trembled and kept still. It was her father who interposed.

"Have done, Mr. Kent. We must all pay the price for the things we want."

Kent turned on him in fluent Arabic. "We must, Oh Sheik, and I agree. But what of the man who never possessed or desired or coveted? Must the buyer be burdened with a green peach when he seeks the honey of the fig? Must I take this child to wife when my heart cries out for the woman I love?"

Now they were both listening to him. To look on Nazil was to look on a stricken deer, but Kent steeled his heart and continued remorselessly.

"It is true, O Sheik, that aboard ship I met and fell in love with a girl. But that girl was Carol Patterson, and not Nazil. Nazil struck my heart only with a pang of pity."

"Pity?" The color came and went from her face. "Why pity?"

"Because I judged you with compassion, because I saw that you belonged neither to the East or to the West. Did you not complain that all your Western knowledge would profit you little if your horizon was shut off by the high walls of an enclosed garden? What was your future, Nazil?"

"Marriage," she answered dully.

"To whom?"

"To a man of my father's choosing."

"But you chose me instead, and only because I might be the answer to an unbearable predicament."

Nazil made her last stand. "He is lying, father! Aboard ship he was the most ardent of lovers. But now-" Her eyes flashed, her voice rose, "Kill him, my father! Bury him up to his neck in sand; pour honey over his head and let millions of ants devour him, and by Allah, I'll be there to watch!" Her control gone, she cried in rage and humiliation. "Did you think I would have the leavings of another girl?"

"Poor Nazil-"

"I don't want your pity!" she shouted at him and slapped his face.

Her father caught her wrist again in an iron clasp. "Must you talk like a slut and act like one? Have you no pride, my daughter?" He whirled her about and she landed wildly on the couch.

Aslaned-Durr faced his guest once more. "I know my daughter. I know when she is lying. Please accept my apologies. The car will take you back to your hotel."

Kent bowed and stepped back. He couldn't resist a last look at Nazil.

Her best-laid plans had miscarried and she looked dejected and utterly forlorn. Like a little girl who had been caught in a he, and lying gallantly to save her neck. How would her father deal with her? But fathers are a soft touch for pretty little daughters, thought Kent. He needn't be greatly concerned for the bad half hour which was in store for her. That much she had coming. She had pitted her strength against the tide of convention, against the code of the Near East.

As Kent rode back to the Cairo Hilton, a thought cropped up to intrigue him. Perhaps Mohammed wasn't so very wrong in advocating a sensible polygamy. He could hazard no guess as to what prompted this thought; he only knew he would have liked to save Nazal from the prison of a harem.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Kent got up the following morning, Sheridan and Sterne had gone to Luxor for sight-seeing, but Madeline was still lingering over her coffee. She was listening to the chain-smoking Angela, who was doing enough talking for two. The sight of the two women was a study in contrast and Kent, standing in the doorway, was intrigued by the picture they made.

Angela was young, pretty and vivacious; Madeline had lost the bloom of youth. Madeline's face was like a doll's that had weathered the years, years that had etched a fine tracery of lines about the baby-blue eyes, years which were mirrored in the grey-silver of her hair. Angela's eyes were clear and bright, her hair a false, satiny blonde. All you had to do was to look at Madeline and see the strength of character beneath the dispassionate mask. But while one woman was armed with patience, the other was a madcap with a fever in her blood.

Madeline saw him first and smiled. Her eyes said "Good morning," her lips actually framing the silent words. Angela wasn't aware of Kent until he bent over Madeline's outstretched hand and took the coffee she handed him. Angela fluffed her hair and stole a hasty look in the mirror of her handbag, but Kent's attention was on the older woman.

"How are you, my dear?"

Madeline bit her lower lip and formed the word "Fine."

"Just a little louder, my dear, and I'd swear I could hear you."

Madeline clasped his free hand and looked at him gratefully. When she released it, she pounced upon the pad.

"I'm trying, Kent! I really am!"

He looked at her, her emotion catching him and holding him. "Don't try too hard, my dear," he said gently. "I'm very partial to a lovely, silent woman."

"I guess that lets me out," said Angela.

"Good morning, Angela. How are you?"

"Bored," said Angela. "Bored stiff. There isn't a thing to do and nothing has happened since those Hollywood hoods had their field day in my apartment. I can't help thinking, what good am I doing here? Now that you've taken over, why can't I go back to Hollywood?"

"Miss the hoods, do you?" Kent smiled.

"It isn't that," Angela tried to explain. "It's only that there's nothing here but mummies and sphinxes. And I'm homesick."

No, there wasn't much that he and Angela had ii common, thought Kent. 'If that's the way you feel, Angela, and if you have nothing more to add-"

"I've told you everything I know, Mr. Kent. Every word I said in my apartment was the truth about Eve."

"And she really went to Marseilles-"

"I saw her off myself."

"I'll have to pick up the thread there," Kent thought aloud. "So I guess that lets you out, Angela. You can go back to Hollywood and Vine."

Angela almost bounced out of her chair. "I'll start packing!"

"While you're at it, Angela, see if you can get me a plane reservation to Marseilles."

"Can do." Angela made a mock curtesy and spoiled the gesture by dashing out of the door.

Kent stared after her. "She's an open book-"

"For any man to read!" was the written rejoinder.

"Was Eve like that?" he wondered. "Has Angela copied her mistress without her finesse?"

"Supposing that was true-and I don't say it is-why should it bother you?"

"I don't know, but it does. I've only seen that one picture of hers-The Kiss Of Semiramis-and somehow she reached out and got me. Completely. I'd never felt that way about a woman before."

"She must have gotten you at your most susceptible hour. Aren't you glad that Carol Patterson came along?"

"Rather!" Kent sat in the chair Angela had vacated. He busied himself with pipe and pouch.

Madeline held the pad so he could read. "You were a bit late getting in last night. I was beginning to worry."

"You had cause ... I almost got married at the point of a guri." He told her about Nazil and his adventure during the night. "Sounds like a familiar movie script, doesn't it? But it was built on tragic truth. Poor Nazil!"

"I wish you would hurry up and marry Carol," Madeline wrote. "I'm getting worried about you."

"You have cause," he repeated himself. "I'm like a crazy, mixed-up adolescent. I've let my private life interfere with the business at hand ... Is that any way to run a business? It's high time I found Eve."

As if on cue, the phone rang. But it was only Angela telling him that his reservation was made and that his plane would leave the following morning. She, herself, was catching the plane to Paris and was leaving within the hour.

"Before you go, Angela-are you sure you've told me everything?"

"Quite sure, Mr. Kent." There was a pause and a giggle. "Or would you like me to show you again where Eve has that beauty spot?"

"Goodbye, Angela. Have a nice trip."

When he saw Carol that night at the Golden Pool he told her that Angela was on her way home. "She wanted me to be sure to remember that beauty mark."

"You're not likely to forget, are you?"

"How could I? She was so explicit about its latitude and longitude that I wager I could find it in the dark."

"I'll bet!" Carol didn't waver from his pointing finger, so perilously close to her breast. "I'll bet a tuppence," she added darkly, "that Angela offered to show it to you again!"

"Eve!" he cried loudly, "Eve, darling! You're jeal-ous!

"You called me Eve." She looked startled and her eyes searched his. She leaned forward and his pointing finger was like an arrow that pierced, a finger of fire that made her tremble. She reeled back and turned about, her hand pressed tightly against her breast. "This is the second time you've called me Eve ... Talk about the confused young man!"

"As I was telling Madeline, I'm like a crazy, mixed-up kid."

"Who could blame you?" She seemed to pity his madness; but the show of sympathy did not last. The softness went out of her eyes and a hardness came into her voice. "And what else did you tell Madeline? Did you speak of that fatal mark of beauty, that symbol of sex, that asterisk which is the birth-gift of Venus? Did you tell her that?"

"Yes, I did." He looked at her expectantly. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Madeline, and Angela, and Eve!" Her eyes snapped fire and the huskiness began to show. "Where does Carol Patterson come in?"

"I'll tell you where you come in. Just as soon an we find Eve-"

"Again we come back to your queen harlot of the East." She had picked up his phrase and could torture him with it. "What if you do find her and she doesn't want to go back? Then all your effort will have been in vain."

"How can you say that?" Kent wondered. "Haven't I found you?"

He had said the one thing that could melt her. "Larry, Larry-I want to be kissed so badly! But not here!" she added hastily, "and don't draw those drapes. You can take me home and come up for a nightcap."

"Think I need a stimulant?" Kent asked. "Carol, Carol! You're all the stirrup-cup I need."

"Then come with me," she said. There was an urgency about her; her voice held the huskiness of Eve's. "And afterwards, if you can, compare mine with the kiss of Semiramis."

But their way was barred by the Greek proprietor. "I wouldn't go out there, if I were you." He was looking at Eve. "That man is here again."

"Not that son of a general!"

The Greek nodded.

"What's this all about?" Kent asked.

Carol sat down; her urgency seemed to melt away. She looked at Kent defiantly.

"Are you the only one who has admirers? There's a real, live son of a general out there, by the name of Hassan. He offered me a bag of gold if I would join the mermaids in Dimitri's pool."

"In the nude?"

"Disrobed. Uncased. 'Mantled in ecstasy' were the words he used."

"And you listened to him?" Kent grasped her by the arm, pulled her out of the chair, and slashed the drapes aside. "Where is the bastard?" he asked Dimitri.

"Please, Mr. Kent-" the Greek pleaded.

But Kent didn't have far to look.

Hassan-al-Hassan confronted them. He was small, with a small man's enormous vanity. He was endowed with dark, piercing eyes and had cultivated a wisp of a thin, black mustache. His age might have been thirty, but that was all he had in common with Kent.

He almost pounced upon Carol. "Ah, my lovely houri! And will you now swim for your devoted Hassan?"

"Dear, devoted Hassan!" Kent grasped him by the wrist. "Let us go and watch the mermaids."

He had both Carol and the Arab in tow as he ran pell-mell for the pool. Arrived there, he released Carol, swung the Arab shoulder high and plunged him into the pool.

Kent turned upon Carol. "Or would you rather I disrobed him, uncased him? I could fish him out, you know."

"Haven't you done enough?" Huffing and puffing, the Greek ran up to them. "How can I apologize for all this? You don't know the power his father wields!" He turned his anger upon Carol. "This is all your fault, and I can only absolve myself by firing you. Here and now I cancel our contract. It is null. It is void-"

"Simmer down, Dimitri."

"That's good advice," said Kent, and sent the Greek spinning into the pool.

They laughed about it in the taxi. All the way to the Hilton the laughter welled and bubbled in them.

Now that she had stopped crying and had powdered her nose, Nazil made herself presentable once more and sought her father in the large oda of their house. She found him stretched upon a chaise with his nargileh close beside him upon a table inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The live coals of the tobacco were glowing brightly and the water gurgled as the smoke filtered its way through the long, serpentine pipe.

Aslaned-Durr laid his pipe aside and looked at his daughter gravely. "Have you come to your senses, my Nazil?"

"Yes, father."

They looked at each other in somber silence until she drooped her head in token of humility. "My father, I crave your pardon for the disgrace I have brought upon you. I ask that you forgive me and grant me a boon although I am unworthy."

"Speak and I will grant it, unhappy child."

"Father, we owe an apology to Mr. Kent."

"I will attend to it."

"No, my father. It is I who told the lie which engulfed him; I, who schemed and tried to worm my way into the heart of an innocent man. Since mine is the sin, mine must be the quittance though I wear the white robe of penance and cover my hair with ashes."

"It is fitting," the shiek agreed. "Go, and take the ayah with you."

"My father?" Nazil hesitated. "Just this once may I not go on equal footing with the freedom of the West? I only want to tender my apologies and to come right back."

"Nazil, Nazil ... Why must you break your heart over this foreigner?"

She looked at the Kashan rug without seeing it. "My father, how can you break what is already crushed?"

If one could call a white creation of Dior a robe of penance, that was the gown which Nazil wore; if one could call the grey mesh of lame tinsel ashes for her hair, ashes offset the dark luster of Nazil's curls She wore a small fez high on her head, and the length of the gossamer veil equalled the length of her hair, falling gently to her shoulders.

Chastened, Nazil went sadly, and she went alone in the limousine with chauffeur and attendant. Nor was she aware that they were trailed by the sport car which her father affected.

Sometimes singly, and at times both together, Ira Warren and Cliff Weaver had trailed Kent since his arrival in Cairo. They had trailed him to the Hills of Mokattan, to the villa of Aslaned-Durr, and to the Golden Pool. Warren had been satisfied that the trip to Mokattan was a sight-seeing expedition; he had been mystified by that visit to the Arab's villa; but in the Golden Pool he had struck pay dirt.

He had struck pay dirt unwittingly by the simple process of eavesdropping.

Ira Warren had watched Carol dance with an imperfect interest while Cliff Weaver had been delighted with the antics of the mermaids. Warren had even dismissed Carol from his thoughts until she had joined Kent in the booth next to theirs. It was then that Warrens interest was aroused and he had listened intently with one ear literally glued to the latticework.

It wasn't easy to hear them. There was the noise and the confusion of the dancers, the splashings of the mermaids, the hurried steps of the attendants, and the high, thin music of the stringed orchestra. Had it been quieter, a little more tranquil, Warren might have heard all of the conversation in the next booth. But all he did manage to hear was the passionate cry from Kent.

"Eve-Eve, darling-"

Warren had sat back almost on his haunches, as if a low blow had floored him and yet he had won by a technical knockout. A slow-spreading smile covered his usually expressionless face. He knew he had heard enough.

He watched Weaver with sardonic amusement, almost with a smile of contempt. Let the poor fool enjoy himself, let him take whatever delight he could find from the mermaids, but he, Warren, had come to the end of the trail. Here was the end to the mystery. The elusive Eve had been discovered at last.

But how clever! How damned clever! Who would have thought that the beautiful Eve would go to such lengths? That change of voice, that tint of hair-and a nose job to boot! She must have known what was coming. Someone in Hollywood must have tipped her off that this was the end. The very natural, the very conclusive end for any one who crossed the old maestro, Craig Whitlock.

Perhaps not Craig Whitlock so much as his ladylove, Monica. Monica! Now there was a bitch with all the letters a foot high and in red. But Whitlock had been blind and Monica had worked her way with him. Ah, thought Warren, even the best of us have our blind spots.

Sure we have. Even I. Look at what I'm doing out of sheer loyalty to the old boy. Murder or mayhem, Or a dash of both. If I had any sense-No, I can't draw the line. Not any more. Craig has too much on me, and in his way he's been very good to me. I've got to do this so that the slut of Hollywood can stay the top bitch.

Aw-what's one little chore more or less?

Cliff Weaver came into their hotel room with a smile on his fat, round face, a smile that spread from the arc of his lips to his murky brown eyes. He was pleased with himself.

"They're getting ready to fly the coop," Cliff reported. "I followed Eve's secretary to the airport and she bought two tickets. One for herself and one for Kent."

"One for herself?" Warren sat up and extinguished his cigarette. "That could be a dodge, you know. At the last moment Eve can take her secretary's place."

"I hadn't thought of that," Weaver admitted. The ripple of his smile faded away.

"It's the first thought that occurred to me, my friend. And now the time has come to act. But first we must get tickets for ourselves."

"Oh, I thought of that." The smile came back to Weaver. "I bought two tickets on the same plane as Kent's."

Warren gave him a look of approval. "There are times when your ingenuity surprises me."

"Don't go high hat on me, Warren."

"Not at all, not at all," Warren said appeasingly. "But we can't take care of Kent on the plane. We must do that tonight."

"Oh-"

"Kent is the troublesome one. I'll take care of him while you take care of Eve."

"Must I?" A troubled expression replaced Weaver's smile.

"What's the matter?" Warren asked flatly.

"Aw-she's too lovely to kill." Weaver paused and asked hopefully, "Can't we just wing her? Rough her up? Scare her a bit?"

"You sentimental slob."

"All right, all right. But I hate to do it."

"You simpering idiot."

"Don't go high hat on me, Warren!"

They quarreled all the way to the Hilton.

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was four o'clock when Madeline woke up from her nap. She took another shower and dressed herself in a grey-colored hostess suit with a molded top and tapered pants. The collar was fashioned with a debonair curve and the sash of lustrous cotton print offset the monotone of the lounge suit. Madeline examined herself in the mirror.

At fifty-five she had kept her figure if not her voice. The remarkable good looks of a movie star were hers yet and that pretty, doll-like face was only accented by the frame of silver-grey hair. Was it silence that had kept her almost untouched by the ravages of time? The smile on Madeline's face became a grimace and she turned away, thinking of the stillness of the years.

Who said that silence was golden? Now that was a prize lie. Almost thirty-five years ago she had been like a ship under full sail when she had suddenly struck dead calm. That had been the beginning of the drab years, the dismal years when her sails had drooped and she had been like a vessel without a rudder, drifting without direction under ash-coloured skies.

Curious that she could still command love and affection ... Was it pity? But people would get tired of the same sad story repeated year after year. She could understand the love and sympathy of her daughter, Florence; and that must have been a contagious thing which Eddie had caught from her. There was no son-in-law more devoted than Eddie Sterne. And here was another he. The old hat jokes about mothers-in-law were the cream of the jest.

Yes, she could understand about Eddie and Florence-but what about Sheridan? How true could a man be? And for how long? How little she had given him ... A hand without warmth, a kiss now and then. But kisses without passion were like short-cakes without the cream, like salads without the dressing. Didn't a man lose his appetite? Surely, Hank couldn't be satisfied with nothing to sustain him ... The poor darling had suffered with her all these years.

And they were trying so hard, trying so desperately to make her talk that it almost broke her heart. Had Bruce Taylor, the psychiatrist, been right when he had told Sheridan that a shock might do it? And they had tried to shock her. Eddie with the miserable joke, Sheridan with that outburst ... Poor Hank, Dear Hank! How could you stand this dummy all these years?

And Kent had been a darling; he had taken to her immediately. But why? What could a woman of fifty-five give to a young man of thirty? Kent was completely absorbed with his dream of Eve and the reality of Carol ... Curious about that girl Carol-she reminded her of someone, someone whom she knew rather well. Carol had the face, the figure, and the youth-that undeniable, unquenchable sweetness of youth. When she, Madeline, got back to Hollywood, she would try to get Walter Stret's permission for Carol Patterson's movie test. She'd be willing to bet that Carol would be a sensation. A big star. Not as big as Eve Evans, but a money-maker just the same.

Madeline turned her back to the mirror and picked up the phone. She tapped her ringed finger against the mouthpiece and waited until the waiter came and picked up her written order. Orange juice and coffee, a pack of cigarettes and a pack of playing cards.

She sat down to an endless game of solitaire.

Three hours and twenty games later the pack was worn and her nerves were frayed. It was small consolation that in this session of solitaire she had had almost fantastic luck. Only twice in the twenty games had she faded to unravel the cards. Once she was stopped by the queen of hearts and Madeline looked at it curiously; the second time it was the queen of clubs that ended the game. Madeline gathered up the cards for a new spread.

To her relief the door opened and Eddie came in with Sheridan. She had only to look at them to know that they had taken one drink too many. Eddie gave her a sheepish grin and mumbled something about a shower but Sheridan stood there with his back to the door. If he wasn't actually drunk, it was because he could hold his liquor and carry it off well.

"Good evening, my voiceless Lorelei." Sheridan bowed from the waist. "How goes the mystic game of chance?" There was no thickness of speech.

Madeline bent over her cards, but could see him striding towards her; she sensed his presence as he towered behind her chair.

"Oh, ye solemn gods of Olympus, look upon my silent love! Is she not like patience on a monument smiling at grief? Then let us give her something to cry about!"

Suddenly he bent over her and swept the cards off the table. Startled, Madeline looked up to him with a silent plea upon her face, but he pulled her to her I feet and encircled her in his arms. He bent her back into an arc and kissed her thoroughly, violently, on her face, on her lips, on the throbbing vein of her throat.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the coldness seemed to melt and the frozen heart seemed to thaw. The pulse beat began to quicken and in one instant the years of restraint and restriction slipped away. Good taste and propriety were forgotten and she was shocked into a readiness to be kissed, to be wanted, to be invaded. Her arms went about his neck, and in returning kiss for kiss, she opened her mouth and drank in the whiskied nectar from his tongue.

His exploratory hand first cupped her breasts over the molded top, then found the zipper and ran it full length to the sash, setting both lovely mounds free. He bent over them and in kissing them he made each purple nipple throb like the string of a harp that has been plucked. She became ecstatically happy with the knowledge that the years had not betrayed her, that her breast still was beautiful enough to be kissed, that her purple plums could yet be the target for his seeking mouth.

It was he who broke away, never sensing her readiness to be loved, her willingness to be taken. It was he who stood apart and lorded it over her ... Poor man! He thought it was all his own doing. Wasn't she to get any billing for this duet?

Looking at him, seeing him proud and pleased with himself, she made a solemn promise to herself. Someday I'll get you when you aren't drunk, when you can appreciate the extent of my cooperation. I'll let you kiss my eyes and mouth and throat I'll let you play with both my breasts. And then I'm going to forget that I'm every inch a lady, and I, myself, will tear away my clothing ... But I suppose you'll still think you did it all!"

He did. "I'm drunk," he said. "I have an excuse. What's yours?"

"I have none," said Madeline and thought she alone heard herself speak.

He looked startled. "Did you say something?"

Panic-stricken, she shook her head.

"I must be drunk," he said. "I would have sworn you said-It doesn't matter. Someday you'll talk my ear off."

"That's a promise," she vowed quietly and again he looked at her in a startled way.

"I'm hearing things," he said, "but they're only the things I want to hear, so I know I'm good and drunk. But don't you think for a moment that I'm going to apologize. From now on I'm going to get drunk every night and then come and kiss you until I'm sober."

"You don't have to get drunk," she said.

But the man, the poor man, believed he was hearing things, and the thought of another disappointment was too much to bear. He turned like a coward and ran to his room.

On the verge of tears, Madeline stood in the center of the room and trembled like the last leaf on a tree. Her hand worked the zipper up and then down; she looked at her breasts, remembering how he had caressed and kissed them and filled them with fire. The glory of that moment held her, and then she snapped out of it and snaked the zipper up to the flaring collar. What had come over them? He had his excuse of drunkenness but she had none at all. They had taken physical pleasure; they had behaved as commonly as any Arry and his Arriet. But to be utterly frank, it had been what she needed.

A conflict of emotions swayed her as she walked slowly to the phone and picked it up, her ringed finger ready with its tap. Suddenly she set it down again and ran to the window and flung it open. She looked up and would have sworn it was a bluebird that flew by; a surge of hope quickened the beat of her heart. She looked down and saw the cars and the taxis, the vendors and the business men, the uniformed policemen and the ragged Arab urchins. Their shrill cries of "Bakhshish! Bakhshish!" rose above the noise of the traffic and the whistle of the doorman.

"Bakhshish!" Her eyes sought God in the skies. "Bakhshish!" She, too, had a boon to crave. She wormed the ring off her finger and threw it far and wide into the street below. Thirty five years of willful bondage went into that throw, but she left the window open, knowing that if she failed she had no other recourse but to follow that ring unto death.

She ran back to the phone and, breathless, picked it up. "Room service!" she said hoarsely and waited with her heart in her mouth. The open window was like a magnet pulling against her will.

There was a moment's pause, a moment of eternity, and she almost dropped the phone. The impersonal voice came in time.

"This is room service. Sorry for the delay."

"Room service-" She was crying now, openly, gratefully. "Room service-" she said again.

Suddenly the impersonal voice became very much concerned. "Madame? Is there anything wrong, madame?"

"No, no!" Madeline cried out against her tears, "there is nothing wrong." She paused to catch her breath. "Room service, will you please send me-" What could she ask for? "Please send me a fresh deck of cards."

"Surely, Madame. Did you want something else?"

But the world had been given to her as a gift. What else could she possibly want? Why, of course! "Please," said Madeline, "could you send up a magnum of champagne? And would you please hurry up with that!"

"Immediately, Madame."

She left the window open and would not believe it until the waiter came. The young man opened the bottle for her and turned up a sparkling glass.

"Would there be anything else, madame?"

"Waiter, what is your name?"

"Sarkiss, madame."

"Sarkiss?"

"Yes, madame."

"You speak English very well, Sarkiss."

"Thank you, madame. You see, madame-"

Madeline saw the boy hesitate, sensed that he wanted to explain how it happened that he knew English so well. She gave him a sad, understanding smile and that reached him.

"You see, Madame, I was one of the many Armenian orphans of the war. But I was fortunate enough to be taken in by the American missionaries."

"So now you know all about the Yankees and the Pirates."

"And the Dodgers," Sarkiss said loyally.

"My favorite team," Madeline said with a smile. But she saw him withdrawing back into his shell, afraid of presuming too much. "Friend Sarkiss," she said, "could I trouble you to close that window?"

"Certainly, madame."

When he had closed the window he looked at her expectantly. She snatched at her purse and looked until she found a ten dollar bill.

"But madame! This is too much!"

"Not at all," she responded gaily. "This is an occasion."

"Perhaps it is madame's birthday?"

"The first in thirty-five years." This was too much for Sarkiss. He scratched his head, then remembered himself. "Madame, may I wish you many happy returns of the day?"

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

She accompanied him to the door and saw him out. As he was about to go, she placed a hand upon his arm. He turned to face her again.

"May I ask you a question?"

"But surely, madame!"

"How does my voice sound to you?"

"Pleasant. Very pleasant, madame."

"Are you sure?" she insisted.

"I'm sure of this, madame: when I hear you I know I am in the presence of a very great lady."

Madeline could not pay him for that. But she held out her hand and he kissed it like a courtier.

So it was a complete stranger she was first to talk to after thirty-five years ... She sat at the table, filled her glass, and drank her sdent toast. The fresh pack of cards no longer intrigued her. She smiled at her thoughts and filled her glass again; she would have been on the way to an emotional jag if the door had not opened. Madeline looked up and saw Kent with Carol Patterson.

"Oh, there you are, Madeline! Look at the company I've brought you!"

Madeline smiled in welcome, rose and extended her hands. Carol clasped both of them, bent forward and kissed her cheek.

"Darling," she said, "we have so much to tell you!"

Madeline opened her mouth. "Let me guess," she would have said; but she saw Carol turn away, her eyes seeking Kent.

No, they don't expect the old dummy to talk, thought Madeline. They want me to, they wish I would, but they don't really think I could. And who could blame them? I've been silent so long....

Madeline, you fool, are you ready to cry into the champagne and spoil the party? Look at them. Young, ardent, and in love. The width of the room doesn't stop them. They are making love with a word, a look, a gesture. Fifteen feet apart, and they are entwined like lovers in a waltz, and the words they speak are mellow and sweet, like the voice of the turtle-dove heard in an enchanted land.

Madeline, Madeline, you fool of sorrow! How you have wasted the magic years ... What have you done with the time of rapture? Lived in bitterness instead of bliss, thrown away your riches and lived in poverty of spirit.

No, they don't expect you to talk, and who can blame them? Now you can open your mouth and give them your blessing, but this is their golden moment. Are you going to play the heartless bitch and steal the show?

Madeline reached for that pad of hers and wrote with a flourish. "Let me guess what happened to you! Am I right? It's love, isn't it? Love, love, love-"

They had come together to watch her write. Kent took the pencil away from her and underscored the three loves. When he laid the pencil down, Madeline stretched out both arms and they became a threesome of kisses and embraces.

The sat at the table. "What's this?" Kent pointed to the champagne.

Madeline sought her pad. "My party for you."

Carol said, "But you couldn't possibly have known."

Kent looked at her keenly. "Come clean, Madeline."

She wrote, "My birthday-" sheepishly and she heard them out. Theirs was the joy of discovery; they had found one another.

The laughter of the lovers, the toasting, the ringing of glass upon glass brought Eddie and Sheridan into the living room. They came in some confusion, but their expressions changed when they heard the news. Best wishes went around again and they shook hands warmly, gladly. The air was charged with excited gaiety.

"When will you get married?" Sheridan asked.

Kent hesitated but Carol answered instantly. "Soon! I promise you it will be very soon!" She looked at Kent and he kissed her in confirmation.

Madeline pounced upon the pad and four pairs of eyes watched her write. "You're a girl after my heart, and I'm going to follow your lead. Maybe we can make it a double wedding." She held it up for them to read.

She was looking at Sheridan, watching him closely. His mouth opened in surprise and wonder. He said, "Madeline!"

Now was the time to speak. Now! Now! But the buzzer sounded and she saw Kent go to the door. Kent said, "Why, Nazil!"

Nazil spoke slowly, as if repeating a lesson she had learned with difficulty. "Mr. Kent, may I come in?" and added, "Only for a moment-"

"Surely, Nazil." Kent turned about with introductions. "These are all my friends-"

But Nazil had eyes only for Carol. She bit her lip, then remembered herself; she saw the glasses and the champagne, and the Arab's pride came to sustain her.

"I had no wish to intrude."

"But Nazil, this is an occasion. Won't you join us?" Kent held out a glass for her.

Nazil shook her head sadly. "I did not come to join a party but to leave one."

Kent could only look at her. It was Carol who took over with complete understanding. "Nazil, would you rather we left you two alone for a while?"

The Arab girl looked at her in wonder. "What kind of a woman are you? I wish you weren't so beautiful and understanding. Then I could hate you to my heart's content."

"My dear," Carol said softly, "there is no contentment in hating."

"Yours are the words of wisdom, and I have been foolish long enough." Nazil took her stand. "I must say what I came to say and will say it quickly if Mr. Kent will bear with me." Now she turned to him. "I've come to apologize, to plead for your pardon. I want you to know that self-reproach has been my constant companion ... Will you forgive the tantrums of a willful girl?"

Kent caught her hand, felt it tremble within his. "Dear Nazil-What have you to apologize for? For the bad luck of meeting me? It was a trick of fate that made our paths cross, a meaningless nonsense from which you were sure to awaken."

He released her hand and Nazil stepped aside while he and Carol confronted each other like actors in a play.

None of them heard the opening door. It was Madeline who first saw the masked men and couldn't believe her eyes. It was so much like a grade B movie where a cue had gone wrong. She almost cried out, "Hit the dirt!" but what a way that would be to publicize her voice! She wouldn't believe this was real and couldn't stop her derisive thought until she caught the glint of their guns. Then she stopped thinking and cried out.

"Kent!"

All of them turned to Madeline, all except Nazil. The wonder and the amazement of the rest, their cries and exclamations were lost upon Nazd. She followed Madeline's stricken eyes and saw the danger of both automatics. There was only one thing she could do: apologize in earnest. She smiled almost gladly as she flung herself in front of Kent.

The guns roared simultaneously. Nazil, her apology completed, collapsed in Kent's arms. The bullet which caught Carol was high up on the shoulder and she hardly felt its impact, but saw a small spurt of blood and looked at it in surprise and confusion. "Why, I've been hit," she said, but none of them heard her. They followed Kent, who picked Nazil up and laid her oh the couch.

The Arab girl opened her eyes only once. She saw her tragedy reflected in the eyes of the man she loved. "Ah-" the words gushed out with her life, "-now you will forgive me."

Carol stood in the center of the room and looked at the killers expectantly. She braced herself for another shot but it never came. Guns in their hands, they turned about to flee, but found themselves confronted by an Arab.

The tall, swarthy man seemed to tower over them. More deadly than his own leveled gun were the piercing black eyes in the hawk-like features of his face.

"Throw down your guns!" His voice rang like a whiplash.

One of the masked men was foolish enough to ignore the command. His rising gun never came into line. The Arab's gun spoke once and spat out a second shot as the man fell. The man left standing seemed immobilized, but obeyed the Arab's repeated command. The gun slipped from his fingers and he raised his hands. Aslaned-Durr tore off the mask, forced the man, to turn about, and Weaver's panic-stricken eyes looked into the eyes of the woman who was too lovely to kill.

Holding Weaver in line, the sheik stepped over the fallen gunman. The kneeling group about Nazil came to their feet and Kent turned to confront the father.

"What has happened to my Nazd?"

"She is dead, Oh Sheik."

"Vaugh!" cried Asian, and a shock ran through him. "Vaugh!" he cried again and the gun slipped from his fingers. "She died because of you!"

"It is true, Aslaned-Durr. She made a shield of her slender young body; she died shielding me."

Weaver looked hopefully at the fallen gun, but Sheridan scooped it up and held him in his tracks.

This byplay was lost on the two who confronted each other. One looked at the other accusingly; the other met his eyes in sorrow.

"And for you she died-"

"She met her death when she met me ... But it was you, Oh Sheik, who sent her off to France, sent her to her doom."

"I have done that-" The Arab bowed his head. "I have done that ... Vaugh! Vaugh! I, who loved her more than life itself."

His knees bent; he picked up Nazil's lifeless hand and looked at her with deep, brooding eyes.

"So much like her mother, my lovely Siroon. With a passion for life and a passion for love. But for what end, my dove? For the unfeeling heart of a foreigner, for the unresponsive hand that held no warmth? What dreams could you behold in this man's blinded eyes?

"Your own eyes are shut now, my rose of Sharon, and your hands are still and the warmth goes out of them, for the beat of your heart is gone. And your laughter is stilled like a brook that runs no more, and your face is blank, like a book of blank pages. , "Who is there to grieve but my lonely self?"

Aslaned-Durr felt Kent's arm on his shoulder.

The sheik looked at him in anger. "What was she to you but a nuisance and a hindrance?"

"She gave her life for me. Am I so utterly heartless that my lamentations may not be heard? Am I so bestially callous that my tears cannot be seen?"

"What good are the tears of a crocodile or the protestions of the unfeeling? A foreigner's heart is made of stone and holds no tender core of love."

But Kent knelt beside the father and together they mourned the dead girl.

CHAPTER NINE

After the police had come and gone and the inspector had obtained Weaver's full confession, after one ambulance came and took Warren's body away while another took Nazil for her last visit home, after Kent had driven the heart-broken sheik back to the villa to sit and grieve for the dead Arab girl, Carol Patterson found herself still standing in the center of the room. She had played second fiddle to all the others in the cast.

There was no sense in hogging the show. That superficial wound of hers didn't amount to much and she had been able to stanch the trickle of blood with a wisp of a handkerchief. Now she pulled it away and found it a soggy handful. Carol smiled wryly and looked up. She saw the three of them looking at her in consternation.

"Aren't I the lovely mess!" Carol exclaimed. "Just look at me. Aren't I a pretty kettle of fish!"

"Carol!" Madeline cried out, "Carol, you've been hit!"

"Caught in a cross fire," Carol admitted, "but still on my feet."

"Quite a heroine, aren't you?" Madeline's eyes snapped with her voice. "Don't play Custer's last stand with me. You wouldn't be good in a western."

"No? What would I be good in? A picture like The Kiss Of Semiramis?"

"No," Madeline shook her head. "No, there's only one Eve."

"Thank God for that." Carol looked at herself. "I would like to wash up, and I should change my blouse. Only I haven't a thing to wear." She began to laugh uncertainly.

Madeline took her arm and pressed it gently. "Come with me, my dear. I'll find something for that beautiful torso of yours."

She helped Carol out of her blouse, and seeing the blood had trickled between her breasts, loosened the bra and tossed it aside. The blood came away with the sponging and revealed the beauty mark.

Madeline let the wash cloth fall into the basin and sat on the rim of the bath tub. Her baby-blue eyes were filled with wonder; she looked at Carol in sheer amazement.

"The end of the line," said Carol, "the moment of truth." She picked up the wash cloth and rubbed at the beauty mark. "You see? It won't come off. This is for real. This is for keeps."

Madeline couldn't believe her eyes. "But you couldn't be Eve!"

"I'm not. Not any more."

"But your voice-Where's that huskiness?"

"Gone, but not forgotten. I can bring it back at will." And Carol's voice became the voice of Eve as she quoted from the climax of "The Kiss."

"And where shall I find a lover so great as the lover whom I have slain? In what heaven can I seek him when I, myself, am in Hades enchained?"

"No one but Eve could have quoted that! But that nose of yours-"

"Plastic surgery, my dear ... Now will you lend me that blouse, or must I wear my bloody rags again?"

Madeline aroused herself. "Thank heaven, your wound is not serious. I'll just dab you with iodine and keep the bandage light." When that was done she opened the door of her closet. "Take your pick," she said. "That frilly white ought to go well with your plain black skirt."

"Madeline! We're of the same size!"

"Now I'll never regret the calories from which I abstained."

Dressed once more, Carol patted her hair into place and borrowed Madeline's lipstick. Arm in arm, they entered the living room.

Madeline waited until Eddie and Sheridan looked up. "Gentlemen, if you please!" She played the mistress of ceremonies. "We have with us tonight a lady who has become a legend in the cinematic world. We have with us tonight none other than Eve Evans-"

"Will you come back with us?" Sheridan asked Carol. "No, thank you."

"You can name your own figure, your own percentage of the gross."

"No, thank you."

"But Eve-"

"My name is Carol Patterson."

"But, Eve-Carol-Think of what you're doing to Kent. If he fails to bring you back he gets nothing at all."

"He gets me," said Carol.

Afterwards she asked them to be good sports and to say nothing to Kent. She wanted to enjoy her little surprise.

They promised silence and vanished when Kent made his appearance. The burden of the evening rested on his shoulders but he bore it with dignified strength. There was such intense sadness in his eyes that it caught Carol at the pit of her stomach.

"Laurence, darling-"

"Carol?" He seemed to be envisioning some far-off place and roused himself with an effort. "Carol, where are the others?"

"Gone to their rooms. They were so tired."

"I don't wonder. It has been quite an evening." He grimaced at the thought. "And so easily said. A girl died because of me."

"Don't blame yourself too much, Laurence, darling. Had she lived, she would have been unhappy the rest of her life."

"How do you know that, Carol?"

"Were I in her place, were I to lose you, how could I face the empty years?"

She came closer and touched his arm. "Did you cry, my darling? Did you cry for that strange Arab girl? I wish I could have cried with you ... To the end of my life I'll remember her in my prayers and acknowledge my debt of happiness to her."

"Carol, my sweet-"

"Hush, my dear. Be still, my darling. Only I can feel what you have gone through." She cradled his head in her arms and pressed it to her breast.

He was content to have it so until the smell of iodine broke through the anesthesia of her love. He came out of her arms, gripped her by the shoulders, held her at arm's length. A spasm of pain showed upon her face and she softened under his grasp.

"What is it?" he asked, and for the first time saw the bandage under his fingers. He took his hand away and stared, and was dumbfounded.

"I've been shot," she said calmly.

"And hit! Carol, honey, why didn't you tell me?"

"You had enough things to worry about. How could I add to them? Besides, it's only a scratch. The bullet scarcely touched me."

"That bullet-and you let me ramble on about how I felt." He clasped her hand and took her in tow.

"Laurence, where are you taking me?"

"To my room. I want to see for myself how bad that scratch is. It must have been bad enough to bloody your blouse. Did you borrow this one from Madeline? Did you call a doctor?"

"Larry, Larry-don't make a mountain out of a molehill-"

"Let me see-I insist."

"But Larry-I have nothing on underneath. Not even a bra ... And you'll discover my secret-"

"You and your secrets," he said indulgently, and found the top button under the frills of her collar. His fingers trembled on the second, but with the third she was undone. The frills fell away and the blouse swung on her shoulders like a cape.

She watched his face anxiously, recording each play of emotion that swept over him, exulting in his surprise and blessing her stars as he held his breath. A chord of music coursed within her like a paean of joy. The touch of his hand was like a flame within her breast

"Is it right?" she asked. "Is the latitude correct? Is the longitude exact? Would you know it in the dark?"

"Eve-" he said hoarsely.

"Yes," she admitted, "I've been Eve for five long years. But not any more ... Larry, Larry, why can't you be satisfied with poor little Carol?"

His lips answered for him, seeking and finding the crests of her bosom. The imprint of his lips was still upon that mark when she cradled his head and kissed him fully upon the mouth.

"Whom did you kiss, Larry? Was it Carol? Or was it Eve?"

"I honestly don't know! Can't I have the two of them?"

"Which one would you marry?"

"Both."

"Bigamist-"

They clung together like twin saplings against the storm that shook them, fused them, molded them into one. Ignited with fervor, they were united until that fervor had run its course and the flame had been quenched. Only then did the sensations of touch and want and fulfillment subside, for love is the greatest tranquilizer of them all. By that time their love had become a tangible thing, as enduring as the stars, as necessary as the air they breathed.

She raised herself from the pdlow of his shoulder and looked at him. "Thank the gods that you found me, Larry. I had almost given up hope."

Kent straightened himself upon the bed, sat up and leaned against the pillow. "I've found a combination of women-three women embodied in one." His smile was soft and clear in the subdued light.

"Three? Oh, Larry, you are a bigamist! I can only account for two."

"In you I found not only Carol whom I instantly loved and Eve who started me on my search: in you I found the reincarnation of the woman who troubled my dreams, who made me think I was born three thousand years too late. That woman of mystery, of enchantment and allure. In you I've found Tirhaka's lost concubine."

"I am no man's concubine, but I am your love." She sat up and reached for the pack of cigarettes. "But you will lose me if you insist on taking me back to the land of make-believe."

"Was it so bad, my darling?"

"How can you ask that after what happened tonight? Wasn't it venom and jealousy that split that blood?" She was silent for a moment. "What do you think will happen to them? To Whitlock and Monica?"

"It will finish them. Not even Hollywood and all her glorifiers can whitewash this murder." He accepted the cigarette she gave him and the twin spots of coal glowed in the semi-dark. "And with the failure of my mission, I am back where I started."

"Failure?"

"What else? Eve Evans does not want to go back."

"Do you want her to?" He shook his head.

"I could go back with you." She averted her head. "Then you could collect-"

"And lose you forever?" He smothered his cigarette in the tray. "What kind of a mercenary fool do you think I am?"

"Larry, Larry-" she extinguished her own cigarette. "If you had said yes, I would have died."

His lips smothered her last spoken word and he pinned her beneath him. Arms and limbs entwined, they began to the ageless rhythm of love.

Not even Hollywood could condone Nazil's murder. Kent was to learn that fact in the following morning's news. All of the Cairo papers carried the story.

"Hollywood, U.S.A, " reported a prominent columnist. "Hollywood was shocked by the suicide pact of Craig Whitlock and Monica Grant. Both were important members of the motion picture world. One had achieved stardom while the other had become famous as a director. Craig Whitlock will be remembered as the director of the films starring Eve Evans, the beauty who so mysteriously disappeared. Monica Grant replaced the lost star but could not achieve Miss Evans' popularity with the fans or the acclamations of the critics.

"Mystery surrounds this suicide pact. There are those who say that while Craig Whitlock had the strength of character to consummate this stroke, Monica Grant was not capable of it. Such force of character was not hers. She was given to the momentary mood, to the humor of the hour, and not to an all-absorbing passion.

"There are too many stories of the lost lady's light loves, loves so quickly given, so quickly sated, so easily glossed over. If you can place any credibility in the tales of movie extras, you will hear how Monica, herself, used and abused them. Or if you would rather rely on the judgment of the famous and the renowned, then take the last written note of Craig Whitlock, who must have had the same doubts. These are the words of his last entry: 'Monica, you devil, I will smuggle you into paradise."

"Had Craig Whitlock finally become aware of Monica's lack of character? Was the veil finally torn? Had disillusion set in? The doorman of Monica's apartment will attest to the fact that another man came hurrying out after Craig Whitlock walked in."

"He must have gone to Monica in a mood of desperation, for Prestige Pictures admits they had just cancelled the contracts of both the star and the director."

"Why?"

"For once the Studio is silent and has nothing to say. They will not brief your reporter on the cause of the dismissal. Perhaps that lost movie star, Eve Evans, could fill us in. But would she, even if she could?"

"Even her secretary is silent and Angela Strickland is a communicative soul-"

"Why, it's here," said Sheridan, "it's all here and the fools haven't got the sense to see it. I could brief them about the affair. I could tell them of the telegram I sent Walter Stret, and I'm sure Stret must have confronted Whitlock with it.

"I could write that scene blindfolded. Probably word for word. I can see the rush of color on Stret's face, and the rush of words from his mouth; those words spilling over in anger, in denunciation, in a fantastic mixture of eloquent English and Hollywood jargon....And I can see Whitlock taking it, grim and silent, taking it and knowing that this was the end of his career.

"And of Monica's, too.

"Then let's go with him as he enters Monica's apartment and sees her act of infidelity with his own eyes. I can almost feel sorry for the man when he realizes that he has been duped, blinded, sabotaged by a whore.

"He lets the stranger go and the frightened Monica begins to plead, throws herself at his feet, and her tears penetrate the marrow of his bones. He suffers her touch, her ministrations, and though he looks at her impassively, the iron has entered his soul. He lets her go to mix him a drink, and in that moment the director who worked from notes makes his last entry. 'Monica, you devil, I will smuggle you into paradise.' ... I wish I could have written that line-but he did it for me.

"I can see him take that gun from the drawer, place it under the pillow. And when they are naked and in bed, he places one bullet into her head and another into his own.

"Cut! End of take."

The sensuous scene made Kent shudder. He couldn't help thinking how close he had come to playing the last stranger in the cast of characters.

THE END
Everybody's Babe ....(74k)    by Robert Badrig





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