Dagger of Flesh (6 page)

She kept talking. "Borden had them all do various things. No parrots, though. He told Gladys that after he waked her, every time he touched his nose she'd stand up, clear her throat, and then sit down. She did, too. When Borden asked her why she was doing that she said she had a kink in her back and was trying to work it out. Isn't it funny the way they'll almost always figure out a reason why they're acting on the posthypnotic suggestion?"

"Sometimes not so funny. No parrot, huh?"

"None."

"Jay ever alone with Borden?"

"Let me see ... once, I think. I believe he went into the den with Dad for a drink. That was after everything was over, though, and they weren't in there very long. Why?"

"Just curious, Ann. I'm not sure of anything. Nothing else you can tell me?"

"Nothing I can think of. All through?" She grinned.

"No. How about writing down a list of the people who were there?"

She didn't answer for a moment, then her expression changed again; her green eyes narrowed and her tongue flicked over her lips. "I'll have to take my hand away," she said. "You've acted as if you didn't even know it was there, Shell."

I was surprised at how tight my voice was when I answered, "I knew it was there."

She smiled, her teeth pressed together, and her palm brushed against me gently, lingeringly. Then she reached for her bag and took a pencil and scrap of paper from it. There was a cottony taste in my mouth.

Just before she started to write, she glanced up at me from under the long lashes and said softly, "Uh-huh. I guess you did know." Then, casually, she said, "Let's see, there were Dad and Gladys and me, and old long-underwear Arthur. Then Mr. Hannibal, Dad's lawyer—he's sort of a friend of the family, too. He was with Miss Stewart. And Peter Sault and Ayla Veichek. He's an artist and she's a model. You'll like her, I'm afraid." She scribbled on the paper as she talked.

"Why will I like her?"

"Because she's delicious. Don't you like delicious women?"

"Of course, but—"

"I'm delicious, too, but maybe she's more your type. You'd call her sexy, I imagine. Voluptuous-looking; even more than me." She paused and added, "Of course, she's a little stupid."

"Now I know I'll like her. But she might not like me."

Ann pushed the list across the little table to me and said, "If she doesn't, you'll know it." She grinned. "And if she does, you'll know that, too. Only one thing wrong with Ayla. She's top-heavy." She smiled at me and went on, as if she were deliberately trying to stimulate my imagination. "I don't know, though, if you were to see her without any clothes on, you might not agree with me. You might like it."

I couldn't think of anything to say.

She went on, "But you've never met Ayla. Be kind of hard for you to imagine what she'd look like nude." She paused and said more softly, "But you can imagine me, can't you, Shell?"

That was the trouble: I had been imagining.

"Try it, Shell," she said. "Look at me and try to imagine it." She leaned back away from me, resting against the side of the booth. "Right now, Shell."

I did look at her, at the soft swell and curve of her body beneath the wool that molded it. Then I remembered Gladys and Jay. I made myself look away from her and said gruffly, "For Christ's sake, Ann, give a guy a chance. Now knock it off and pay attention. What makes you think I'll see this Ayla? Or anyone else?"

She sighed, shrugged, and sat up straight. "Simple," she said finally, her voice a little dull. "You ask Gladys about Dad and the party. You pry me with questions. Then there's Dad's parrot. When you leave me you'll go around talking to everybody who was at the party—maybe to see if I'm lying, or if Gladys is lying. Isn't that right? You're a detective."

"Well—"

"Of course you will. Want to have some fun?"

"Well—"

"When you see Peter Sault tell him you're an artist. Maybe he'll show you his oils." She pointed at the list she'd written. "Names, and all the addresses I knew."

"These oils. They're good?"

"They're a scream. He does nudes."

Nudes? Well, I like nudes. "Good," I said. "I dabble in oils in my spare time, then."

She finished her drink. "More."

"Uh-uh. I've gotta see a hypnotist."

"Really, Shell," she said seriously. "I'd like another drink. I don't want you to go. Please." There was a little catch in her voice.

I looked at her curiously. "What's the matter, Ann? You know I've got work to do, and we can't stay here all night." I grinned at her and looked around. "Certainly not in this place. Kind of a funny place for us to be, isn't it?"

She didn't smile back. She said flatly, "This is a fairy club. I feel at home here."

"You? But you're not—"

She interrupted me. "Not that way, no." She hesitated, then moved closer to me, her thigh pressing mine. She kept her hands folded in her lap and looked at me, unsmiling. I knew, before she spoke again, that she was going to tell me something about herself, and suddenly I didn't want to hear whatever it was.

But Ann looked directly at my mouth again and went on hurriedly, "They're all sick; that's why I feel at home here. See that little man alone in the booth across from us?"

I didn't have to look. I'd noticed the guy because the waiter had made three trips to his table while Ann and I had each had one drink. I nodded.

Ann said, "He's queer, and he doesn't like it. Maybe he feels guilty. So, besides everything else, he's a lush. An alcoholic. He's all right till he takes that first drink, and then he's, well, he's not all right. I'm like him. I'm just like him."

I frowned at her, still puzzled, and she made her meaning clear for me with the touch of her hands again, and the pressure of her body as she moved closer to me.

"Only with me it's not liquor, Shell. It's you."

She was just a little bit of a thing but her actions were so strange that she almost frightened me. And, too, there was a hot urgency about her words and movements that communicated itself to me. She was young, warm, lovely—and I was beginning to think of her more as a woman than as the daughter of my friend.

I'd already become far too involved with the Weather family, and I liked Ann too much now. I didn't want to get more deeply involved than I was.

I said, "We've had our talk, Ann. I'll take you home."

She protested, but followed me when I slid out of the booth and walked to the door. As we left, the pianist ran long white fingers over the keyboard and sighed softly into the microphone.

Ann stayed huddled over on her side of the car, eyes closed, arms crossed over her breasts as if she were hugging herself, all the way to her home. Once I glanced at her and saw her hips writhe slightly, sinuously. Her eyes were still closed and she seemed unaware of me.

But when I parked in front of the big house on St. Andrews Place she put a hand on my arm and slid across the seat to sit close by me. "Shell."

"Yes, Ann?"

"I hoped you were taking me someplace else. Not here. Not home."

"I told you I was going to take you home."

"I know. But I thought ... Never mind. Look at me, Shell."

She pulled herself against me and her face was so close to mine that I could see nothing except the smooth brow, the big green eyes, the curving red lips. There was a tense expression on her face and her lips were moist and parted.

"Kiss me, Shell." One arm went around my neck. She pulled herself closer to me, bending my head to hers, and pressed her lips against mine. The kiss was sweet and soft, her lips warm and gentle. At first. Then it became demanding, hungry, less a kiss than an invitation. I put my arms around her, pulled her to me, mashing her lips under mine as her tongue came alive in my mouth.

Finally I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently away. "Wait a minute, Ann. This isn't good at all."

"Please, Shell." Her hands were busy and eager and her teeth were pressed tightly together. I could see the pulse of fine muscle at the smooth line of her jaw. Her breath was hot, an inch from my lips.

"Ann, I've got to go—right now. We can't ... I've got to see Borden."

"Shell. Don't you like me at all? Don't you think I'm pretty?"

I could feel the softness of her shoulders under my fingers. Every few seconds her body trembled convulsively and the movement traveled through my fingers and into my body. "Of course you are," I said. "You're lovely, you're wonderful ..." I stopped. I couldn't find words to tell her how mixed up I was.

"Then don't be cruel," she said. "I told you in the bar how I feel. Help me, Shell. Help me ..."

Her arms tightened around me and she pressed against me. Her lips covered mine again. Her fingers trailed over my cheek and across my chest. The fingers curved and I felt her nails bite through the thin cloth of my shirt. I could feel my heart pounding heavily.

Her body was soft, yielding against my hands. Then she fumbled with her sweater, pressed my hand upon her skin. I felt her fingers slide under my shirt and her nails raked my chest. I slid my hand up the smooth skin of her side, cupped the firm, warm breast in my palm. Her lips moved from side to side on my mouth and her breath washed over my face. Her breast seemed to burn my palm as she strained her body forward against me. The softness of her breast blended with the smoothness of her thigh, the liquid clinging of her lips.

"Shell," she whispered softly, "Shell, love me love me love me."

It was like ice water thrown on my flesh.

Suddenly I could remember Gladys saying the same thing, in almost the same way, the whispered phrases running together like one word, hot and twisted and eager, Gladys's body straining while her hands clutched convulsively at my skin. Gladys. Mrs. Weather.

I pushed Ann from me, suddenly, roughly.

She gasped. "Shell!"

"Go into the house, Ann." My voice was strange to me, harsh and almost ugly.

"What's the matter? I don't understand."

"Please, Ann. Go on inside."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes."

I don't know how long she looked at me, her eyes unblinking, her mouth tight. Finally she lowered her head and said softly, "Why, Shell?"

"It's nothing. I don't know."

"Is it something wrong with me?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"I can't tell you. I'm not even sure myself. I'm mixed up. Just—just forget it, Ann."

For several moments she was quiet, then she sighed heavily. "I'll go into the house, Shell, and upstairs to my room. And I'll think about you. Is that what you want?"

"I suppose."

"I'll undress, thinking about you. I'll get naked into bed. And I'll think about you. I'll lie awake. And I'll think about you."

She stopped. I didn't say anything.

Ann didn't speak again. After long seconds she got out of the car and closed the door quietly. I heard her high heels clicking over the cement walk. The front door closed behind her.

I sat in the car for a while, then started the engine and drove downtown.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

 

JOSEPH BORDEN answered my ring. I'd checked by telephone and had told him I was a private detective, but so far he didn't know what I was after.

He was a mild-appearing man of medium height, with wavy brown hair and soft blue eyes, a small mustache and a long narrow nose. He was wearing a brown dressing gown with a gold cord looped around his waist. He stood in the doorway of his Catalina Street apartment and said pleasantly, "You're Mr. Scott?"

"That's right, Mr. Borden."

"Come in, please." He stood aside as I went in, then motioned toward an angular, modern chair that turned out to be surprisingly comfortable when I sat in it. The living room was a series of curves and angles that added up to a pleasing whole. Two large bookcases occupied half of one wall, bright paper jackets on many of the books.

Borden sat down in another angular chair a few feet from me and asked brightly, "What can I do for you, Mr. Scott?"

"You're a professional hypnotist, isn't that right?"

"Yes, I am." He waited for me to go on.

"Would you mind giving me a rough idea of your work, Mr. Borden?"

"Not at all. Primarily I lecture and give public and private demonstrations of hypnosis."

"That's really why I'm here. You gave a demonstration at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Weather last Saturday night, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. Quite successful, I might add." He smiled pleasantly.

"When you hypnotized Mr. Weather, were positive visual hallucinations part of his posthypnotic suggestions?"

He widened his soft blue eyes. "Why, no. I suggested no visual hallucinations at all. The only demonstrations I made with him were that he'd make a speech as Hitler, and then there was one last suggestion toward the end of the evening. When I snapped my fingers he was to say, 'Let's have a nightcap.'" Borden smiled gently. "Rather an interesting way of bringing the demonstration to a close."

I nodded. "Then what?"

"Mr. Weather mixed some highballs, we all had a drink, and I went home. I never allow drinking during a demonstration." After a short pause he added, "Of course I was careful to see that everybody had been properly awakened before I left, and that all suggestions were removed."

"Did anyone go with Mr. Weather when he mixed the drinks?"

"He was kind enough to invite me to see his den—everyone else was familiar with it. He's quite proud of the room."

"Uh-huh. The reason for all these questions, Mr. Borden, is that Jay Weather has had a hallucination every single day since the party. He thinks there's a parrot on his shoulder. I'm pretty damn sure it's a posthypnotic suggestion."

"What's that?" He sounded surprised.

I explained in more detail and he said, "It does sound like the result of hypnosis, but I assure you, Mr. Scott, it can have no connection with the demonstration Saturday night. There was no mention of a parrot or any other visual hallucination. And even if there had been, I'm far too careful and competent a hypnotist to leave any suggestion in a subject's mind after a demonstration." He seemed irritated.