IT HAD TO HAPPEN!
There were eight people in the therapy group. Eight people; male, female, and in-between. Eight people with strange obsessions and warped perspectives on life. It was inevitable that one of them would find murder the only outlet for frustrated passion.
Finding a killer was nothing new for Detective Lieutenant Thomas Durango. But this was a unique problem, and in finding the solution he had to probe deeply into eight human souls. With him, you'll acquire new insights into the things that really make people tick. . ..
IT HAD TO HAPPEN!
Books like The Man from O.R.G.Y., The Nude Who Never, and The Girl from Pussycat — frisky, laugh-laden suspense romps from the torrid typewriter of Ted Mark — have earned him a reputation as one of America's most ribald and witty entertainers. In this major novel, he proves that his talent transcends pure entertainment. Ted Mark is above all a superb writer — and this is a book that had to happen!
CIRCLE OF SIN
This book was previously published under the same
title with the author listed by the name Leslie Behan
TED MARK
LANCER BOOKS NEW YORK
1965
CHAPTER 1
Packaged for Sex!
New York. Upper Broadway, in the nineties. Early ayem. Pimps and pushers, drunks and doll-boys, johns and jackrollers — night-scum lodged in the darkened store-fronts by the pelting rain. Eyes hopscotching the pattering drops, ducking under the umbrella brim, lech-leeching onto large, bouncing breasts, prying under the tight, short skirt to the creamy thigh-flesh above the stocking tops, grabbing at the joggling buttocks and squeezing hard.
She felt the eyes on her. She felt them fall into the rhythm of her half-trot, felt them embrace her in a macabre dance of sex between the raindrops. She felt them strip the clothes from her body, felt them caress her damp flesh until it grew warm under the touch, felt them press her to the sidewalk and squeeze and suck the juices from her. She felt the eyes raping her, devouring her, and she laughed.
Why not? They were an accolade, weren’t they? They were the Louvre stamp on a Rembrandt, the Nobel prize to a philosopher, the show-stopping ovation from the drama critics themselves. There was no tougher audience in the world for the merchandise she was parading down Broadway than those sex-sated night-drifters huddling in the doorways. The thrust of their eye-lust was the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval branded on her carefully packaged wares. She gave her hips an exaggerated roll, a nod of acknowledgement to her public.
The public licked its lips in reply. It called furtively to her, but she didn’t heed. The goodies, so amply displayed behind the store window of her transparent celluloid raincoat, continued the provocative, scampering march down Broadway.
Then she turned into a side street and the storefront eyeballs settled back into their sockets. Fingers tensed on groins relaxed. Rain washed away the fleeting lust.
Heading toward the Hudson River now, she angled her umbrella, slicing into the darkness, cleaving at the head-on wind. The West End Avenue corner spun her around, threw a hand to the celluloid cowl shielding her hair, tore a curse from crimsoned lips. She scuttled toward the other side of the street and continued down the block toward Riverside Drive.
She stopped under the canopy of an apartment house just off the Drive. She studied the number a moment and nodded to herself. She closed her umbrella, shook it out, fastened it, and entered the lobby.
The doorman was sitting on a sofa, sound asleep. Just as well. No questions asked and answered; no sly looks.
She paused in front of a mirror in the lobby. She lowered the cowl of her raincoat and shook out her blonde hair. She dipped into her purse for a comb, ran it through her curls, replaced it and took out a tissue. She blotted her rain-wet cheeks and then applied make-up. Her reflection smiled back at her, satisfied.
The elevator was waiting. A red-laquered nail pressed the button numbered “5”. It glided up and opened silently; she glided out. The finger poised again over a doorbell. It hovered a moment and decided against it. Instead, the hand circled the doorknob.
The door slid easily open, then closed behind her. She stood in the foyer a moment, just a touch uncertain. Then she shrugged to herself, and called out.
“Dr. Golden?”
“Right there.” The voice bounced back from behind the closed door facing her at the other end of the foyer. The door opened almost immediately and Dr. Golden stood there looking at her.
“Hi. I’m Debbie. You called Mrs. Wilson—?”
“Yes. Of course. How do you do, Debbie? Oh, rather Wetly, it would seem. It must really be coming down.”
“Pussies and puppydogs. It’s a regular Niag’ra.”
“You poor thing. Well, come on in and get out of those clothes and into a nice warm cocktail.”
“Swell. Oh, wait a minute. I’d better take these off here.” Debbie indicated her galoshes. “No sense in tracking up your floors.”
She bent over to undo the buttons of the trim little high-hell boots she was wearing. Dr. Golden stared as her breasts swung forward freely against the top of the bright red, extremely low-cut peasant blouse she was wearing. No bra encased them, and in Debbie’s bent-over position, her sharp-etched roseates and long nipples were plainly visible behind the teasing transparency of the raincoat she wore. Dr. Golden’s tongue darted over lips as Debbie pulled off the galoshes, extracted the high-heeled shoes from them and replaced them on her stockinged feet.
Debbie looked up impishly and met the devouring gaze. “I aim to please,” she said coquettishly.
“And you succeed, my dear. I am most pleased. I shall tell Mrs. Wilson so when I have occasion to speak with her again.”
“Will you? Gee, thanks, Dr. Golden. I appreciate that. See, it never hurts to have the boss know the customer’s satisfied.”
“I’m sure you’ll be eminently satisfactory. Eminently. You know, my dear, that raincoat you’re wearing is really quite provocative. Yes, indeed. Quite provocative.”
“Do you like it?” Debbie fluttered long lashes at Dr. Golden. “These things are awful cheap, you know. Only four bucks. Trouble is you wear them in the rain a few times and then they’re no protection at all any more.”
“I wasn’t referring to their water-repellent qualities,” Dr. Golden murmured.
“Oh, you mean it’s sexy. You know, I never thought of it that way before. Well, if you like it, I don’t have to take it off.”
“Eventually, you do. After all, it will be necessary to the removal of your other garments, won’t it?”
“Nope.”
“I beg pardon?”
“Watch.” Debbie stretched erect and reached around behind her shoulders. Her fingers groped under the celluloid collar to the zipper of the blouse. Clawing a little, she managed to bunch the material upward until she’d undone the zipper altogether.
She twirled, turning her back on Dr. Golden. There was a quick flurry of movement and then she turned back. She reached between the buttons of the raincoat and the blouse came away in her hand. She let it flutter to the floor.
Debbie deliberately arched her back. Her breasts strained proudly against the transparent raincoat. They were fully revealed now, ivory shadowed by the celluloid material. They were quite large, firm and perfect circles, dotted by shimmering pink roseates shading into quivering scarlet tips. Dr. Golden gasped audibly.