“Greetings from Sheikh Ali Khat.” Her voice was rich and warm. “I am Leila. I am here to serve you. In any way you desire.” The tone left no doubt as to her meaning.
“Uh—-yes-—well—-” I covered myself with the bedspread. I’m usually pretty urbane, but Leila had taken me by surprise. '“That’s very nice of the Sheikh.” I recovered myself somewhat. “Please extend my sincere gratitude for his consideration.”
“I will do as you ask.” Leila bowed from the waist. Her bosom swayed enticingly. If she was any sample of the mammary firmness in her native land, a brassiere manufacturer would have starved to death there. “There is a half an hour to pass before cocktails are served on the terrace,” Leila added as she straightened up. “Would Mr. Victor like me to bathe him, perhaps?”
“Uh, I’ve already showered, thanks.”
“A massage? Or maybe Mr. Victor would prefer to have me help him dress? Or perhaps some other divertissement to pass the time?”
“Gosh, no thanks. There’s really nothing at the moment.”
“Perhaps after the meeting?” She backed toward the door, bowing. “Would Mr. Victor like me to return then?”
“Yes. Why don’t you do that?”
She paused in the doorway. “May I say that I consider myself very lucky to be allowed to serve Mr. Victor rather than one of the other gentlemen?”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“I have seen the other gentlemen. None is as young and handsome and so much of a man as Mr. Victor.” Her eyes sparkled over the veil for a moment, and then the door closed behind her.
I was blushing! My host sure knew how to make a fellow feel at home. I wondered if Leila’s last statement was standard Arab buttering or if she really meant it. A half-hour later, when I went downstairs and met the other guests, I decided that she was probably more sincere than not.
They were gathered on the terrace. Turbaned male Arab servants passed among them with trays of cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. Randolph P. Austin came up to greet me.
“I’ll introduce you around, so you can get some idea of the competition,” he suggested.
“Okay. But don’t you think I should meet our host first?”
“He isn’t here yet. He sent apologies that he’d been detained, but will see us later at dinner. Actually, I think it’s that he doesn’t drink alcoholic beverages and likes to avoid cocktail situations.”
“Why doesn’t he just not serve drinks then?”
“Oh, no. That wouldn’t be in keeping with Arab hospitality,” Austin explained. He led me over to a distinguished-looking man, balding, with florid cheeks and the ramrod posture of a British colonial officer. “Mr. Privy, allow me to present my associate, Steve Victor.”
John Rank Privy measured me with hard blue eyes. “How do you do, Mr. Victor?” His bony hand took my measure with a steel grip. “Mr. Victor, Mr. Snoopleigh.” He introduced the man with whom he’d been talking.
“It’s a privilege to meet you, Mr. Victor.” Snoopleigh. was my age, tough—looking in that rawboned Aussie way, but there were crinkles of humor in his sun-leathered face. “I’m familiar with your work and I’ve admired you for some time.”
Something clicked. “Are you Archibald Snoopleigh?” I asked.
“Rain-right.” He grinned. “The very same.” He was pleased at my having recognized his name. His tone was warm now, in contrast to the impersonal coldness with which Privy was sizing me up.
“You two know each other?” Austin asked.
“We’ve never met before,” I explained, “but I know Mr. Snoopleigh’s work. We’re in the same business. You are the Archibald Snoopleigh from Australia who did that survey contrasting sexuality in the bush and sexuality in the suburbs of Melbourne, aren’t you?” I asked him for confirmation.
“Rain-right. That’s me, to a T. Archie to my friends.”
“I reckon we both had the same idea,” Austin remarked to Privy.
“I believe in hiring professionals,” Privy granted.
“Yep. Well, keep your cistern clean, John.” Austin led me away. “What do you think?” he asked when we were out of hearing distance.
“Privy said it. Snoopleigh’s a pro. He’s one of the top sex researchers in the world. He’ll be tough competition, all right.”
“Think he’s better than you are?”
“I’m not sure. We’ll see.” I avoided blowing my own horn.
“Here’s somebody I’d like you to meet, Steve. Mr. Ugotago.” Austin performed the introductions. The Japanese was tall and very handsome. He wore his dinner clothes with the air of a man who takes pride in his tailor. Yet there was none of the stiffness of Privy about him. He was very relaxed, very sure of himself.
This was in contrast to the other Japanese seated beside him. Unlike Ugotago, the other Oriental seemed out of place and ill-at-ease in these lush surroundings. He was short and fat, uncomfortable in his tuxedo, and sweating over the collar. He was introduced as Mr. Hauksho.
After exchanging a few words, Austin and I moved along. “Ugotago’s man doesn’t look like much in the way of competition,” I remarked to Austin. “He’s nervous as a hunk of fresh-cut blubber.”
“That’s a mistake, Steve.” Austin looked like he was disappointed in me. “Hauksho is far from the ineffectual little fat man he seems to be. I’ve made inquiries. He’s the top private eye in Tokyo. He used to be very high up in the Japanese Intelligence Service, but he resigned in protest over what he called the ‘Americanization’ of his government. Don’t let that bumbling manner fool you. He’s shrewd as they come, and he doesn’t like Americans one little bit. If you come up against him directly, remember what I’m telling you.”
I turned for a second look at the fat little detective. It was hard to see him in the new light cast by Austin’s information. He still looked like no more than the sort of fellow that might come back to haunt Spiro Agnew8 .
My gaze moved on past the pudgy Oriental and came to rest on a tall blonde girl in a low-cut evening gown. It was a soft, delightful resting place. She was stacked like a jam at Kennedy Airport. The curves were in all the right places, and when she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, everything moved in a way that was both arresting and erotic without being overstated. Her face was aquiline, aristocratic, intelligent.
“Who’s the lady?” I asked Austin.
“I haven’t been introduced yet,” he replied. “She’s with Krapinadytch, the Russian.”
“You mean she’s the Commie competition in this game?”
“I imagine so. He wouldn’t have brought her here otherwise.”
“Which one is Krapinadytch?”
Austin pointed out a man standing by himself on the other side of the terrace. The Russian was a large, bulky man with a shaved head. He looked like Erich von Stroheim.
“I hadn’t figured on female competition,” I told Austin.
“She’s not the only lady involved,” he answered. “Come along and I’ll introduce you to the other one.”
I followed him through the crowd toward what I thought were two men in evening clothes standing with their backs to us. But as we maneuvered to the front of them, I saw that one was not a man at all, but an imposing-looking redheaded girl dressed in one of those frilly Spanish dance outfits that look something like a tuxedo. She was taller than the man with whom she was talk- mg.
“Senhor Di Arrea.” Austin waited for a pause in the conversation and then interrupted. “I’d like you to meet Steve Victor.”
“Mr. Victor.” Di Arrea was a small Spanish type with a pampas moustache too large and bushy for his face. “Senhorita Nina Procura.”
“So you’re one of the Americans I’m up against.” The redhead was direct, her voice startlingly deep. She was certainly attractive, but there was that about her which told a man to keep his distance. I pegged her for a Lesbian right away. As things turned out later, I was right.