Her hips were very wide, well-padded without being heavy. The waist above them was tiny, so tiny that it made her small breasts seem larger than they really were. Nor did their smallness in any way detract from their sensual appeal. They were pear-shaped, uptilted breasts, and even without seeing them unveiled, I judged that their tips would be sharp and high. Also sharp was the cleavage between the breasts which made each of them seem an individual lure to be caressed.
But I had no thought of stopping to caress them then. My major concern was to get away from this place—and fast. I didn’t know where Tanya fitted into all that was happening, but there was no time to worry about that now. The question was what to do with her. I could already hear the door back in the cell being pushed open in response to the roar of the shotgun. Whatever I was going to do, I’d better do it.
I could knock her unconscious with the butt end of the shotgun and leave her there. Or I could force her to come with me. I decided on the second course. If I made my escape, I might be able to learn something of value from her later. So I nudged her belly-button with the shotgun to indicate that she should start moving.
I decided we should keep close to the side of the house until we rounded the corner. From that side it would be a shorter dash to the road. Meanwhile the shadows concealed us.
But when we rounded the corner of the house, it was like stepping into a General Electric lighting demonstration. No less than four powerful flashlight beams hit us all at the same time. “There he is!” The shout went up. I grabbed Tanya’s arm and yanked her back the way we’d come.
They were right behind us. And halfway down the wall in front of us, a door suddenly opened and another flashlight beam hit us head-on. I dived for it. The girl behind it had a gun, but my sudden lunge spoiled her aim. I knocked her out with a quick punch, pointed the shotgun at Tanya, and the two of us went through the door.
We were in a long hallway. Pulling Tanya with me, I raced for one end of it. There were footsteps behind us, but I didn’t turn around to look at our pursuers. They got off the first shots just as we went through the door.
It was an immense room, and it was filled with the most unbelievable junk. There were old pirates’ chests and piles of various kinds of costumes and half-opened wardrobe closets containing harem girl outfits and Arab sheik robes and boots and whips and lingerie and eighteenth century French-style evening gowns and Elizabethan men’s wear and bikinis and jockstraps and sequined G-strings and lots more besides. There were also a lot of boxes and crates, some opened, some not. There was furniture in the room, too—beds and chairs and sofas-—-all covered over with velvet drop-cloths.
“What is this place?” I asked Tanya.
“It’s the prop room.”
“The prop room? I don’t get it.”
“This is a very fancy brothel,” she told me. “It’s famous for satisfying any sort of whim the customer may have. Many like to dress up and play-act while making love. Others like sadism and other perversions with a really authentic period flavor. All of these tastes require props to satisfy them. This is the room where they store the props.”
“Is there another way out of here?”
“No.” Tanya sounded glad.
“Then we have to hide,” I decided. “And fast,” I added as the sound of running footsteps came closer.
That’s when I pushed her into the suit of armor and fastened it behind us. A moment later the room was knee-deep in S.M.U.T. . . .
And it still was, now, as my aching brain emerged from its fog and managed the step from past to present. S.M.U.T. was the first thing I saw now as I blinked my eyes open. I saw it in the persons of Madam Renado and Major Dwight Worthby. They were bending over the pile of collapsed armor and staring down at Tanya and me. Each of them was holding a nice, fat gun. Major Worthby was the first to speak.
“My word, sir,” he said, his eyes trailing down my body to where my pants had fallen, and then up Tanya’s legs to where there were still visible traces of our recent pastime. “You really must be the man from O.R.G.Y. Who else would--?”
“We’ve been all through that already, Major,” the madam interrupted. “He is not the man from O.R.G.Y. He is not Steve,Victor. He is an impostor.”
“Traitor!” Tanya murmured, pulling down her skirt. “Decadent lecher! Rapist!”
“Has anybody got an aspirin?” I asked. “My head is killing me.”
They ignored me. Understandably, for suddenly they had trouble—big trouble—-noisy trouble.
It was announced by a series of wailing sirens right out of Gangbusters. Everybody froze, and before they could unfreeze, there was a short, staccato of tommygun fire and then the place was lousy with cops. It all happened so fast I was still struggling to pull my pants up as the gendarmes lined us up against the wall.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Major Worthby was sputtering.
“A vice raid, Major.” The Maltese police lieutenant who seemed to be in charge was quite deferential. But not so deferential as to return the Major’s gun which his men had taken, along with Madam Renado’s, when they’d barged into the prop room.
“A vice raid!” Madam Renado was even more agitated than the Major. “How dare you? I pay for protection regularly. Does the Commissioner know about this?”
“It was he who ordered the raid,” the lieutenant told her.
“Just a moment now!” the Major continued protesting. “You are from the Valletta constabulary, aren’t you? Then what are you doing here? This place is outside the city limits. You have no jurisdiction! I demand to see whoever’s responsible for this outrage! I am a British officer in the service of Her Majesty, the Queen! I demand to see the man in charge!”
“And so you shall,” the lieutenant assured him. “The Commissioner is waiting to see all of you back at headquarters.”
There were several paddy wagons waiting outside the farmhouse. The brothel girls were being loaded into them. Our little group—the Major, the madam, Tanya, myself, and three or four other S.M.U.T. people who’d been in the prop room at the moment of the raid—rated a van all to ourselves. Four armed police guards rode in the back with us as we sped back to Valletta.
When we reached police headquarters, the four of us were separated from the other girls. It seemed we rated being received by the Commissioner himself. He wasn’t alone as we were ushered into his large office.
“Lagula!” I greeted my Pigmy friend, who was seated to one side of the Commissioner’s desk. “Am I glad to see you! ”
“Really, Comrade?” he answered sarcastically. “I can’t imagine why!”
I replied with a plea for understanding, but it was lost in the hubbub created by my companions.
“I pay you off like clockwork, and you have the nerve to—” Madam Renado was shouting at the Commissioner.
“I demand to see the British Consul at once!” Major Worthby was drowning her out.
“I swear that I am not now and have never been a member of the Communist Party,” Tanya was muttering.
“Quiet!” the Commissioner roared. “See that there is quiet!” he instructed the guards.
They moved in on us ominously. There was quiet.
“Now,” the Commissioner said in a softer voice. “Let us get down to cases. You, Madam,” he told Madam Renado, “are under arrest on a charge of subversive activity -- and possibly treason.”
“What?” She drew herself up haughtily. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m a hard-working businesswoman! What do I know of subversive activity? You are well acquainted with my profession,” she told the Commissioner meaningfully. “You know precisely what I deal in. How dare you drag me in here on some trumped-up charge?”