She didn’t, of course, but it would be more than interesting to hear. It intrigued him, no end. He stroked gently between her exquisite thighs. He found treasure island.
“Tiger—” She cried, as her state fused with his more and more, “You were—on the Mount—you—I was there —” She paused, gasping divinely, “You weren't giving a sermon—” She paused again, she had to, “Is that blasphemous?"
“I don’t know,” Tiger had to reply.
“Oh—” She cried, as her silky slipped off.
“What was I doing?” Tiger murmured again, tenderly fondling her. His hand was drenched.
“This—” she cried, “Just this—” She managed to cry— “Oh—I—Love—You—Tiger my Darling my Honey my Only I Love You—” Once more she cried, barely, “Is It Blasphemy?"
Tiger gave no answer this time, she fell back on the couch with him, she caught sight of his formidable shaft, she took hold of it, she held it.
“Oh JESUS!” She cried out, raising her knees, utterly gone now, writhing, dying for him, “GIVE IT TO ME!"
He obliged. . . .
61
What about Honeywell? Surcher wondered, in the mid- # die of interviewing Mr. Crispwell, Commercial Studies teacher. He had of course interviewed the Janitor after
Pretty Maids All in a Row 327 the discovery of the body but had no grounds for any suspicion whatever toward the man. The same was now true of this Mr. Crispwell, whom he didn’t like very much, to tell the truth. He was a Bircher. He had proclaimed that fact, right off the bat. But that had little to do with the matter. That was the matter. Honeywell. It was odd his thoughts should turn to him once again. Perhaps it was that phone call from the Attorney-Generals Office. For that phone call had certainly made very clear to him, as if he didn’t already know, that swift and prompt action, and the leaving of no stone unturned, were expected in the matter. Assistance, in the form of a small platoon of Special Investigators from the Attorney-General’s own office, would be on its way within twenty-four hours, unless he came up with an answer, or something pretty close to the answer. The FBI was also mentioned. And the Governor. In short, Surcher had an ultimatum. Looked at from any angle, it was, put up or shut up—Buddy. Well he knew. TTiat was it. And not that he minded all that much, for he was of course a man not easily ruffled, whatever the circumstances. He was also well aware of the special problems and sensitivities of politicians, who would come and go, Attorney-Generals or whatever. Especially ambitious Attorney-Generals, he mused, not unhopefully, formulating his next question for Crispwell.
“How old are your children, Mr. Crispwell?”
The man answered, precisely, tightly.
Well what about Honeywell? Surcher reflected, jotting dow'n the answers. Was he possibly a Don Juan of the Furnaces? Or Broom Closet? He mused. Not to mention the Lavatory. He seemed like an ordinary enough fellow. In his working clothes, he was no Brando. He was in what appeared to be a genuine state of shock, or close to it, when he had interviewed him. He was married, with a couple of kids of his own. Middle forties. No record. Well thought of. Should he have another talk with him? Surcher wondered. Certainly, it fitted in with the Attomey-General’s directive. Or would he just waste his time again? Jim Green. Surcher almost sighed, thinking of him. There was the honey. He almost shook his head too. forlornly. His hunch still was that the nut was some kid, not a member of the faculty. Though the latter couldn't be excluded totally.
He and his assistants would know more about that by the end of the day. Naturally. He thought of Poldaski. His Troopers had reported he was a hard man to work with. He had to grin, picturing that.
“Well, now, Mr. Crispwell—just one more question, and then you can go. Just a routine question, please understand. Would you account for your movements between the time you left the school yesterday afternoon—and this morning?”
The teacher sat back, somewhat taken aback.
“You understand it’s strictly routine, Mr. Crispwell,” Surcher told him again, in his friendliest way.
“Yes—I understand—” Mr. Crispwell said, finally, adding, for the record, “I know what you’re up against.” And he began answering.
Did he? Surcher wondered, as he began writing.
He doubted it.
He would check out Honeywell—just once again.. . .
62
Ponce, taking the bit in his teeth, was on his way to Miss Betty Smith's place that evening. More than ever, he was aware of being caught up in a matter of unprecedented historical importance, so far as he was aware, in the story of Sawyersville, and possibly the whole state, at this rate. And though on the whole it appalled him, it also undeniably excited him. He was well aware. When had Sawyerville known such excitement? The football team was exciting, but in a different way. Nothing like this way. Where would it end? What would the end be? That added to the excitement, of course. Ponce was caught in a paradox, he was aware of the most bewildering spectrum of emotions about the whole affair. He began to reflect, for one thing, on the fascination that catastrophes of all kinds, natural or man-made, most particularly manmade (such as wars, e.g., the current Vietnam war) have for humans. What a strong
Pretty Maids All in a Row 329 pull. It made all life touch and go. It was hard to deny, Ponce now felt, on that track, that there did seem to be some connection between his going again to see that dream and the matter. The situation. The disaster. He seemed to sense that it had in some odd way boosted his courage, in fact given him a verve, so to speak, and nerve hitherto nonexistent, or certainly totally dormant, inaccessible, in him. It had affected him. Stimulated him. Infected him. This, he was well aware. And it only meant more confusion. For he was basically and had always been a prudent, careful boy, as he and the whole world knew. Certainly, the whole of Sawyersville knew. In some way, the situation seemed to free him, it seemed to open up a whole new vista of long-buried, only dreamed-of, occasionally thought of, but definitely and powerfully longed for—raw freedom, as such. Certainly, such. Ponce knew it, though he was ashamed to admit it. His heart pounded, in a new, fierce kind of way. He felt he had in his grasp some unparalleled and spectacular experience whose essence was Treasure, pure Treasure, no less, and fabulous. It would be equal at least to the hoard of eternity, with the universe thrown in, for free. That’s how it was. He felt great. He felt bad. He felt appalled. And he swayed, back and forth, a mad pendulum, on the one hand genuinely in need of rapport, contact, a meeting of minds with Miss Smith—on the other— where was the measure? He was in a state. That Treasure. His head whirled as never before.
He rang the doorbell a few times before she answered it. Of course, she wasn’t expecting him. Ponce had taken her at her word. That was it. She opened the door finally and his heart pounded like artillery. For a moment she was startled, or very faintly appeared to be. Then, she broke into the warmest smile imaginable, welcoming him. Ponce grinned even more warmly back at her. He was relieved. For a fraction of a second there he had thought she was going to slam the door in his face. Did she think he was the Ipnatic?
“Ponce, well, how nice to see you!” She said, “Come in. Come on in. What a nice surprise. I’m telling you—” The divine creature said to the lad, as he stared at her, and then found himself floating in. He was under a massed bombardment, floating in. She had on a dressing gown, and it was the prettiest thing. And what else? The question flew up in him. embarrassing him. Also, it inflamed him. And raced around in him.
“How are you?" She said. “Here, let me take your jacket—" And she helped him off with it. It was a lightweight, lined, all-weather jacket. The latest thing.