I scrambled to get out of the way. The Jag changed direction as if it was actually chasing me. I reversed my own direction and managed to dart in front of the car as it backed past me. Suddenly the driver shifted to a forward gear and shot straight for me, all cylinders roaring. I dived frantically and rolled under a parked Caddy. Just in the nick of time. One of the Jag’s front fenders brushed the seat of my retreating pants as I leaped.
The sports car braked to a halt, and the topless attendant went running up to it. Cautiously, I crawled out from under the Caddy and edged toward the Jag, ready to leap for cover at the slightest sign of its roaring into motion again. But it didn't and a moment later I was beside the topless blonde looking through the window of the Jag at the driver. My jaw dropped open to find Poversia’s own Prince Juv Satir smiling pleasantly back at me. Finally I found my tongue.
“That is one hell of a way to bug a friend, Your Highness," I told him.
“Hello, Steve. Was that you doing the hurdles back there? I didn’t know.”
“Ignorance of the prey is no excuse, Your Royal Highness,” I insisted.
“You are quite right, of course. Truth is I did not see you until you were jumping under that car. I was watching this young lady. Of course, I should have been watching her signals. But I'm afraid my attention was distracted by her magnificent bobbies."
“You mean boobies.” I corrected him.
“Ah, yes. I never can quite seem to master your slang, no matter how much time I spend here. Anyway, my eyes were glued to them, and so I missed her signals, I'm afraid.”
“Perhaps you didn't, Your Royal Highness,” the blonde murmured. She was obviously a girl whose door was a well-oiled swinging gate when opportunity came a knockin'.
“Quite so.” The Prince beamed at her. “Again, my apologies, Steve." It was almost a royal dismissal. He turned his attention back to the blonde. A slight wind had come up, and she was hugging herself and shivering.
“Are you chilly, my dear?” he purred,
“I’m all goose-pimply,” she replied.
“Then perhaps you’d better get in here and warm up.”
He opened the car door for her. “We can’t have icicles forming and weighting down your assets.”
“Oh, Your Royal Highness,” the blonde giggled “You’re a killer!”
Was he? I wondered as I headed back for the hotel entrance. Was he a killer? Had he been trying to deliberately run me down? Or was it just another one of those incidents that were part of the general foul-up atmosphere of the Beverly Topless?
I went back to my room and peeled off my clothes, removing a few strips of blistered skin with them. I turned off the light, drew the heavy drapes to darken the room, and climbed into bed with a weary sigh. I pondered the potentials of the Prince and Misty as murderers and the reasons why they might be for a while, and then I was asleep.
It was mid-morning when I awoke, although the room was still dark. Two things had yanked me from the arms of Morpheus: someone was knocking loudly at the door to my room, and the telephone was ringing.
I grabbed for the phone first. It was Putnam. “Victor, we've decoded the message," he began. “It’s a -”
“Just a minute.” I stopped him. But I still had the phone to my ear as I switched on the light and opened the door.
A topless bell-belle stood there with the hotel smile on her face. She was holding a tray balanced on the wide-spread fingers of her left hand. Her right arm was bent behind her back in a sort of Napoleonic pose. Lying on the tray was a package of Ex-Lax.
“It’s a warning from Moscow.” Putnam’s voice was cracking in my ear. “It’ s a warning for Stevkovsky to--"
“I didn't order anything,” I told the bare-bosomed redhead smiling fixedly at me from under her little cap. “There must be some mistake.”
“. . . beware of Ex-Lax." Putnam was still talking. “He knows you've been sent to kill him. And he's out to kill you first!”
“No mistake.” The redhead’s hand came out from behind her. It was holding a large pistol.
“Do you hear me, Victor? Ex-Lax is out to kill you! Are you listening? Do you read me?”
“Loud and clear!” I said into the mouthpiece.
“Be careful!”
“Too late!”
And it was too late! The bare-busted bell-belle’s finger was already squeezing the trigger!
CHAPTER FIVE
I NEVER TAKE laxatives. What I mean is, I'm a regular fellow. I mention this because I really should have been suspicious right away when I saw that it was Ex-Lax that the topless redhead was delivering to my room. I wasn’t, because an unrequested physic was just the sort of thing to be expected at the Beverly Topless. It wouldn’t really have surprised me if one of the staff had slipped into my room and given me a enema in my sleep.
The gun, however, lent the mild laxative a certain aura of direness. And the sight of the finger tightening on the trigger was surely alarming enough to have instantaneously fulfilled the functional aim of the purgative. Fortunately, it was my biceps rather than my sphincter which reacted.
I flung the telephone at her gun-hand, and it connected just in time to deflect the bullet from its target—meaning me. Putnam’s voice was still sputtering from the earpiece as I followed up the phone with a tackle that caught the bare-topped gunslinger around the waist. She dropped the tray on my head and swung for my left ear with the gun. I avoided it by jolting upward and slamming my left ear under her ample right breast. Then I landed a short karate chop on the wrist of the hand swinging the gun, and the weapon went flying across the room. Security may be a blanket to some, but to me, at that moment, security was seeing that the pistol was out of her reach. I took out insurance on that security with an uppercut to the jaw that folded her up neatly and dropped her on the floor unconscious.
I looked down at her. She was out, all right. I retrieved the telephone.
“Are you drunk, Victor?” Putnam's voice was cold and angry.
Isn't it nice when your superior has faith in you? I reflected wryly. “No. This girl--” I started to explain.
“A girl! I might have known! Damn it, Victor, you’re not there to play! This is serious business!"
Man, how I hate authority figures! “She tried to ki-” I continued trying to get in my explanation.
“Never mind that!” His clipped tone looped off my vocal chords’ manhood. “I've been trying to tell you that the message you got was from Moscow to warn you that Ex-Lax is aware of what’s up and will probably try to kill you. Forget the girls! Your life is in danger!"
“Well, it’s a relief to know that,” I told him sarcastically. “I was beginning to worry that I was accident prone.”
“If you’d spend more time vertical and less prone,” he shot back, “you might get a lot further with your assignment!"
“Ohh!” The would-be murderess was coming to.
“Oww!” She groaned again and sat up, her fingers gingerly investigating her jaw.
I covered the phone. “Any broken bones, honey?” I asked her.
“What's going on now?” Putnam wanted to know.
“Nothing.” I decided against any further tries at explaining.
“I don’t think so,’ the redhead answered, continuing to probe her chin.
“Victor! I heard a woman’s voice!” Putnam was indignant.
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “You see—"
“Get her out of there!” he ordered. “Immediately! You don’t have time to play around now. Besides, you must realize that you can’t be sure you can trust her!"