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 “Oh, I realize that all right," I assured him. “I really do.”

 “I wonder! You have this propensity for being easily taken in by females, Victor. It’s your major shortcoming as an agent. If it weren’t for your special value to us, I would never tolerate it! Now get that woman out of your room.”

 “I don’t think I should do that,” I differed. “She may -"

 The redhead was on her feet now, still looking rocky. I’d broken off my sentence to shake my fist at her by way of warning her to stay away from the gun lying on the floor across the room. She nodded understanding and backed against the wall to prove her passivity.

 “She may be able to tell us who Ex-Lax—” I resumed what I was saying to Putnam only to find myself forced to break it off again.

 What happened happened quickly, but it reconstructs this way. The redhead backed against the wall and rub-bed against it as if she had an itchy shoulder blade. The movement set one of her pointy naked breasts rotating, and my eyes were drawn to it for an instant. Thus distracted, I didn’t see what she was really up to until it was too late. Her shoulder blade located the light switch on the wall, tripped it, and the room was plunged into darkness. A second later the light from the hall hit me in the eyes as she opened the door, and then she was gone, running down the hallway before I could stop her. I did drop the phone, make a dive and then chase her, but she went around a corner and by the time I turned it she was nowhere to be seen. I went back to the room and picked up the phone again.

 “Did you get rid of that woman?” Putnam demanded.

 “Yes,” I told him wearily. “I got rid of her.”

 “Then let’s get down to work there, Victor. This isn’t a vacation you’re on, you know,” he reprimanded me crisply. “Now, there's another part of the message from Moscow. It instructs you not to try to contact Caster Oil until Ex-Lax has been eliminated."

 “That’s good. Since I have no idea who Caster Oil is, anyway."

 “It's your job to find that out, Victor. Remember?”

 “I remember. Does the message say if Castor Oil will contact me?”

 “It doesn't say. But I imagine that will happen once you carry out Moscow's instructions. Perhaps before. There's no way of telling. Anyway, let's get some results, Victor. I'll be in touch in a few days, and I expect you to come up with something besides another girl in your room." The receiver clicked in my ear as he hung up.

 I got dressed and went down to see the hotel’s bare-busted bell-belle captain-ess—or whatever the hell you call her. As I'd expected, there was no one on the staff fitting the description of the redhead who’d tried to shoot me. As I recrossed the lobby after making the inquiry, the desk clerk hailed me.

 “This came by messenger for you, Mr. Victor.” He reached into my mail slot, took out a sealed envelope, and handed it to me.

 I found a secluded chair in the lobby and opened the envelope. There was a typewritten slip of paper inside. “EROS THEATER, TWO P.M., LEFT BALCONY, SECOND ROW FROM BACK,” it said. And it was signed “CASTOR OIL.”

 Whaddaya know? This could be a real break. If I could identify Castor Oil, that should make Putnam sit up and take notice. And I’d be just as happy if I could bypass killing Ex-Lax in nailing Castor Oil.

 So, at about ten to two, I walked up to the box office of the Eros Theatre and purchased a ticket. The marquis of the joint was advertising “EIGHT BRAND NEW FIGURE STUDIES, THE ULTIMATE IN ANATOMIC ART," and the stills displayed outside confirmed that the Eros Theatre was one of the half-dozen or so ultra-sexy cinemas peculiar to Los Angeles.

 There are “nudie” movie houses in other cities across the country, but none that I know of offer such frankly erotic film fare as the ones in Los Angeles. The series of shorts I wasabout to see had been shot on a shoestring for this exclusive showing. What they lacked in cinematic quality, they more than made up for in titillating sequences which seemed to me to have been deliberately contrived for onanistic appeal.

 I found a seat in the middle of the second row from the back of the left balcony. The theater was dark, and it was a while before my eyes could adjust to see anything except the screen. So that’s what I looked at. One of the short “nudies” was just starting.

 The scene opened with a long-haired brunette, very sultry, very voluptuous, lying on a wide couch and reading a book. There was a jerky close-up of the book to show the title: Lady Chatterly’s Lover. Then another jerky focussing on the brunette’s face to show her eyes sparkling. She moaned aloud, and her tongue moistened her lips insinuatingly. In the background there was music, a very slow rendition of the beginning of Ravel’s Bolero.

 The focus changed again, and the brunette’s whole body was shown. She was wearing a frilly black negligee, opened to a deep V at the bodice, reaching demurely below her knees. Black net stockings covered her calves, descending to very high spike-heeled shoes. Now, as she read, one of her legs bent at the knee and moved slowly with a rubbing motion that ran her ankle halfway up the other leg. The movement revealed the black net stockings to about mid-thigh now.

 Then her hips began to move, and the negligee fell away from her legs altogether as she bounced slowly, provocatively, on the couch. She was right in rhythm with the still slow Bolero. Her shoulders picked up the motion, and then her lace-covered breasts. The book slid from her hands and she stretched sensuously.

 The first movement of Bolero trailed off for a moment. She stood up and stretched. Her hips jutted, first this way and then that. The negligee played a swirling game of hide-and-seek with her long, shapely legs. She picked up the book, sighed audibly, and then set it down neatly on the table beside the conch. She raised one high-heeled foot and rested it on the edge of the couch. She stroked the length of the leg, smoothing the net stocking. She repeated the movement with the other leg. She picked up the book again and seemed to read a few sentences. The Bolero resumed, just a trifle faster than before.

 The brunette’s fingers trailed down the negligee, undoing buttons. It fell away from her body, and she was revealed in a skimpy black bra and panties. She turned slowly around, still reading, her buttocks expanding and contracting with a muscular rhythm that fell in with the music.

 Again the perspective shifted abruptly. Now she was lying down, staring at the book, stretched out full-length, writhing slowly on the couch. Again she set the book down. Her hands caressed the length of her body, squeezing the skimpy bra and the flesh beneath it, trailing over her belly, sliding to her hips, down the length of her legs to her knees, and then back up the inside of here thighs. A quick close-up of her face caught a look that was a coy confession of naughtiness. It changed slowly to one of pleasure, and then of impatience.

 She stood up again. The camera dropped to her ankles, then moved slowly up her legs, pausing where they joined to catch a pronounced grinding movement. Then a close-up was raised to catch her belly rippling like an Arabian dancer. Finally it came to rest on that part of her body between her shoulders and waist. Her arms were bent behind her now, her hands fumbling with the clasp of the bra. It swung loose then, and her breasts played an intriguing game of peek-a-boo with the bra until she finally shrugged the strap from one shoulder. One breast was revealed, and the camera zoomed in for an even tighter close-up. At first the breast tip was concealed by the hand palming it. Then the hand slid away and the large aureole and long, quivering nipple were shown. The breast rotated as if with a will of its own for a moment. Then the hand appeared again, one finger outstretched to strum the nipple. She seemed to sink down, out of sight for an instant.