Once past the guard I was able to get a better impression of the layout of the house. It rambled in all directions, doors opening into well stocked pantries, linen closets and storage rooms. I had spotted two more men at critical points, but there was no way to move in on them without being seen. One gunshot would bring others running and I couldn't afford that.
Somewhere inside the house there was a burst of sound, voices laughing, muffled by the thickness of the walls. I stood in the niche of a doorway watching the man at the end of the corridor, saw him stretch, bored, then turn and walk in my direction. He got fifteen feet away, stopped, seemed to sense something, then shrugged and turned his back and returned to his original position.
Behind me the door I was leaning against opened with the faintest squeak. The guard stopped again, looked back over his shoulder, then decided to investigate and walked back. I had no choice except to step back through the door and close it, hoping he wouldn't notice the movement. His feet passed, then came by again as he satisfied himself that there was nobody there.
Now he'd be alert. I swore at myself for not jumping him when I could have, but it was too late now. I lit my last match, found myself in a kitchen cluttered with dirty dishes piled high on the sink, and an ancient gas range littered with used pots. Four rolling serving trays were lined against the wall next to a corridor that led somewhere into the bowels of the house.
The match flickered and went out, but I had my direction fixed and followed it in my mind.
And I found what I came for. Or at least some of it.
The two great sliding doors that opened onto the room were shut, but age had shrunk them so that a quarter-inch crack showed in their vertical alignment. I pressed my eye to the aperture to get a wider angle of vision and saw them, a small crowd, some in chairs, some standing smoking, enjoying the spectacle on the stage in the middle of the room.
A cage had been erected there about eight feet square, finger-thick bars covered with a thin wire mesh. She stood in the middle, absolutely motionless, uncomfortably poised on a small block of wood, her ink-black hair a startling contrast against the white negligee that had parted down the front and was thrown back over her shoulders. A false smile of frozen horror looked like it had been painted on her face, a look of total disbelief, yet somehow tinged with grim determination. Not a muscle in her body moved, and in the weird blue light that enveloped her. I could see a reflection in her eyes as they followed the insidious motion of the two diamondback rattlesnakes that writhed restlessly just inches from her legs, their tongues nervous little feelers sensing danger in this strange atmosphere, their tails buzzing with anger.
I had found Greta Service again.
How long she had been there I couldn't tell, but the terrible agony of the position she was forced to hold was evident in the muscular tension of her legs. Any movement, no matter how slight, would bring those snakes striking to an attack.
A figure moved from behind a chair and I saw Belar Ris. For a second the light caught him and I could see his smile of enjoyment. He sat on the arm of the chair and draped his hand across the shoulder of the one sitting there.
From one side a voice said, "How long has it been, Belar?"
He looked at his watch. "Forty minutes."
Then the one in the chair said, "You're going to lose your bet, Belar. She's going to win your fifty thousand dollars."
My skin crawled all over because the answer was all right there in that room. The voice was Dulcie McInnes'.
And Belar Ris said, "No, I won't lose. You'll have your pleasure."
How long had you been doing it, Dulcie...finding the kind of woman who would submit to this kind of pleasure-seeking? You were in the right position for it. How many more were dead that we didn't know about? And how many ever did win the bet that they could outlast a distorted thirst for pleasure? And what was your gain, Dulcie...a greater social acceptance because of your associations? Who else did you entice into this tight circle who could be blackjacked politically because he had become a blood brother to depravity?
It must have shaken her when I came into the picture because until then it all would have been so carefully planned and executed. They had the money and the means to operate with and always the knowledge that the shield of diplomatic immunity was there for them.
What was your shield, Dulcie? Or was money and power satisfaction enough?
I could see more of the faces now. They were the faces of those from countries of sudden wealth and emergence into power, but who still reveled in the savageries of the near-primitive. But not all. Several I had seen at the Flamingo Room the other night enjoying their respectability.
Dulcie's choice of subjects had been excellent. They were women alone with no one to care about them. They would do anything for a chance at a small fortune.
The exception had been Greta who did have somebody who cared about her. She was willing to take the big gamble because she cared about somebody too. Harry Service might not have been worth it, but he was all she had and she was going to keep her promise to him.
Her face was tighter now than before, fighting the unbearable strain of her position and the proximity of the snakes.
Too bad Mitch Temple couldn't see what he had stumbled upon. He started chasing down a murderer because a single thread seemed to tie in the deaths of two girls, two inexpensive, sexy nylon negligees. He did the legwork in countless shops and was lucky enough to spot Belar Ris buying another one. Even when he published Belar Rig's activities in his column, he might not have made any personal contact with the man, so he verified his identification by going through the morgue files until he located Ris's picture.
Even his call to Norm Harrison fitted in. You couldn't openly accuse a man in his position unless you had positive proof. But Norm had been out of town. Mitch did have another source of information going for him. Ronald Miller probably had told him about his company's litigation with Belar Ris in the theft of the C-130. That fitted in too. Ali Duval could have seen the shipment, recognized its potential to Ris and gotten it ashore.
Mitch's trouble was, Ronald Miller had left too and Mitch had no place to go to except the source itself. It would be like him to call Ris, ostensibly to arrange for an interview on some matter or other, then try to draw him out. But Ris had something going for him too. Mitch's picture was at the top of his column. Ris could have recognized Mitch and seen through the whole skein and stopped it right there with a single knife thrust through Mitch's heart.
Yet it didn't stop there. I was looking for Greta and Greta could have led me to them if I pushed hard enough. She had already been recruited and was ready for them regardless of what happened to the other girls who went ahead of her. She had probably been held right here for this very night and she was doing it of her own volition.
They didn't know what I had though. The papers had made a big thing of my reputation and they couldn't take a chance. Orslo Bucher was one of their own nationals and could be called upon for the small jobs. He searched my place, then tried for me and died doing it. That threw it back at them again.