He started for the closet, but before he reached it, his eye was caught by the door to the bathroom. Françoise Laval the stripper must have been peeking out from there, for it was ever so slightly ajar. Then it had clicked closed, and this was the sound which attracted Pierre’s suspicions.
“What are you trying to pull?” he roared. “She’s in there!”
I trailed timidly behind as he barged into the bathroom. At first glance it looked empty. Then one of his bear-paw hands swept aside the shower curtain and the naked female figure of Françoise Laval the stripper came into view. Only her torso, for she kept her face covered with a towel.
“It is she!” Pierre exclaimed.
I cursed my luck. With two out of three chances, I’d come up a loser. And the stakes were my life!
“Do you deny it?” Pierre reached out and squeezed a naked breast. “Only these could fill this!” He held up the bra in front of the bosom. “I would know them anywhere! There are none others of such magnitude in all Paris!”
That's what you think, I thought to myself.
“This is the bosom of Françoise Laval!” His hand closed around my shirt-front like a grappling hook, and the next thing I knew my toes were dangling a good foot above the tiled floor.
“No, wait!” Françoise the stripper lowered the towel from her face. “You’ve made a mistake.”
Pierre looked at her, and his jaw dropped open. His fist unclenched, and I dropped to the floor, hitting so hard that my teeth rattled. “A thousand pardons, Mademoiselle! I would have sworn that this must be the bosom of Françoise Laval and no other.”
“It is,” she told him.
“Mademoiselle?”
“I am Françoise Laval.”
“You are?” The brute scratched his head, perplexed.
“But you are not my Françoise Laval,” he concluded finally.
“No.”
“Well then,” he said abashedly, “I suppose that I should be leaving.” It sounded as if he was half hoping that she’d ask him to stay.
“I’ll see you to the door,” I said, scotching that hope post-haste.
“My congratulations, M’sieur,” he said as I saw him out. “You are a most fortunate man.”
“You have no idea how fortunate,” I told him sincerely. I closed the door behind him and turned to face
Françoise Laval the stripper. “Why did you put that towel over your face?” I asked. “He might have killed me before he discovered his mistake.”
“I was afraid he would recognize me. After all, M’sieur, I am a rather well-known performer. And if word should get back to my Pierre that I had been found naked in the bathroom of an American— well-—” She made a slicing motion across her throat by way of completing the sentence.
“Oh.” I thought a moment. “I wonder just whose Pierre he was?” I mused aloud finally.
“He is mine.” The voice from behind the drape held a goodly amount of pride.
“Who is that?” Françoise Laval the stripper wanted to know. “What’s going on around here anyway?”
“Well, you see-—” This time the knocking at the door which interrupted me was like the roar of thunder.
Resigned to such interruptions by now, I waited for Françoise the stripper to dart back into the bathroom and then went to answer it. There was a click, and I found myself belly-dancing with the point of a switchblade knife. The face above it was all teeth—-some gold, some silver, some just plain human enamel. The rest of the face was ferret-sharp and snake-deadly, a visage calculated to inspire confidence in anybody looking to hire a professional assassin. But the sharp clothes covering the short, slender body were not those of an assassin. Rather they were the flashy hallmark of the Parisian pimp which he was.
“I will come in!” he announced, prodding me with the switchblade so that I backed up before him.
“By all means. The next train for New Rochelle leaves in about ten minutes,” I told him.
“What, M’sieur?”
“You were looking for Grand Central Station, weren’t you?”
“No. I am looking for Françoise Laval.”
“It’s a national pastime,” I murmured.
He decided to ignore what he didn’t understand. “And if I find her—” he started to say.
“Don’t tell me! You’ll kill her, right?”
“That is correct. And you too, M‘sieur.”
“I had a hunch you‘d feel that way. I don‘t know why. Maybe it’s that pig-sticker you’ve got tickling my belly button.”
“Enough! Where is she?”
“There’s nobody here but me.” I went into my routine.
“I’ll see for myself. And if I find her-—”
“I know. You told me already. Remember?”
“You remember, M’sieur. It may be the last thing you ever remember!”
On that cheery note he poked his head under the bed. “There’s no woman there," I tried to tell him.
“Aha! But there are woman’s clothes here! How do you explain that, M’sieur?”
“I’m a secret transvestite.”
“Not very funny, M’sieur.”
“A female impersonator.” I tried again.
“Enough jokes, M’sieur.” He waved the switchblade threateningly.
“Now look here, Pierre-—”
“Voila!” He sprang to his feet and stood directly in front of me, the knife flicking at my necktie again. “So you know my name! Then Françoise Laval is here. How else to explain it?” He stared at me challengingly.
“It’s everybody’s name,” I told him wearily. “Every Frenchman in Paris is named Pierre. Except perhaps Charles DeGaulle. And to tell you the truth, I’m not so sure about him.”
“Enough! Where is Françoise Laval?”
I’d had enough, too. “Behind the drapes," I told him wearily.
“You lie!” He looked wildly about and then crossed over to the clothes closet, cutting down the odds to fifty-fifty.
“She is in here!" He flung open the door.
There was nothing visible except my clothes hanging there. But that didn’t satisfy him. A stubborn so-and-so, he had to go groping behind the clothes.
“Ouch! Not so rough, please!” The muffled voice of Françoise Laval the artists’ model drifted from behind the clothes.
“Aha!” He spread apart two coats, and her bosom popped into view. “It is she! I would know those balloons anywhere! They are the most famous in all Paris!”
“Now just a minute,” I told him. “Don’t be so sure. If you want my opinion, identification by bosom is a most inaccurate method. Believe me, if there ever was anything to it, it’s a lost art now.”
“We shall see!” he told me grimly. He pulled aside the coats, and I held my breath as Françoise the model stepped out.
“But it is not Françoise Laval!” he exclaimed.
“It is so,” she told him indignantly.
“Let’s not go through that again,” I suggested. “The dialogue around here is beginning to sound like a broken record.”
“My apologies, M’sieur.” Pierre folded up his switch- blade knife and silently stole away.
When he was gone, I turned to Françoise the model.
“This is certainly a busy place,” she observed.
I remained mute. I was beginning to evolve a hazy theory about cause and effect that propounded the idea that every time I opened my mouth someone rapped on the door. I figured if I just kept my mouth closed, it might not happen. I figured wrong.
The pounding at the door sent Françoise the model back into the closet. Wearily, I c1osed the door after her and went to answer the pounding. This time it was a beard, torn T-shirt, paint-spattered blue jeans and a kitchen knife. There was no mistaking Pierre the pimp-turned-artist seeking Françoise Laval the doxie-turned model.