My pants fell loosely around my ankles, and Françoise took one long look. “It is more phallic than the Tower itself!” she moaned. And then she jumped, taking me completely by surprise.
Her aim was perfect. Her arms went around my neck, her legs locked around my hips, and the fulcrums of our bodies locked just as she’d meant them to lock. Even as I was borne downward by her weight, the two of us exploded with the very impact itself, and the floodgates of our ecstasy were so violently released that we didn’t even notice as we tumbled the few steps to the platform below.
But that was only the beginning. Astride me now, Françoise bounced up and down like a nymphomaniac gone berserk. Fortunately, I was so aroused that I was able to match her passion. The two of us were going at it so eagerly now that we were bruising each other’s flesh at the point of impact. But the sweetness was far greater than the minor pain.
That was the fleeting thought which crossed my mind as we built less abruptly toward another release of passion. And it was followed by a second thought before I was completely caught up in the sensation of release. I remembered that Alexandre Gustave Eiffel, the builder of the Eiffel Tower, had invested one million dollars of his own money in the construction of the landmark. I wondered what he’d think if he saw the use to which Françoise and I were putting it. Would he consider it money well spent?
I sure as hell did!
CHAPTER EIGHT
“IF IT were not for the fact that you are an American, and impetuous, and that you swept me off my feet, I would never be able to forgive myself for betraying Pierre this way."
“I’m filled with remorse,” I replied. “And now, Françoise, if you’ll get off me, I‘ll pull up my pants. I think I hear people coming.”
“Very well,” she sighed. “But it has been so short-lived to fill me with such guilt. Poor Pierre!”
“He need never know,” I assured her.
“Oui. But if he did-—!” She rolled her eyes expressively.
“What would he do?”
“I am not sure. Chop off his ear, perhaps. Run off to Tahiti. Try to talk me into jumping out of the window.”
“And would you jump?”
“No. The truth is he doesn’t have enough talent to deserve such a sacrifice. His painting—well, sometimes I think he is a little myopic. No matter how often he paints me, my face and body always seem to come out elongated. Now, you wouldn't say I was elongated, would you?"
“Not at all. Now, if we could get back to Barbara Thomas –“
“Of course. What do you want to know?”
“Where you left her. Any leads you might have as to where she is now. Things like that.”
“I will tell you what I can,” Françoise began. She went on to fill me in on how she and Barbara had latched onto two German businessmen in Rome after Gina had left them. They had tagged along with this pair of Dusseldorf butter-and-egg men to Vienna. Here, the Kraut patsies had run dry cabbage-wise, and the two enterprising. doxies had sought new marks. They had found them in the person of a pair of Spaniards.
One of the Spaniards, the one Françoise had staked out for her own, was an internationally renowned Flamenco dancer. The other one, Raoul Mendes by name, was well-known in Spain as a fearless toreador. They were in Vienna as some sort of kookie cultural exchange program, and their spree with the girls was pretty much subsidized by the Spanish government.
The girls went back to Madrid with them. It was here that Françoise was disenchanted with her heel-tapping hot-shot. One night 300 pounds of Spanish wife descended on their little love nest, and the dancer went click-clacking off in the wake of a passel of brats which had evidently been sired by him. His perfidy in not mentioning his Señora and their muchachas and muchachos wasn’t easily forgiven by Françoise. It made her distrust all Spaniards, and so she decided to return to Paris and her Pierre.
The last she had seen of Barbara Thomas, the American redhead had been leaving for Pamplona with Raoul Mendes. “I wasn’t exactly heartbroken to see her go,” Françoise confided. “She’d gone native, and that really annoyed me. She’d become obsessed with her bullfighter-lover and with bull fighting itself. Although she spoke both English and French perfectly, she refused to speak any language but Spanish then. She was like one of those expatriate characters in a Hemingway novel set in Spain. I would say that if you find Raoul Mendes, you will find her with him. And a well-known bullfighter like Mendes shouldn’t be difficult to find in Spain. As a matter of fact, the Pamplona festival is just starting again. I would imagine the two of them are back there.”
I thanked Françoise and we parted, fittingly enough, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. She promised me to get in touch with Dombey of Dover about the inheritance. I hurried back to my quarters on the rue de la Boite to pack. Next stop Pamplona, Spain.
Lucky Pierre rode out to the airport with me to say good-bye. I shook the hand of the tough little boy sin-seller with real regret. He had saved my life twice, and I’d miss him.
“I’ll work on that crazy artist,” he promised. “Maybe I’ll be able to persuade him to let Françoise accept the money.”
I thanked him, but I didn’t have too much faith that he’d succeed. If I was right, then Tarleton’s sense of urgency had been correct. Only Barbara Thomas was left between the Mafia and the fortune. It was imperative that I get to her quickly, before Luigi and his brotherhood of killers did.
I was one of the first ones aboard the plane. As I sat there waiting for it to take off, I puzzled over the one thing Françoise had refused to tell me. I had asked her if she had any idea why Brigitte Kelly had named her and the other two harlots in her will. Like Gina, Françoise had admitted that she knew, but balked at letting me in on the secret. “Ask Barbara.” These were her final words on the subject. “She’s the only one of the three of us who probably won’t mind telling you. Ask Barbara.”
Now I shrugged off my curiosity at the sound of the jets building pressure for take-off. The cabin was fairly well filled by now, and the pilot appeared at the foot of the aisle and picked up the p.a. mike to introduce himself to the passengers.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said as he strolled slowly down the aisle. “This is your pilot, Captain Flagella speaking. I want to welcome—” His voice trailed off as he saw me, and he stopped in his tracks. “You!” His face turned ashen. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I threw right back at him. “I thought you flew for the Italian airlines.”
“I did. But they grounded me after that incident on the Geneva-Paris flight. The flight surgeon said my nerves were shot.”
“Yeah? Then what are you doing flying a Spanish plane?"
“The Franco government is short of qualified pilots. They aren’t quite so particular.” His knuckles were white as he gripped the back of a seat to support himself. “Why do you follow me?” he whined. “Why are you persecuting me?”
“I‘m not. Forget about me. Go on. Fly the plane.”
“I may never fly again. How will I live?” he moaned. “Flying is the only thing I know. It’s in my blood." He got hold of himself and squared his shoulders. Evidently he had decided to take a stand. “I must ask you to please leave this aircraft,“ he ordered.
“Not on your life! This is the only plane to Pamplona until tomorrow. And I’m in a hurry.”
“I will not fly with you aboard!" His voice rose hysterically.
“Look, you’re exaggerating the risk. I’1l tell you what. I’ll make a deal with you. Go do your job, and I’ll promise not to go anywhere near the john before we reach Pamplona.”