Meanwhile, the pair had shifted positions again. Now they were lying side by side, on their hips, their toes pointing in different directions, their mouths busy at each of their founts of femininity. But there was a marked difference in their techniques which defined their roles.
The redhead’s legs were still clenched tightly together, the Mooress was licking and sucking at the flesh for the world as if her partner was a man. Her own legs, on the other hand, were flung wide apart, the thigh muscles making the ebony skin bulge a little as she strained to afford even greater access to the hungry mouth. And this mouth was buried, lips working, tongue flashing and fencing with quite another target than the one visible just above. There could be no doubt, as the nether-world of homosexuals defines such things, that the redhead was the bull-dyke in this relationship.
Suddenly the ebony legs snapped together as if to swallow up the face framed by the red curls. At the same instant, the redhead’s buttocks tightened fiercely and she thrust forward as if trying to stab through the roof of the mouth inciting her. There was a faint, long-lasting liquid sound, really a mingling of two such sounds, and then it was really over. They fell away from each other, drained and exhausted.
By this time, I had more than had an opportunity to regain my own strength. To my surprise, I found that Luigi’s gun was still in my jacket. It hadn’t been taken from me while I was unconscious. Nor, I realized, had whoever clobbered me taken the trouble to tie me up. Despite the lump on me head, my sense of being in danger lessened somewhat. Still, I had been clobbered, and so now I took the precaution of leveling the gun at the two girls as I got to my feet.
“Well, will you look who finally woke up.” The redhead spoke in English, and her voice had a slightly nasal twang to it which was reminiscent of New York.
The Moorish beauty giggled and said something in Portuguese.
“She wants to know how long you've been watching us,” the redhead translated.
“Long enough,” I told her.
The way I said it, the dark girl required no translation. Her hand fluttered to her cheek and her long-lashed eyes fluttered with embarrassment. But the redhead shrugged it off. “So you got an eyeful,” was her comment.
“That I did.” I let it drop. “Who knocked me out and why?” I asked.
The redhead translated this, and both girls went into a fit of laughing, as though my getting slugged was the most hilarious thing since Grandma bent too low over the wringer. “I did,” the redhead was finally able to gasp. “I bounced my slipper off your head. Harder than I realized, I guess.”
“But why?”
“Why did you sneak into my room the way you did?" she countered.
“I didn’t sneak in. Madam Svitch-Hittinga brought me here. I just walked in and got clobbered. Why?”
“I thought you were a thief or something,” the redhead said, translating it quickly for the Mooress and then joining her for another laugh.
“Didn’t it occur to you that I might be a customer?"
“It sure did. And tonight’s my night off. I’m not supposed to be bothered. I’m on my own time. Any customer Madam tried to palm off on me tonight deserved to be knocked on the noggin as far as I‘m concerned.”
“That doesn't sound very good for business.”
“Maybe. I don’t give a damn. The truth is, I didn’t think it was a customer. Or a thief, either, to be honest. I figured you were the Madam. You see, every time Olivia here and I get together, the damn creep tries to muscle in.”
“You mean to watch?”
“Watch, hell! To get into the act. To turn a cozy two-some into a three-way orgy. I just got fed up. I didn’t care whether I got fired or not. It was worth it to teach that whatzis a lesson. So I swung first and discovered I’d made a mistake later. But I saw you weren’t badly hurt, and we figured you’d come to sooner or later.”
“Sure. I sort of noticed that you weren’t exactly pacing the floor with concern over my condition.”
“So sue me for damages.” The redhead shrugged. “Anyway, I’m not working tonight, so why don’t you and that cannon just toddle along?”
“I want a few answers first. It could just be that I’m going to turn out to be good news for you.”
“That I doubt. The only time a man ever brought me good news it was to tell me that my brother -- who, incidentally, had raped me when I was eleven years old—-had been castrated in a bar-room knife-fight.”
“Who’s writing your biography?” I asked sarcastically. “Radcliffe Hall?”
“Sure. And she’s calling it Pump-priming for Lonely Wells. I’ll send you an autographed copy. Now, what is it you want to ask me?”
“Is your name Barbara Thomas?"
“ ’Atsa me, boy."
“And did you work for a woman named Brigitte Kelly in London who left you a large sum of money?”
“If you prefer my lurid past to my lurid present, yeah, I did.”
“You went from London to Rome with two other girls left money by Brigitte Kelly. Will you tell me their names?”
“Gina Moretti and Françoise Laval. Say, what’s this all about?”
I explained to her then about the additional inheritance, and Dombey of Dover, and my part in things. When I told her the sum of money involved and that it looked like the other heiresses would disclaim their shares, leaving her to claim the whole amount, she bounced to her feet and began jumping up and down on the bed with glee. The Mooress looked at her as if she’d gone mad.
“What do I have to do?” Barbara asked.
“Just come with me to London to the offices of Dombey of Dover.” Having finally latched onto an heiress who wanted to be an heiress, I wanted to deliver her personally.
“When do we go?”
“Right away. Look, I’ll go arrange for transportation, and you get dressed. I’ll pick you up back here in no more than an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.” Barbara began chattering to the Mooress in Portuguese, explaining her good fortune, as I left.
When I returned, with reservations for a midnight flight to London in my pocket, Madam Svitch-Hittinga was at the front door to greet me. “Now I would just wager that you want to see our little Barbara again.” A purple-tipped finger was waved under my nose. “Really, you Americans should not be so clannish.”
“You got it right." I didn’t mince words. “She’s waiting for me.” I started to brush past the he-she.
“But not quite so soon.” The flutter-fingered figure blocked my way. “She is—umm— occupied at the moment.”
“Occupied?”
“Yes. With a customer. A very special customer.”
“What do you mean? Didn’t she tell you she was leaving? Why would she bother with a customer? What does she need it for?”
“I told you, this is a very special customer. A very highly recommended gentleman sent by the powers that be."
“The powers that be? What do you mean?”
“The gentlemen who have been so good as to finance my little establishment.”
Something clicked in my brain. Suddenly I remembered what the cab driver had told me about the Mafia being behind Madam Svitch-Hittinga’s operation. A premonition of dread grabbed me by the bread-basket. I gave the he-she a shove and sprinted up the stairs.
“But you can’t go up there!” it wailed behind me.
By that time I was already halfway up. I took the rest of the steps two at a time and flung open the door to Barbara’s room. She was lying on the bed, naked, her eyes wide open. “Are you all ri—” I started to say. The words dribbled away as I drew closer and saw her more distinctly. Her long red hair was knotted around her neck like a do-it-yourself garotte. But she hadn’t done it herself. It had taken strong fingers, man’s hands, the technique of an experienced strangler to kill her this way. Yes, she was dead, but the expression of surprise at the suddenness with which death must have struck still lingered in her staring eyes.