Carla

Chapter Six

“Darling?”

Ronald’s face across the dinner table seemed troubled, and for a terrible moment she thought he knew the truth. The moment passed, however, and she realized that his trouble came from the case and not from her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing more than usual. Except that I have to leave town tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? How come?”

He sighed. “The damned case, Carla. There’s a man in New York I have to see, and I have to see him as soon as possible. I’m catching a flight down tomorrow morning, and I’m afraid I won’t get back until Friday morning or afternoon.”

“I see,” she said. Instantly her heart swelled as she realized what that would mean — a whole day alone with Charles! But she contained herself and asked: “Want to tell me about it?”

“Sure.” He pushed his dessert away half-eaten and produced a cigar from his jacket pocket, puncturing the end and lighting it. “Remember I told you about Hodges?”

“The second assistant?”

“That’s him. He’s the main opposition witness, and the man is obviously going to lie in his teeth. It will be perjury — clear-cut perjury. But proving it is another matter.”

“I see.”

He drew deeply on the cigar and expelled a huge cloud of thick smoke. “There’s a man in New York,” he went on. “A Mr. Lewis Cantrell. He will be able to offer contradictory testimony on one point, and for that reason I want to get to him at once and find out what he’ll be able to say.”

“That’s wonderful! Then he’ll break Hodges in half, won’t he?”

Ronald smiled. “Not quite, dear. His testimony is very minor, but the fact that he can refute Hodges at all will take a little of the weight off Hodge’s story. I’ll have to make the jury reason that, first of all, Cantrell is right and Hodges is wrong. Therefore, if Hodges can lie once he can lie a second time. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Of course! But I was right — this Mr. Cantrell could be the turning point in the case.”

“He could,” Ronald agreed. “That’s the main reason why I’m taking a plane down tomorrow. I’d want to get to any witness in a hurry, but this is more important than usual.”

They spent the night at home, since Ronald’s flight was leaving early the next morning and he wanted to be well-rested for the trip. Carla’s mind was disturbed by her own reaction to the news. Despite the fact that she was spending her afternoons with Charles, Ronald was still her husband and her first loyalty should be to him. Yet her chief emotional reaction was one of joy at the prospect of a night with Charles. Instead of being thrilled at the thought of a possible break in Ronald’s big case, she was only glad that he would be out-of-town for the day.

What was the matter with her? She reasoned quickly that this was a sign, a sign to show her that she ought to be married to Charles and not to Ronald. And yet she hadn’t dared to do more than hint vaguely at the prospect that afternoon, and Charles was about as enthusiastic over the allusion as a small boy over the idea of a bath. She wanted Charles desperately, and she made up her mind that she would get what she wanted. She always had done so, ever since she vowed so long ago that she would never be poor again.

She would make Charles need her. She needed him now, needed him more than anything else, but she knew how much he loved her body and the way it responded to his touch. In time he would come to need her, and then she could come up with the ultimatum: no more lovemaking unless he married her.

That, she decided, ought to do it.

In bed that night, Ronald turned to her and took her in his arms. She wondered if he would try once again to make love to her and hoped that he wouldn’t, knowing how disturbed he was by his failure.

“Carla,” he said softly, “I’m going to miss you. It’s silly, isn’t it? I’ll only be gone a day, but I’ll miss you.”

She didn’t answer, letting her arms encircle his body and hold him against her.

“Let’s go to sleep like this,” he said. “Close to each other.” Then, embarrassed, he closed his eyes and lowered his head to her breast.

Carla suddenly felt herself overflowing with compassion and affection for this man who was her husband. He was so good to her and loved her so deeply! A lump began to rise in her throat and she held him gently in her arms until they were both asleep.

Ronald was gone by the time she awoke the next morning. She raced through the ritual of shower and breakfast, impatient to get in touch with Charles. When his phone failed to answer she became mildly furious, angered at the thought of missing up on the chance for an extended period of time together. Just as she was about to hang up in disgust, Charles answered the phone.

“Darling,” she said, the words coming out in a rush, “Ronald’s in New York until tomorrow morning. Isn’t that wonderful?”

He laughed. “That’s a fine way for a devoted wife to talk.”

“I mean—”

“I know what you mean. It’s fortunate too, because I’ll be busy until later afternoon. Can you meet me around four?”

“Of course. At your apartment?”

“Where else? And then I’ll take you out to dinner, if you don’t have something better in mind.”

She giggled. “Well, I did have something better in mind, but—”

“But we’ll have the whole night for that.”

“Uh-huh.” She grew serious. “Charles, do you think it will be safe — going out together?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know a small Hungarian restaurant where no one will possibly recognize you. I’ll see you at four, all right?”

“All right. And Charles?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” She made a little kissing sound against the mouthpiece of the phone and hung up.

Later, Carla emerged radiantly from the bedroom. Her blonde hair fell freely down the back of the black evening-gown in a truly striking fashion. The plunging neckline of the gown plummeted between her full ripe breasts, highlighting and accentuating their complete and vivid perfection. The only obstacle now was Lizzie, and she wished she could have given the girl the day off without arousing her suspicions. Instead she told her that she was spending the evening with a friend. Lizzie’s face didn’t change expression, but Carla was certain that the girl knew the truth She could only hope Lizzie would remain silent.

It was precisely twenty minutes to four when she hopped into the MG and turned the key in the ignition.

It was precisely four o’clock when the five-year-old Ford pulled up where the MG had been. A man got out of the car and walked slowly to the door of the house. His step was firm and sure, but there was a hesitation in the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure of his footing.

He rang the bell once, shifting uneasily from foot to foot while he waited. At last the door was opened by a stunning Negro girl in a maid’s uniform. The man took a good long look at the girl’s body; then, remembering where he was and why he had come, he flushed guiltily.

“Is Mrs. Macon home?”

“No,” said the girl.

“I see. When do you expect her? You think she’ll be home in a few minutes or so?”

The girl considered, her eyes twinkling as she watched the young man struggle to keep from ogling her. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “Yes, Mrs. Macon should be home any minute. Why don’t you come inside?”

After a second’s hesitation the man followed her into the house. He glanced around automatically, his eyes taking in the almost regal splendor of the living-room. His feet sank into the carpet with every step. The girl pointed to an armchair and he sat down in it, his eyes still flitting continually from one object to another.

“You wait right here,” the girl said. “Mrs. Macon ought to be home soon and I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“Swell.”

“Are you the party who’s been trying to reach Mrs. Macon on the phone?”

He started. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I answered the phone every time, so how could I miss knowing? I recognized your voice the minute you opened your mouth. Mrs. Macon’s all upset, not ever being home when you call and you not leaving a name or anything.”

“I suppose I should have realized that.”

She didn’t answer, and at the same time made no move to leave. Unwillingly his eyes returned to her body, trying to imagine just how she would look without the protection of the uniform. The maid’s uniform, a rather shapeless affair of white cotton, was unable to hide entirely the curves of her body. The skirt ended a few inches below her knees, and his eyes caressed what they could see of her legs and imagined the rest. Her arms were equally perfect — slender and chocolate in colour. Several times he forced his gaze away from the silent, motionless girl, and each time his eyes returned to wander over her body. Once his eyes caught hers and held them, and he was blushing slightly when he finally tore his eyes free.

“You wait right here,” she repeated, standing up suddenly and walking from the room. His eyes followed her until she was gone. Then he glanced once more around the room until he became more or less accustomed to the furnishings.

Only then did he realize how tired he was. He hadn’t slept well for nights — too many nights. He tried to lose himself in his work, but that had helped only a little and left him more tired than ever. He leaned back in the armchair, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Macon returned.

Charles recommended the Chicken Paprikash. It was good, but this didn’t surprise her any more than the fact that the wine was excellent and the perfect dessert came as a surprise. Perfection was perhaps the best summation of Charles Butler, she thought. He always did exactly the right thing, even if he didn’t seem to have any particular feeling for it. How could any man care so much about art, music, food, wine — almost everything there was to care about? It seemed to her that he didn’t really care that desperately, that he was more concerned with “being right” than with the final result.

“What’s the trouble?”

“Nothing,” she replied, looking up at him and smiling automatically across the tiny marble-topped table. “I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Things.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mysterious tonight, aren’t you?”

“A little. I was just thinking how nice it is to have dinner with you.”

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it.”

She put a cigarette between her lips and started to reach for a match, then stopped and let Charles light it for her. “I wish we could do it more often.”

“We can,” he said. “Whenever Ronald goes out-of-town.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant. I—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know precisely what you meant, Carla. Let’s not discuss it, shall we?” And he smiled, ending the conversation.

In the car driving back to his apartment they were silent. Perhaps he wouldn’t discuss it yet, but at least she had managed to show him what she wanted. Now she would have to make him more dependent on her and at the same time show him that his freedom wouldn’t end with marriage.

It would be difficult, she decided, to reduce a man like Charles to a state of sexual dependence. He had possessed so many women that it would be no easy matter to make him crave for her and no one else.

But it might be fun trying...

He woke up like a man coming out of an opium trance. The house was dark, much darker than when he had come in, and he cursed himself silently for falling asleep. How long had he slept? The girl had said she would be home any minute, but she didn’t seem to be home.

Dimly he realized there was music playing, a slow and sensuous Spanish melody. He glanced around the room, trying to locate himself. Someone — the girl, he guessed — had drawn all the shades and turned off the lights.

The volume of the music increased. Suddenly the girl entered the room, but she was no longer wearing the uniform. The shapeless white cotton no longer hid her body from his eyes.

She was wearing nothing at all.

His eyes fastened on her breasts, fuller and more perfect than he had believed possible. The two bright red nipples seemed to glow in the dark. His eyes travelled downward past the flat stomach and rounded boyish hips, embracing the dark triangle and sleek thighs. He caught his breath and tried to get to his feet.

“Don’t move,” she said.

That was all she said.

Slowly her body began to weave in time to the music, picking up speed as the tempo of the Spanish dance increased. She moved closer to him, her whole body an orgy in rhythm, and he caught a sensual whiff of sandalwood perfume as one liquid-brown arm passed close to his face.

She stretched backwards, arms akimbo, proffering her hips to him in an offering of love, her proud breasts pointing at the ceiling. She twisted constantly like a woman in the throes of passion, her body keeping perfect time with the music.

His breathing became faster and harder. He felt himself caught up in the savage beauty of the dance, unable to take one iota of his attention from the fantastic spectacle before him. It was new and old, pure in its beauty and outrageous in its wanton lust. It was Heaven and Hell all enwrapped in a whirling brown body and an evil, passionate dance.

She moved closer and closer to him, never missing a beat in the music. One hand darted out and played with the buttons on his shirt and he was powerless to resist her or to aid her. He could only watch fascinated, fascinated as a bird is fascinated by the mad dance of a snake.

The music came faster and faster until the speed of her movements became unbelievable. She raised him to his feet, pressing her body to his and kissing him on the face and lips. Her tongue darted into his mouth and set him on fire while her slender hands slipped under his shirt and her nails raked his flesh. He felt her soft firm breasts pressing against his bare chest and her hips grinding into his.

Then she was pulling at his clothes, hurrying, and he was helping her, finally able to move once again. Her mouth found his again and she kissed him, rubbing against him all the while, making sharp little cries from deep in the back of her throat. With an agonized groan she fell back to the floor and pulled him down on top of her.

The record of the Spanish dance played over and over and over...

Much later she said: “Come upstairs with me.”

“What’s upstairs?”

“My bed.”

“But—”

“There’s more room in a bed. And it’s more comfortable.”

“Look,” she said when he didn’t answer, “Mrs. Macon isn’t home and she’s not coming home, not tonight. And Mr. Macon won’t be home until tomorrow either.”

“Then why did you tell me to come in?”

She giggled. “Why do you think, silly? You’re not sorry, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come on upstairs.” On the stairway she said: “You’re in love with her.”

“How did you know?”

She shrugged. “I always know,” she said. “I can tell. But it doesn’t really matter, you know. She can have her love — all she wants of it. I like what I have.”

Her bedroom was on the third floor. “My name’s Lizzie,” she announced at the doorway. “What’s yours?”

“Danny,” he said. “Danny Rand.”

“That’s a nice name,” she said. “Let’s go to bed, Danny.”