Dr. Nyet

CHAPTER THREE

Why?

And then something happened to make me think I saw the answer. I looked up from Prudence Highman's sorry corpse and found myself staring into the yawning barrel of a.45. Peter Highman's eyes didn't look so timid any more as they gazed at me from behind it.

"Stay just as you are, Mr. Victor," he advised. "Ad do just as I say."

"Shoot," I said. "Strike that!" I added hurriedly. "I mean tell me what you want me to do."

"Put your hands around Prudence's neck, Mr. Victor. Let your fingertips sink into her flesh."

It was the conclusion of an instant then that he had killed her and was now trying to frame me by getting my fingerprints on her throat. Right on top of the conclusion, I guessed that as soon as I did what he wanted, he'd pull the trigger of the.45. That way he'd have a nice, neat package to present to the police. It would look like he'd caught me as I finished murdering his wife, not soon enough to save the unfortunate victim, but just in time to blow her killer's brains all over the decor.

Realizing this, I had nothing to lose by fast action. If I did as he said, I'd surely be dead. By doing what I did, I was just playing the long odds to stay alive.

I reached out as if I was about to wrap my hands around her throat. But instead, my hands grabbed an edge of the carpet on which he was standing and yanked hard. The gun went off just as his feet went out from under him. I heard the bullet whistle over my head. I didn't hang around to give him a chance to shoot again. He was still trying to pick himself up as I bolted past him and out of the room. I ran down the hallway, through the living room and foyer, through the offices of S.M.U.T. beyond, down the stairwell, and out of the building. I didn't stop running until I was safely seated on a subway bound for Manhattan.

Then I unscrambled my thoughts. The way the pieces fit, it looked like the old jealous-husband bit. Somehow Peter Highman had found out what Prudence and I were up to in the locked room. My guess was that he'd meant to kill us both, and that if I hadn't gone to the john when I did he would have succeeded. He must have thought I was there, and whatever it was he'd used to kill Prudence would undoubtedly have killed me too if I'd been in the room. Then, when he saw me in the hall, he must have revised his plans. It probably looked even better from his standpoint. He'd frame me for the murder, shoot me, be rid of both of us and go scot free with no explanations necessary. Only one thing continued to bug me: just how the hell had he killed Prudence?

I shelved that for the time being and thought about whether I should call the cops. I decided against it. It would be my word against Highman's, and at the very least I'd use up a lot of time convincing the police of my innocence. And there was always the chance that I wouldn't be able to convince them. In any case, I had no time to waste. Putnam had made that clear back in London. It was imperative that I work fast to retrieve the defecting Dr. Nyet from the clutches of S.M.U.T.

Still, there was nothing further to be done this night. So I went back to my hotel and caught a good night's sleep. When I woke up I ordered breakfast sent up to my room and told them to bring the morning papers with it.

There was no murder story splashed over the front pages. Evidently once I'd made my escape Highman also had decided not to bring in the police. He must have made up his mind to conceal his wife's murder. I wondered what he'd done with the corpse.

I found the answer in a small news item buried on page three of one of the papers. It said that the body of a naked woman had been found in the swamps of Canarsie early that morning. The body was strangely twisted, but there were no marks on it. Police were trying to identify the victim, but admitted they had no clues. From the description, it sounded like Prudence.

Renewing my decision not to become involved, I put the papers aside. If I was right about Highman's trying to cover his tracks, he wouldn't be in any hurry to tell S.M.U.T. about his wife's fate. And that meant he wouldn't tell them about me. So I ought to be able to start from scratch with my plans to infiltrate them. This time I decided to start closer to the top than a regional chapter. I called the national headquarters in Manhattan and made an appointment to see one of their higher-level execs.

The appointment was for three that afternoon. By three-thirty I had convinced the exec of my sincerity and he was already waxing enthusiastic over how useful I could be to their cause. By four-thirty we were on our way to an exclusive Park Avenue brothel!

"A brothel?" I had raised my eyebrows back in the S.M.U.T. offices when the exec made the suggestion.

"Yes. Surely you have been in such establishments before in the course of your work, Mr. Victor?"

"Well, yes, but -"

"But?"

"But isn't S.M.U.T. sort of opposed to brothels? I mean isn't one of your aims to stamp them out?"

"Precisely. But that isn't as simple as it might seem. This particular brothel, for instance, is but one such establishment being run by a large international vice ring. Getting the goods on such an organization is extremely difficult. It's a long-term project of S.M.U.T.'s to destroy this ring at its very roots. We're hoping that the occurrence planned for tonight will provide evidence toward that end. You see, we have arranged for the place to be raided tonight. However, the police are most lax and most corrupt in such matters. Therefore S.M.U.T. itself has seen fit to take a hand to insure that there will be testimony available which will at least result in the convictions of those who run this particular brothel. Now do you understand, Mr. Victor?"

"In principle, yes. But you'll have to spell out for me just how S.M.U.T. is going to participate in these proceedings."

"Very well. You and I and two other men from S.M.U.T. are going to the brothel, where we will pose as customers. There are already three young ladies from S.M.U.T. who have infiltrated the brothel in a working capacity."

"You mean they're actually selling their bodies?" I worked hard at looking shocked.

"It's a great sacrifice, but these brave young ladies didn't hesitate to volunteer to make it. Actually, I'm proud to say that there were twenty-seven other volunteers from our Manhattan office alone, but these three were chosen because of their physical qualifications. In any case, between what they have learned and the information we hope to secure tonight, S.M.U.T. not only hopes to put this establishment out of business but perhaps also to be in a position to strike at the heinous vice ring itself. I had thought that with your experience, Mr. Victor, your help might be very useful in this endeavor."

"I'll be happy to cooperate," I assured him. "But isn't five o'clock rather early to raid a brothel?"

"The raid itself won't take place until six. We just want to be in position when it does. And as to the time, you're wrong. Their busiest time, according to the S.M.U.T. girls who have infiltrated, is between five and eight. That's when the tired businessmen and commuters stop off for a quick one before catching their trains home."

"That makes sense," I nodded. But there was something else in the back of my mind that didn't make sense, and I puzzled over it to myself. If S.M.U.T.'s real aim, as Putnam had said, was to overpopulate the world, then why would they want to stamp out sex in brothels? I could see why they'd want to stamp out pornography. That provided sublimation for the sex act itself. But in a brothel the sex act was actually performed. So why, since it wasn't sublimation, should S.M.U.T. want to crack down on it?

Then I thought of something, and it all became clear. Strict birth control was always observed in brothels. Sex there was never procreative. Also, sex in a brothel was a substitute for sex in the home, which in S.M.U.T.'s eyes was definitely more apt to result in upping the birth rate. And that's why S.M.U.T. was really anti- brothel.

By the time I'd figured this out, I was in a taxicab with the three men from S.M.U.T. Seated beside me was the exec to whom I'd been talking. His name was Horace Crampdick. So help me! And he looked like his name. He was a short, flabby guy with a perpetual stoop and fat hands that seemed always to be dangling in the neighborhood of his crotch, hands that moved constantly and nervously not so much as if he didn't know what to do with them as that maybe he did and was afraid he might give in to the impulse to do it.

Next to Crampdick was the fellow he'd introduced as Jock O'Steele. He was a mountain of a man, body bulging with muscles and above it a stern red face shiny with determination to stamp out sin. He had the look of a man whose faith in the rightness of his cause is unswerving – but who nevertheless finds it necessary to take frequent cold showers.

The most interesting of the trio sat on the jumpseat. This was Singh Huy-eva, who, according to Crampdick, was an important personage in the New Delhi chapter of S.M.U.T. I had been surprised to learn that Singh Huy-eva was Indian. To me he had looked more Tibetan. In any case, he was being accorded the privilege of a visiting fireman by being taken along to the brothel. He had specifically asked to go along, and this was one of the things that intrigued me about him. You see, Crampdick had confided to me that Singh Huy-eva was a eunuch.

I suppose this would give him a certain detachment where the brothel activities were concerned. He certainly looked detached – no pun intended. He was a small, compact man with extremely wide shoulders and a broad chest that tapered down to a girlish waist, flat hips, and short legs which looked slightly bowed when he walked. His face was birdlike, the features sharp, the eyes deep-set black dots, watchful but serene. Of all of us, he was the most composed during the cab ride.

Crampdick was playing Dick Tracy, so we got off a block away from the brothel and walked to it. From the outside it looked like anything but what it was. Squeezed between a couple of posh Park Avenue apartment houses, it looked more like an ultra-respectable Victorian mansion than a house of ill repute. Cupids and gargoyles scampered over its facade, their cheeks puffed out with the effort of blowing their heavenly trumpets. Here and there a figure out of Greek mythology stucco'd out and leered lewdly at passersby. Heavy draperies sealed off all the windows from the outside. But Gothic triumphed over all with a gabled roof right out of Hawthorne. The house stood as a monument to how individually artistic elements can be scrambled together to create massive ugliness.

I half expected a footman in livery to answer when Crampdick struck the ornate brass knocker against the solid mahogany door. But I was disappointed. It was a demure maid in a simple black dress and an unfrilly white cap who answered. She nodded when Crampdick uttered the banality which served as a password and led us through the old-fashioned foyer to a large parlor.

Here the furnishings were somewhat brighter and more festive. Snug little couches – loveseats, really – in bright colors ringed the room and a long bar extended the length of one wall. A bartender was looking businesslike behind it. The only other person there was a matronly woman who rose to greet us.

"How do you do? I am Mrs. Vendergash. It's so nice that you gentlemen could come." Her manner of speaking went with her looks. Both were suburban-tea-party style with the ladies' auxiliary waiting in the wings.

The rest of us browsed around while Crampdick made certain financial arrangements with Mrs. Vendergash. "I'm sure the young ladies are impatient to meet you," she announced when they'd finished. "Please excuse me while I go and fetch them."

"I told her we wanted to spend the night," Crampdick whispered to me when she'd gone. "And I arranged to have her send down all the girls so we could make a selection at our leisure. That way I'll be able to contact the three girls S.M.U.T. planted here without being obvious about it. She insisted that if it was done that way we would have to allow the other customers to mingle with the girls too. I told her that would be all right. You're the expert, Mr. Victor. How does it sound to you?"

"Ginger-peachy."

"In a little while, it may be necessary for each of us to accompany one of the girls to a room. That way we'll be in position to supply truthful testimony after the raid. But if we time it right we won't have to actually do anything. The police should arrive in time to save us from that."

"Thank goodness for that," I told him fervently.

"However, we do want to be sure that none of us go off with one of the S.M.U.T. girls," he continued. "So when they come down, I'll point them out to you. After all, there's no sense in duplicating our activity."

"Crampdick," I told him, "you've really organized this magnificently. You're a credit to S.M.U.T."

"Thank you, Mr. Victor." He beamed. "I really do appreciate such praise coming from a man of your wide experience in this area."

At this point, Mrs. Vendergash returned, herding her flock of soiled doves before her. No plumes and feathers for these doves, however. It was much too hoity-toity a place for the girls to be garbed obviously. They didn't bounce around in their underwear or sport filmy negligees. On the contrary, they looked like a smart set of debutantes ready for the cocktail hour. Their hairstyles were subdued, their frocks simple, their bodices demurely high. And they were quiet and well-behaved as they arranged themselves around the room like so many pieces of luscious but still unpeeled fruit.

There were about a dozen of them. While Jock O'Steele and Singh Huy-eva were getting acquainted, Crampdick pointed out the three S.M.U.T. plants to me. One was a tall brunette with Slavic features and impressive hips framing an even more imposing derriere. The second, also a brunette, was smaller, pixie-ish, with a kittenish expression I'd come to associate with European gypsy girls, and a high bosom so sharply pointed it looked capable of piercing a man's flesh should it be pressed against him. The last of the trio was a blonde, medium height, full-lipped, petulant-looking, full and round in the chest, which was perched to accentuate the promise of perfection in the pelvic area.

All three were young. All three were extremely attractive. All three seemed well- suited to the brothel environment. What I couldn't figure out was how three such sensual creatures had come to enlist in S.M.U.T. in the first place.

I turned my attention from them to the other girls. As my gaze traveled around the room, I saw that each of them measured up to the high standards Mrs.

Vendergash must have set for her establishment. There wasn't one who would have looked out of place in a bathing beauty contest.

My gaze settled on a redhead across the room. She returned it and smiled. When I smiled back, she crossed over to me.

"Hello there," she introduced herself. "My name is Adrian."

"Hi. I'm Steve."

"Shall we have a drink, Steve?"

"I'd love one. Scotch on the rocks."

Adrian called out the order to the bartender, and a few moments later he brought the drinks over.

"What's your line, Steve?" Adrian made conversation as we sipped at our drinks.

"Gynecology," I told her, straight-faced.

"Are you a doctor?"

"No." I improvised. "I'm a tactician."

"What's that?"

"I'm an expert in the strategy and tactics of gynecology."

"Oh. Sort of a family planner, you mean?"

"Yeah." I decided to let it go at that. "And tell me, Adrian," I changed the subject, "do you enjoy your work?"

"Oh, very much. It brings me into contact with such interesting people."

"Intimate contact, eh?" I couldn't help saying.

"Oh, Steve, you have a sense of humor." She chuckled brightly. "I like that." She took my hand in hers and pressed it snugly against her breast. "I can see that we're going to get along very well," she told me throatily.

"Sure. It's going to be a real relationship," I agreed.

"Then shall we get started?" she suggested. "Shall we finish our drinks and go upstairs?"

"Okay." I was more than willing. But I noticed that none of the other three men from S.M.U.T. had made a move as yet. "Still, let's not hurry things," I added. "Why don't we have another drink first?"

"Of course, Steve." She signaled the bartender to do it again.

"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" Every so often my sense of the absurd prompts me to such banality.

I sensed that she was groaning inside, but Adrian was too well-trained not to come up with an answer. "My mother is a widow and she suffers with arthritis," she recited. "I have to support her and I'm putting my kid brother through college, too."

"Through med school, of course," I said helpfully.

"No. Business administration. He wants to open a candy store."

I began to wonder just who was having fun with whom. "I can't help admiring your spirit of sacrifice," I told her anyway. "But I wonder, do you vary the story for matinees?"

"Somewhat," Adrian admitted. "I often throw in a wheelchair and a fine old Southern family background. I even drawl a little if the spirit moves me. Somehow it all comes out so much more pathetic with the scent of magnolias wafting over it."

"If you really want sympathy," I told her calculatedly, "why not say you were kidnapped by a white slave ring and forced into a file of prostitution?"

Her careful lack of response when she answered was a telling response in itself. There was a quick flicker of fear in her eyes, a fast-vanishing flicker that made me think Crampdick could be right about the white slave operation behind this bordello. "That's old hat," she said. "There are no white slave rings in the modern world. Girls don't have to be forced or lured into the profession. There's money enough to make it attractive. And in my case I find it attractive for its own sake."

"Meaning you enjoy your work?"

"I do. I like sex," she told me frankly. "Lots of it and lots of variety. Don't you, Steve?"

"Yeah. I do."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

The question was well-timed. Crampdick was just starting for the door with one of the girls. The room was filling up with other male customers and I guess he wanted to be sure he latched onto his "evidence" before the demand could make it unavailable. O'Steele was also getting to his feet with a girl. As Adrian and I followed them out, I caught a glimpse of Singh Huy-eva pairing off in our wake. I guessed that he figured the raid would be pulled off before his eunuch status was revealed. In any case, it was his problem.

For myself, I was half hoping the raid might be delayed. Watching Adrian's derriere wriggle provocatively as I followed it up the stairs, I was in no mood for coitus interruptus – not even pre-coitus interruptus.

She led me into a cozy room with a bed, a couple of chairs, a bureau, and a connecting door to a private bathroom. The blinds were drawn, and she turned on a lamp that shed a very soft light. A stereo set switched on along with it; background music, slow and romantic, something by Tchaikovsky as schmaltzed up by Kostelanetz.

"Does everybody get music to make it by?" I asked her as we started to undress.

"Yes. But it's different in every room," she told me as she wriggled free of her dress. Her figure looked even better in a bra and half-slip.

"Different at random?" I pulled off my socks.

"Oh, no. The music is always picked to go with the girl and the particular taste which would lead a customer to select such a girl."

"That's very interesting." I thought of Crampdick as I stepped out of my pants. He had picked a rather savage-looking girl who was probably Spanish. "As a matter of fact, from a psychological viewpoint, it's fascinating," I told Adrian. "For instance, what sort of girl would you say my friend selected? The short pudgy fellow I came with, I mean."

"Oh, you mean the one who went next door with Elena."

"Yeah. What sort of girl is Elena?"

"I don't believe in gossiping about the other girls. But," Adrian giggled, "I'll tell you the music they're probably listening to right now."

"What is it?"

"The Nutcracker Suite."

"Say no more." I laughed. Poor Crampdick! "How about the other guy I came with, the muscle-man?" I asked Adrian. "What's the tune he's jiving to?"

"Let's see." She thought a minute. "Yes, he's with Bubbles. She used to be a stripper. Can't break the habit. Still goes into her routine when she's undressing for a customer. She'll be bumping and grinding to A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody right about now."

I hoped for Jock O'Steele's sake that the bathroom adjoining his room has a real cold cold shower. "How about my Oriental friend?" I asked. "He went off with that petite little blonde – the kittenish one. What's her theme song?"

"Oh, that's Tabby. And she knows moe than one way to skin a cat. Any cat. Her theme song is Around the World in Eighty Ways."

"The title is Around the World in Eighty Days," I corrected her.

"You don't know Tabby!" She shrugged off her bra and plumped up her breasts.

It was pretty plump plumping, and I appreciated the view. Kostelanetz was building to a climax, and I figured I'd better start doing the same before it was too late. So I kicked off my jockey shorts with a gesture that urged Adrian to do the same with her panties.

She did. Whadda you know? She was a natural redhead. I made a grab for the proof.

"Take it slow," she advised, as though lecturing a novice. "It's much better if you don't rush things."

She was right, of course, but with that raid due any minute, I wasn't about to waste any time. So I played it like a technique-less Paul Revere and made haste to jump all over her.

"My, you certainly are impetuous." She sighed resignedly and did her professional best to catch up with me passion-wise.

Her best was plenty good enough. Pretty soon we were galloping through the fields of Passionata on our way to the heights of Eros. We varied our gait as we went, splitting the exercise load, shifting our weight, breaking stride for an occasional sophisticated side-trip. And we went over the terrain thoroughly, yours truly nibbling neck-nape-ily, gently bosom-biting, nuzzling a nook here and kissing a cranny there while Adrian beat at my buttocks, scratched her way down my spine, sipped at the nectar-heavy straw of my passion. Then she was thrashing about, frothing at both mouts, no longer trying to slow me down, but instead begging me to take her quickly.

No fancy stuff then. Just sex, pure and simple, straight and hard. And the two of us went soaring off into the Never-Never Land of pure and exquisite sensation. We hit the zenith and then plummeted downward, back into reality.

Reality, at that moment, was a sudden commotion in the front hallway downstairs. It was quickly followed by a lot of excited squealing and the sound of panicky footsteps racing past our door. It couldn't help but intrude on our post-coital mood.

"What's that?" Adrian asked, stretching luxuriously.

"Search me. I'll go have a look." I pulled on my jockey shorts and eased open the door. I figured it was the raid beginning. I figured wrong.

Opening the door a crack, I had a clear view down the staircase to the foyer below. Mrs. Vendergash was standing there talking to two men. The men didn't look like cops. Not even like vice cops. They looked more like Mafia rejects – the kind the brotherhood turns down because they play too rough.

I waited while a couple of excited doxies rushed past the door, and then I sneaked over to the banister so I could hear what was being said below. "But I pay through the nose for protection," Mrs. Vendergash was protesting, no longer seeming quite the grand dame she had before. "Why should they raid my place?"

"Some outfit named S.M.U.T.'s been squeezing 'em high," one of the hoods explained. "We was lucky we even found out about this raid. It's due any minute now, so you better hustle the broads and the johns outta here. But first we wanna get them S.M.U.T. guys an' tech 'em a lesson. Our info is there's four of 'em here right now. An' you got three of their chicks workin' for you, too."

"I think I've pegged the four men," Mrs. Vendergash told them. "And I've got a pretty good idea who the girls are, too."

"Well, come on and help us round 'em up before it's too late."

"That won't be hard. There's one of them now." Mrs. Vendergash had spotted me, and now she was pointing straight at me.

A gun swung up along with her outstretched arm. It was followed by a second one. Those hoods had good reflexes. Both muzzles held steady, pointed with deadly accuracy right at the white triangle of my jockey shorts. Instinctively, I clasped my hands in front of the target area.

"Ain't he cute?" one of the hoods remarked. "Won't you join us?" he added politely. The gun made a little beckoning circle which drew me to the head of the stairs. "Oh, now don't be coy," the hood said. "Come on down."

I went down. As I joined them, I could see that there was chaos in the parlor beyond. Evidently word of the impending raid had been spread. But the hoods were more interested in getting revenge on S.M.U.T. than in protecting the clientele or the girls. One of them backed me up against the wall while the other went with Mrs. Vendergash to round up the other S.M.U.T. members.

"What will you do with us?" I asked the gorilla conversationally.

"Slap your hand," he told me brusquely. "Whadda ya think?"

"With a sledgehammer? Is that the idea?"

"Yeah. On'y sometimes we miss an' hit the head instead. Too bad. You look like you got a real soft head."

"It's stuffed with feathers," I admitted. "But can't we talk this over?" I held up my hand with what was meant to be a friendly, conciliatory gesture. But the movement was just a mite too fast, and he misread its intent. The gun slammed into my jockey shorts so hard that my spine played castanets with the wall. "Oof!" I gasped, not too brightly.

"You certainly have a way wit' words, Mac," the gorilla observed. "But don't try that again," he added. "It could be fatal."

The gun unplugged itself from my abdomen, and I was able to breathe again. Three breaths later the lights went out. Just like that. We were plunged into total darkness, and I didn't stop to ponder what had happened. I just dropped down on all fours, below where I remembered the gun having been, and started crawling.

"Don't move, Mac, or I'll pug ya!" The hood's voice came from behind me now, and I kept right on crawling. Then I guess he must have decided not to take any chances in the dark. He fired three shots in rapid succession.

I don't know what he hit, but the immediate result of the shots was chaos. Suddenly the stairway and the hall were filled with frantic, half-clad prosties and their even more frantic customers stumbling over one another in the dark. Feeling them swirl around me, I figured it was safe to get to my feet again.

"I've lost my hearing aid!" It was a quavery, old man's voice at my elbow. "What's going on?"

"It's a raid," a female voice beside him answered.

"Of course I paid!" he said irritably. "And I'm not going to be gypped out of it by any tricks, either. I know you girls! You're all alike! No consideration for old people! Well, you're not going to take advantage of me! Only first I have to find my hearing aid."

"But you don't understand," the female voice said. "You have to get out of here!"

"I don't want any beer! All I want is my hearing aid. And my jollies. I paid for my jollies. I won't leave without them!"

"But the cops are coming. You have to duck!"

"That's what I said," the old man grumbled. "But first let's find my hearing aid. A man has to be able to hear what he's doing."

I elbowed around them in the darkness and started up the stairs. I bumped smack into a man coming down. "Somebody stole my pants!" he told me as we held onto each other for balance.

"Well, I'm obviously not the culprit," I told him, firmly removing his hand from my bare leg.

"We'll probably both catch our death of pneumonia," he assured me morosely as we sidled past each other.

"What happened to the lights?" a voice called gaily from above.

"They went out," someone called back accurately.

"How is it down there?" the first voice persisted.

"Very dark," came the answer.

"I just looked out the window," a third voice called.

"How is it outside?"

"Very dark!"

"You mean the whole city's dark?"

"That's right," a new voice announced. "And half the country, too. I just heard it over my transistor radio. There's been a power failure. The whole eastern seaboard is blacked out."

And that was the first I heard of the big blackout. Later, I would hear all kinds of stories of how people had been stuck on subways and in elevators, of how they'd passed the time in bars or walked to their homes. But when my grandchildren ask me how I spent the night of the big blackout, I'm darned if I know what I'm going to tell them. After all, I can't tell them I was trapped in a whorehouse, can I?

Still, there are worse places I might have been stuck. Even considering the S.M.U.T. situation and the two hoods gunning for me in the dark, there are worse places. All in all, if I had a choice, I don't know that I would have picked differently.

You see, once everybody became aware of the scope of the blackout, it became obvious that the police wouldn't be conducting any vice raids this night. So, just as on the outside, the panic simmered down and folks resigned themselves to waiting out the blackout. As the man from O.R.G.Y., despite the peril I was in, the situation held particular interest for me.

When I returned to the room I'd left, Adrian hadn't budged. She was still lolling in bed in a sort of after-sex reverie, which I suppose was something of a compliment to me. I filled her in on the blackout situation, and she surprised me by opening a bureau drawer and coming up with a powerful-looking flashlight.

"How do you happen to have this?" I asked her as I aimed the strong beam around the room.

"It belongs to a special of mine," she told me.

"A special?"

"Yes. A steady customer who likes to do certain things which are out of the ordinary. One of the things is playing children's games. Hide-and-seek in the dark is his favorite, and we play it with the flashlight. He's always it, and I always hide. When he finds me with the light beam, I have to freeze right where I am and stay that way without moving while he makes love to me."

"I'll bet he has a great version of Pin-the-Tail-to-the-Donkey," I ventured.

"He does. And it's painful sometimes. But," Adrian shrugged, "he plays extremely well."

It was about then that I hit the door with the ray from the flashlight. It was just being eased open. I saw Mrs. Vendergash, and behind her there was a hand with a gun glinting in it. The search for the S.M.U.T. spies was evidently still continuing.

I doused the light and crept silently behind the door as it slid open wider. As she and the gorilla entered, I stepped behind them, smacked the gorilla over the head with the flashlight, stepped back into the hallway, and slammed the door shut behind me. I ran down the corridor and around a bend in the hallway. Then I stood silently in the darkness for a few moments, thinking.

If I really wanted to put myself in solid with S.M.U.T., this could be my big chance. If I could warn the others of the danger they were in and help them escape from the brothel, it would really prove my loyalty. I decided to have a crack at it.

I moved through the pitch-blackness to the door of the room I remembered Crampdick entering. I opened it silently and slipped inside. I shut it just as silently, and only then did I turn on the flashlight.

Elena, the Spanish type Crampdick had paired off with, blinked owlishly as the light hit her square in the eyes. Dressed in the sheerest of black nightgowns, she'd been working over the knob to the locked door of the adjoining bathroom when I entered. Now she shielded her eyes against the light and tried to squint at me. "Who is it?" she asked. "What do you want?"

"I'm looking for my friend. The one who came in here with you," I told her.

"He's in there." She indicated the locked door. "He won't come out."

"Why not?"

"Don't ask me. He's your friend. And a kook if I ever saw one. All I know is he won't unlock the door."

"Let me have a try." I walked over to the door and called through it. "Horace," I called, "it's me, Steve. Come on out."

"Not while that woman is there!"

"You see," Elena said.

"What did you do to him?" I asked.

"I hardly touched him. But he bolted in there, and now he won't come out. Damn inconsiderate if you ask me. I told him I won't lay a finger on him. All I want to do is use the john."

"Look, Horace," I tried again. "I have to talk to you. Come on out."

"No! Not until she leaves."

"Well, can I come in, then?"

"All right. But only you." He opened the door cautiously, and I slid inside. He quickly closed and locked it behind me.

"What's up?" I turned the flashlight on him. He was wearing his underwear and nothing else. It was long underwear, of bright red flannel. The drop-seat was hanging loose, revealing Crampdick's pudgy and extremely hairy behind. I've seen few less prepossessing sights in my time.

Following my glance, he quickly turned to one side, reached behind him, and buttoned up. "She did that!" he told me, his voice quivering with indignation. "That woman out there! Mr. Victor, you wouldn't believe how depraved that woman is. And aggressive too! It was all I could do to get away from her."

"Well, I suppose you have to expect that sort of thing in a place like this," I soothed him.

"Perhaps. But I never thought – Mr. Victor, the brazen way she tore her clothes off as soon as we were alone in the room. And then she had the audacity to start undressing me. I was filled with revulsion, but I let her do it until I was down to my underwear. I thought surely the raid would have taken place by then."

"There isn't going to be any raid." I went on to quickly fill him in on the situation.

"Hey! You guys going to tie it up all night?" Elena wailed from outside the door as I finished.

"But what can I do?" Crampdick ignored her. "If I go outside, either that woman will attack me again or those two hoodlums will get me."

"Look," I said. "Just let her in here, and you go out there and get dressed. If she comes out before you're finished, I'll protect you. But you have to get out of here before the lights go back on. Otherwise those two killers will find you and kill you."

"But what about the others?"

"I'll warn them, too. I'll try to get everybody out."

"Mr. Victor, you're real S.M.U.T.," he complimented me. "The organization won't forget what you're doing for us tonight."

"Okay. Then let's go." I led the way out of the bathroom. Crampdick flinched as Elena passed him. But she was too anxious to get into the john to pay him any mind.

He was almost completely dressed when she came out again. "Leaving so soon, sweetie?" she asked. She started straight for him.

"Mr. Victor!" he wailed.

"Leave him alone." I stepped in front of Elena.

"I'm just teasing him," she assured me. "I don't really go for problem cases. He should see a psychiatrist. I can't imagine what he came here for in the first place. Whereas on the other hand -" She wrapped herself around me insinuatingly.

"Mr. Victor! What are you doing?" Crampdick demanded.

"No sacrifice is too great for S.M.U.T.," I assured him, running my hands over Elena's lush body.

"But I can't let you do this for me," he protested.

"It's not for you. It's for S.M.U.T.," I assured him, allowing Elena's embrace to pull me down to the bed with her.

"You're sacrificing yourself to protect me," he insisted.

"The hell I am," I muttered under my breath as Elena pulled my shorts down around my ankles and straddled me. The way she landed, I appreciated just how apropos her theme song was.

But she didn't move again after that. She couldn't. She was knocked unconscious by the sudden blow Crampdick struck her over the head with the bedlamp he'd picked up.

"What did you do that for?" I exclaimed.

"If you would go to such lengths to protect me, then I certainly owe you the same loyalty."

"Thanks a lot, buddy." I had a hard time keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. "Well, I guess we better get you out of this place," I added, getting back to business.

I eased the door open and beamed the light down the hall. It looked all clear. I took Crampdick by the hand and led him to the staircase. We made our way down it without incident. We'd almost made it to the front door when I felt the cold muzzle of the gun against my naked back.

"Goin' someplace, Mac?" I recognized the hood's voice from before.

Flashing the light up as I turned around, I saw that he was holding a girl firmly by the arm with his free hand. She was the tall, Slavic-looking brunette Crampdick had pointed out to me as a S.M.U.T. spy just after we'd arrived at the brothel. Mrs. Vendergash must have fingered her for the hoods, and now they'd nabbed her. And us too, it seemed – unless I acted quickly.

I acted quickly. I shot the light straight in his eyes, chopped at his gun hand, and connected with a kick to his groin. He let go of the girl as he doubled over. I doused the light and shoved Crampdick and the girl into the parlor. "Go out through the window!" I hissed at them. Then I opened the front door and jumped back for the staircase. As I'd expected, a volley of bullets went out the door. The hood was crumpled on the floor, shooting up what he thought was the escape route.

I flashed my light quickly at the window. It was open, and they were gone. I doused the light and raced up the stairs. As soon as he was able to pick up his swollen crotch, it figured the hood would be after me. And there was the other one with Mers. Vendergash to consider as well. I'd have to move fast if I was going to get the S.M.U.T. people out safely.

Still, I had to be cagey. So I kept going past the first floor of bedrooms to the second. There I began flinging open doors at random and shining my flashlight into the rooms.

"Get the hell out of here!" Candlelight flickered in the first room. The naked man with the whip turned from his target and snapped the lash angrily at me. I ducked it and shined the light at his target. The nude girl, bent double and holding her ankles, shot me an impish grin from between her shapely legs. She wasn't one of the two I was seeking.

"Sorry," I apologized as the whip cracked at me again. "But there's no need to get nasty." I slammed the door shut.

"What are you, some kind of voyeur or something?" was the next response I drew.

"I see your belly button," I sang out as I slammed the door behind me.

"Jeez! You get more privacy in a parked car than in this joint!"

"Watch it! Your brake is slipping," I advised, moving on to the next room.

"Hey! Can't you see we're busy?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to get unbusy, and fast." I'd struck pay dirt. The body beneath the speaker belonged to the brunette S.M.U.T. pixie, one of the two girls I was looking for. "It's time to go home," I added to her. "Your mother wants you."

"That light is blinding me," she complained. "Go 'way."

"S.M.U.T.," I told her. "I'm one of you. And the orders are to evacuate fast."

"I don't dig that kind of jazz," the man complained. "I'm pretty broad-minded, but there's some scenes I draw the line at."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," I advised him. "Come on, let's go," I told the girl.

"Can't you wait 'til I get my girdle on?"

"Hurry it up. I'm having a busy night."

"Some nerve!" the guy called after us as we exited. "Now what am I supposed to do?"

"Just start without me," the chick called over her shoulder.

"Just how the hell am I going to get you out of here?" I wondered aloud. "Those hoods are sure to be watching that staircase."

"I know." She snapped her fingers. "Just follow me." She led the way down the hall and pointed out a dumbwaiter set into one of the walls. "You can work the ropes and lower me from here," she suggested.

"Okay." I helped her in and began lowering away.

Everything went well for a minute, and then she suddenly yelped up at me. "Stop! stop! Sto-"

"What's the matter?"

No answer. I leaned over the shaft and shined the flashlight straight down. It lit up the bottom, where the shaft widened. There was a heap of garbage down there. As I hit it with the light, the girl was just crawling out from under it. Evidently the dumbwaiter platform had tilted and dumped her there.

Suddenly another head, a man's, leaned out into the shaft from the floor below me. He looked down at the girl floundering in the garbage pile and then looked up at me. "You shouldn't throw her out," he advised. "She's good for at least another ten years yet." He shook his head sadly and vanished.

"Are you all right?" I called down to the girl.

"Yes. I missed my stop. But it's probably better this way. I can get out through the basement."

"So long, then." I waved goodbye and resumed my quest for the other members of S.M.U.T.

Jock O'Steele was easy to find. I just listened outside a few doors until I heard the sound of running water. My light picked up a girl wearing only pasties and a G- string. She was lying on the bed alone. I guessed this must be Bubbles.

"Where's Jock?"

"Taking a shower. Can't you hear him?"

I certainly could. A booming, off-key rendition of A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody was coming through the bathroom door. "How come he's singing?" I wondered aloud.

"If you really want to find out -" Bubbles stretched insinuatingly.

"Sorry, I don't have the time. But are you trying to tell me that he – umm – made it with you?"

"And how!" She held up four fingers.

"Then how come he's taking a shower now?" I was confused.

"He told me he believed in moderation so he was gonna take a cold shower to prove to himself he still had the will power to stop."

"I'll be damned." I crossed over to the bathroom door and banged on it with my fist. "Jock. It's me, Steve."

The sound of rushing water stopped, and the door opened. Jock looked shamefaced but rebellious as he confronted me.

"S.M.U.T.'s got trouble," I started to tell him. "We have to-"

But he interrupted me. "The hell with S.M.U.T.!" he said. "I resign! I've fallen off the wagon. And I don't give a damn what you think."

"I don't think anything," I assured him. "Your secret's safe with me if you want it to be. I don't blame you one little bit. But that's aside from the point right now." I explained to him about the hoods gunning for us.

"Don't worry. We'll get out," he assured me, flexing his muscles, which were indeed impressive. "We'll use Bubbles here for a decoy." He outlined his plan to me as he got dressed.

A few minutes later Bubbles sashayed down the staircase with a lit candle in her hand. She spotted the hood at the bottom of the stairs and wiggled over to him. Then, holding her candle in front of her, she went into a slow, sexy bump-and-grind routine. The hood's eyes bugged out as he watched her.

With him distracted, Jock and I crept down the stairs. Jock moved over right in back of the gunman and raised his fist. He brought it down just once – hard. The hood crumpled on the floor, unconscious.

But neither Jock nor I saw the second gunman coming out of the parlor. I had shined the light on the unconscious hood, and as I raised it the beam inadvertently focussed on Jock. Two shots rang out before I could douse the light. By that time Bubbles was already trying to drag Jock out of what had been the line of fire.

I helped her as she felt her way into a closet. She closed the door silently behind us, and I turned on the light again, shielding it with my hand. One look was enough to see that Jock had had it.

He looked up at Bubbles with a big smile. He winked. And then he died. I do believe he died happy.

I let Bubbles slip out of the closet first. After a moment or two, I followed. It was still pitch black, and I didn't dare use the light. There was no telling where those killers might be.

I went back up the stairs. It didn't take me long to find the third of the S.M.U.T. girls, the blonde. She was putting on a little show for some of the men in an upstairs parlor. About two dozen candles had been arranged in a circle to light up her playing area.

As I entered, she was just dousing herself with lighter fluid from head to toe. She held one foot daintily over one of the candle flames and immediately her body burst into a flaming torch. She moved quickly around the circle, blazing away, her nudity peeping through the crackling flames.

I saw through the impressive stunt. It's a fact that if the body moves fast enough to create a semi-vacuum in its wake, only the fluid on the surface and not the flesh itself will burn. But the other men were awed by it. "That's the hottest show I ever saw," one of them remarked as she rolled on the floor to put out the fire before it was too late.

The show wasn't over yet, though. Now she applied the same principle to specific portions of her anatomy. She sat in a bowl of the lighter fluid and lit up her derriere. Then she did it to one breast, twirling it quickly so the flames wouldn't scorch it. It was quite a sight, with the long, red nipple quivering in the flames. She repeated it with the other breast, and then she was ready for the grand finale.

"I need a volunteer," she said, as she poured handfulls of lighter fluid over the curly triangle beneath her belly.

I had to get to her somehow, so I volunteered.

"Make love to me," she instructed, lying down on the floor.

Under ordinary circumstances, that wouldn't have been any hardship – but these weren't exactly ordinary circumstances. Nevertheless, I did my best to comply. The murmurs from the onlookers said my best was more than adequate.

"Now," she panted, "move very hard and fast."

I did as she said, and she reached out for a candle and ignited the lighter fluid- covered area. Immediately, she began moving like a motor being raced. I hurried to keep up with her, prodded by a sudden singeing from the flames flaring up where we were joined. I found that if I followed her rhythm, I wouldn't be burned.

So I followed her rhythm. All the way. And with one final surge of passionate release, we put out the fire.

"Come with me," I murmured to her as we clasped each other in the moment of exhaustion following our exertions. "They've caught wise to S.M.U.T., and there are gunmen after you."

Her eyes got very wide, and she followed me out of the room unquestioningly. We stopped off in another room for a moment while she threw on some clothes and I explained the situation more fully to her. After that, figuring the dumbwaiter was worth another try, I started to lead her to it.

Halfway there, my flashlight beam picked up one of the hoods standing guard at the dumbwaiter. Mrs. Vendergash must have tipped him off to its possibilities as an escape route. I pulled the blonde back around the bend in the hallway before we were spotted.

The question was what to do now. The other bullyboy was bound to be conscious again by now and covering the staircase. How was I going to get the blonde out?

The sight of a fireplace in the room inspired an answer. I lay down on my back and peered up the chimney. It was quite wide, and I could see a couple of stars dotting the top of it. "I wonder what the roof of this place is like?" I mused aloud.

"I've been up there," she told me, catching on fast. "There's a fenced-in sundeck for the girls there. And you can reach out and touch the fire escape of the building next door."

"Then let's go." I gave her a boost up the chimney.

It was easy climbing. The bricks had been staggered, probably for the benefit of a chimney sweep, and provided more than adequate footholds. A few moments later, covered with soot and looking like refugees from a minstrel show, we emerged from the mouth of the chimney and dropped the few feet to the roof. I helped the blonde onto the fire escape of the building next door, directed the light so she could see her way down, and then waved a goodbye. I wasn't sure she could see in the blackout.

I had to go back. There was still one more member of S.M.U.T. to be rescued: Singh Huy-eva. The thought of his name brought a curse to my lips as I went back down the chimney. It was more difficult going down than it had been coming up, and I slipped at one point. Only a fast grab saved me from joining Singh's rather exclusive fraternity. As it was, I skinned a few inches of fat from my derriere.

Fortunately, it wasn't too difficult to find him. He was inside the third room I tried. He was naked except for the white turban around his head. Tabby, the girl with him, was even more nude. She wasn't even wearing a turban.

Singh was sitting with his legs crossed, staring off into space. He was oblivious to my entrance. His features were transformed as if he was off in another world somewhere – which may well have been the case.

Tabby was sitting at his feet, her chin cupped in her hands, also staring fixedly. But the depth of her concentration didn't begin to approach his. Still, she didn't move her eyes as she asked me what I wanted.

"What are you staring at?" I asked her in turn.

"His navel."

"His navel? But why? Why are you staring at his navel?"

"Because," she sighed, "he has nothing else to stare at."

I could see what she meant. Poor Singh! But I had no time to waste on sympathy. "How do I get him out of his trance?" I asked Tabby. "I have to talk to him."

"What is it that you want, Mr. Victor?" Singh's voice seemed to come from very far away.

"I thought you were in Nirvana," Tabby said disillusionedly.

"I am. But I have dual consciousness. I have mastered the art of being in two places at the same time."

"Then you better stay in the other place," I told him. "Because this one is getting to be quite a hot spot." I continued talking, explaining the situation to him. By the time I finished, his return from Nirvana was complete.

"I think we had best make haste to leave," he summed up and began pulling on his clothes. "But, Mr. Victor," he added, surveying my soot-covered nudity, "don't you think you too should dress?"

"It's too risky going back for my clothes," I told him.

"Ah, I see. Then we shall have to improvise." Singh pulled a sheet from the bed and draped it around me.

Tabby looked on with interest as he twisted and tucked it here and there. "You look like Sammy Davis, Jr., in drag," she observed when he'd finished toga-ing me.

"Don't be chauvinistic," I told her.

"But she is right, Mr. Victor. At a quick glance, the way you look at the moment, you and I could be brothers."

"Okay, brother, so tell me how we're going to get out of here. I've just about exhausted all the possibilities I can figure."

"I can help you," Tabby said. "There's a back staircase that used to be used by servants. It runs all the way down to the cellar. You can get out that way."

So we let Tabby lead us, and the escape proved simplicity itself. Singh gave her his blessing in the basement, and we slipped outside to an alley running alongside the building. As we emerged from the alley, I got my first real look at New York in the blackout.

There's only one way to describe it. It was dark. Very dark. Park Avenue might have been some underground cavern. And the skyline looked like a subterranean horizon of stalagmites. Here and there, in the distance, car headlights flitted like twin fireflies coming in low for a landing. Candles in windows dotted the facades of the buildings like flickering rebukes to Tom Edison. An occasional flashlight drew chalkmarks across the blackboard of the night with the impudence of a naughty child whose teacher has left the room.

I turned on my own flashlight as we started up the Avenue. A sedan, large and black, its headlights out, moved slowly up, pacing us for a moment. Then an extremely bright searchlight beam was aimed at us from one of the windows. The tone of the voice behind it said that the speaker had a gun and that the lightbeam was meant to pinpoint a target area. Needless to say, we were the target area.

"Get in." Only the two words.

Singh and I looked at each other.

"Don't try it," the voice advised.

We didn't try it. We got in the car.

"Smart." The voice approved our compliance. "Neat, the way you got out, too. We almost missed you."

"What do you want with us?" I asked.

"You're from S.M.U.T." The voice assumed the statement was explanation enough.

"What are you going to do to us?"

The voice laughed. It was an extremely unpleasant laugh. "Kill you, of course." The tone said the answer should have been obvious and that it was childish of us to have even raised the question. Still, it was an indulgent tone as it repeated the answer: "We're going to kill you!"