Macao (KM031), page 3
part #31 of Killmaster Series
He did not recognize the beautiful young woman who was making such a fool of herself. This, he thought even then, so early in the scheme of things, was a pity. For she was lovely. Ravishing. Stunning. Even now, with one perfect breast hanging out and doing what appeared to be a rather messy combination go-go and hoochie-coochie, she was lovely. Somewhere off in a dark corner an American jukebox was supplying American music. Half a dozen men, all in evening clothes and all over fifty, were cheering, laughing and applauding as the girl strutted and danced up and down the bar. The elderly bartender, a look of disapproval on his long face, stood mute with white clad arms crossed on his chest.
Killmaster had to admit a slight sense of shock, most unusual for him. This was, after all, The Diplomat! He would have bet his last buck that the management did not, at the moment, know what was going on in the Men’s Bar.
Someone moved in the shadows nearby and Nick, by instinct, swiveled like a flash to meet a possible menace. But it was only a servant, an elderly retainer in the livery of the club. He was smirking at the dancing girl on the bar, but when he caught Nick’s eye his expression changed at once to pious disapproval. His nod to the AXE agent was obsequious.
“A shame, isn’t it, sir! A real pity, it is. It was the gentlemen who put her up to it, you see, though they shouldn’t ought. Wandered in here by mistake, poor lady, and those as should know better had her up there and dancing in no time.” For a moment some of the piety vanished and the old man almost smiled. “Can’t say that she was reluctant, though, sir. Entered right into the spirit, she did. Oh, she’s a real terror, that one. Not the first time I’ve seen her up to these tricks.”
He was interrupted by a renewed burst of clapping and shouting from the little group of men at the bar. One of them cupped his hands and shouted, “Take it off, Princess. Take everything off!”
Nick Carter watched in half amusement, half anger. She was much too lovely to degrade herself with this sort of thing.
“Who is she?” he asked the servant.
The old man, without taking his eyes off the girl, said: “The Princess da Gama, sir. Very rich. Very high mucky muck in society. Or was, at least. She’s mostly drunk now, from what you hear.” Some of the piety came back. “A real pity, sir, like I said. So pretty, too, and with all her money and blue blood— Oh, my God, sir, I think she is going to take it off!”
The men at the bar were insistent now, yelling and beating on the bar with their glasses. The chant grew louder: “Take it off—take it off—take it off—”
The old retainer glanced nervously over his shoulder, then at Nick. “Now the gentlemen are taking it too far, sir. It’s fair worth my job to be found here, it is.”
“Then why,” suggested Killmaster mildly, “don’t you leave?”
But here was an old man who was once more dreaming dreams. His rheumy eyes were fixed on the girl again. But he said, “If His Nibs ever comes in on this they’ll all be barred for life—every man jack of them.”
His Nibs, Nick presumed, would be the manager. His smile was slight. Yes, there would certainly would be hell to pay if His Nibs put in a sudden appearance.
Quixotically, not really knowing or really caring why he did it, Nick moved to the end of the bar. The girl had gone into an unabashed routine of bumps and grinds now that could not have spoken more plainly. She was wearing a thin little sheath of green that stopped at mid-thigh. As Nick was about to tap on the bar with a glass to attract the bartender’s attention, the girl suddenly reached down to seize the hem of the mini-skirt. With one rapid motion she pulled it over her head and flung it away from her. It skimmed the air, hovered for a moment, and then settled, light and fragrant and smelling of her body, over Nick Carter’s head.
Loud shouts and laughter from the other men at the bar. Nick disengaged himself from the fabric—he recognized the perfume as one of Lanvin’s and very expensive—and put the dress on the bar beside him. All the men were staring at him now. Nick gave them a dead-pan stare in return. One or two of the more sober among them shuffled uneasily and looked away.
The girl—Nick was thinking that surely he had heard the name da Gama someplace before—the girl was now wearing only a tiny bra, her right breast had escaped it, a pair of thin white panties, a garter belt and long lacy black stockings. She was a tall girl, with slim rounded legs and exquisitely modeled ankles and small feet. She wore open-toed patent leather pumps with half heels.
She was dancing with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. Her hair, tar black, was cut very short and close to her head. Nick had the fleeting thought that she might possess, and use, a number of wigs.
The record on the jukebox was a medley of old American jazz tunes. Now the band segued briefly into a few hot bars of Tiger Rag. The girl’s writhing pelvis picked up the beat of the tiger’s growl, the hoarse umm-pa of the tuba. Her eyes still closed, she leaned far back with her legs spread wide and began to roll and shimmy. Her left breast now escaped the little bra.
The men below her were shouting and beating out the lime. “Hold that tiger—hold that tiger! Take it off, Princess. Shake it, Princess!”
One of the men, a balding specimen with a huge stomach, dressed in evening clothes, tried to climb up on the bar. He was dragged back by his fellows.
The scene reminded Nick of an Italian film, the name of which he could not remember. Killmaster was, in fact, caught in ambivalence. Part of him was a bit revolted by the spectacle, pitying the poor drunken wench on the bar; another part of Nick, the brute that would not be said nay to, was beginning to react to the long perfect legs and the naked swinging breasts. Because of his late filthy mood, he had not had a woman for over a week. He was now on the verge of becoming aroused, knew it and did not want it. Not this way. He turned to leave the bar.
The girl had spotted him now and was dancing his way. Shouts of annoyance and outrage came from the other men as she strutted down to where Nick stood, still grinding and bumping and shaking her trim buttocks. She was looking directly down at the AXEman, but he doubted she was really seeing him. She was not seeing much of anything.
She stopped directly above Nick legs wide spread, hands on her hips. She stopped all movement and stared down at him. Their eyes met and, for a moment, he could recognize a faint glimmer of intelligence in the green, alcohol-sodden depths. The girl smiled at him.
“You, handsome,” she said. “I like you. Want you. You look like a—can trust—please take me home. I—”
She swayed. The light in her eyes went out as though a switch had been thrown. She leaned toward Nick, her long legs beginning to unhinge at the knees. Nick had seen it happen before, though never to him. This kid was passing out cold. Going—going—
Some wag in the group of men shouted, “Timber!”
Gone! The girl made a final attempt to stiffen her knees, did achieve a certain rigidity, a statue stiffness. Her eyes were blank and staring. She fell slowly from the bar, with an odd grace, into Nick Carter’s waiting arms. He caught and held her easily, her naked breasts against his big chest. Now what? He wanted no part of the woman. He did not especially like drunken females, for one thing. He liked his women alive and vibrant, moving and feeling. This poor lovely slob was going to be out for hours, maybe days. He needed her like he needed another enemy. If he wanted a woman, and now he thought he did, he had a whole book full of London phone numbers.
The fat drunk, the same man who had tried to climb on the bar, tipped the balance. He came staggering toward Nick, a scowl on his pudgy red face.
“I’ll take the girl, old man. She’s ours, you know, not yours. I, we, got plans for the little Princess. So c’mon, you bloody Yank. Hand her over.”
Killmaster decided then and there. “I think not,” he told the man quietly. “The lady asked me to take her home. You heard. I think I’ll do just that.”
He knew what the “plans” were. A gang bang is a gang bang, whether it be in a tenement on the lower East Side of New York, or in a swank club in London. Men are the same animals, dressed in jeans or evening clothes. He glanced now at the other men at the bar. They were hanging back, muttering among themselves and staring at him.
Ignoring the fat man, Nick picked up the girl’s dress from the bar and turned to the servant still lingering in the shadows. The old retainer was staring with a mixture of horror and fascination. Nick tossed the dress to the old man. “You. Help me get her into the cloak room there. We’ll get her dressed and—”
“Now just a bloody minute,” said the fat man. “Who in the ruddy blazes do you think you are, Yank, coming in here and making off with our girl? I’ve been buying that slut drinks all night and if you think you can—uhhhhmmmppphhhhhh”
Nick was very careful not to hurt the man. He extended the first three fingers on his right hand, stiffened them, turned his palm up and punched the man just below the breast bone. It could have been a killing blow, had he wished it to be, but the AXEman was very, very gentle.
The fat man sat down suddenly, both hands clutching at his swollen belly. His flabby face went gray and he moaned. The other men muttered and looked, but made no move to interfere.
Nick gave them a hard smile. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your forbearance. You’re smarter than you know.” He indicated the fat man still gasping on the floor. “He’ll be all right us soon as he catches his breath.”
The unconscious girl was lolling over his left arm, her head and arms dangling. Nick, carrying her as easily as if she were a baby, followed the old servant into a dark cloak room that smelled of wool and old galoshes. Nick snapped at the old man. “Turn on a light.”
When the dim yellow light came on he straightened the girl, holding her beneath the armpits. The old man, his veined hands suddenly afflicted with palsy, was waiting with the green dress.
“Wait a minute.” Nick, with two swift movements, slipped each velvety white breast back into its cradle of bra. “Now—get it over her head and pull it down.”
The old man did not move. Nick grinned at him. “What’s the matter, old-timer? You never see a half-naked woman before?”
The old retainer summoned his last modicum of dignity. “Not, sir, for some forty years. It is, sir, something of a, er, shock. But I shall try to cope.”
“You do that,” said Nick. “You cope. And hurry about it.”
They got the dress over the girl’s head and pulled it down. Nick held her erect with an arm about her waist. “She have a purse or anything? Women usually do.”
“I believe there was a purse, sir. I seem to recall it on the bar somewhere.”
“Get it. Maybe I can find out where she lives—unless you know?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t, sir. Not really. But I believe I did read in the papers that she is at the Aldgate Hotel. You will know it, of course. And if I may be permitted, sir, you can hardly take the lady back to the Aldgate in this—”
“I know,” said Nick. “I know. Get the purse. Let me worry about the rest.”
“Yes, sir.” The man scuttled back into the bar.
She was leaning against him now, standing quite easily with his support, her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed, her wide red mouth a little moist. She was breathing easily. A faint aroma of whisky came from her, mingled with a subtle perfume. Killmaster felt the itch and ache again in his loins. She was lovely, was desirable. Even in this state.
Killmaster told temptation to go take a running jump. He had never yet bedded a woman who did not know what she was doing—he wasn’t going to start tonight.
The old man came back with a white alligator purse. Nick put it in a pocket of his jacket. From another pocket he fumbled a couple of pound notes and handed them to the man. “Go see if you can whistle up a cab.”
When he had gone Nick put a finger under the girl’s chin and tilted her face to his. Her eyes were closed. She slumbered peacefully. “You ready?”
She emitted a tiny snoring sound. Nick Carter sighed. “You’re not ready? No walking, eh? I have to do it all. Okay—if it has to be that way.”
He tossed her over his shoulder and left the cloak room. He did not glance into the bar. He went up the three stairs and beneath the arch and turned toward the foyer.
“You there! Sir!” The voice was thin and pettish. Nick turned to face the owner of the voice. The movement caused the girl’s flimsy skirt to rise a bit, billowing up, exposing her trim thighs and the tight white panties. Nick pulled the dress down and patted it into place. “Sorry,” he said. “You wanted something?”
His Nibs—no question that it was he—stood and gaped. His mouth kept moving, like a fish out of water, but no words came. He was thin, baldishly blond and wearing tails. His thin neck was much too small for the stiff wing collar. The flower in his lapel reminded Nick of floor walkers.
The AXEman smiled winningly, as though having a pretty girl over his shoulder, head dangling, rump forward, was a daily routine. He repeated, “You wanted something?”
The manager was staring at the girl’s legs, his mouth still working silently. Nick tugged the green dress down to cover the white expanse of flesh between stocking top and panties. He smiled and started to turn away. “Sorry again. I thought you spoke to me.”
The manager found his voice at last. It was thin, high, loaded with outrage. His small fists were balled and he shook them both at Nick Carter.
“I—I did! I mean, that is, I demand an explanation of all this! Just what in hell is going on in my club?”
Nick looked innocent. And puzzled. “Going on? I don’t understand. I was just leaving with the Princess here and—”
The manager pointed with a trembling finger at the girl’s trim posterior. “Aha—the Princess da Gama. Again! Intoxicated again, I suppose?”
Nick shifted her weight on his shoulder and grinned. “I suppose you might call it that, yes. I’m taking her home.”
“Good,” said the manager. “Be so kind. Be so kind, also, to see that she never returns.” He clasped his hands in what might have been prayer. “She is my bete noir,” he told the ceiling. “She is the curse and the scourge of every club in London. Go, sir. Please go. With her. At once.”
“Sure,” said Nick. “I understand she stays at the Aldgate, eh?”
The thin man turned green. His eyes popped. “My God, man, you can’t take her there! Not even at this hour. Especially not at this hour. People are just getting in. No. It won’t do. Won’t do at all. The Aldgate is always full of newspaper men, gossip columnists. If those vermin see her and she talks to them, tells them she was here tonight, I’ll be, my club will be—”
Nick tired of the game. He swung toward the foyer again. The girl’s arms waggled, doll like, with the movement. “Stop weeping,” he told the man. “She won’t be talking to anybody for a long time. I’ll take good care of that.” He gave the man a knowing wink, then: “You really should do something about those cads, those bounders in there.” He nodded toward the Men’s Bar. “Do you know that they were about to take advantage of this poor girl? About to rape her, rape her right on the bar, when I came in. I saved her honor. If it hadn’t been for me—well, talk about headlines! You would have been closed up tomorrow. Nasty chaps, in there, all of them. Ask the bartender about the fat one with the big stomach. I had to actually strike the man to save the girl.”
His Nibs tottered. He reached for a rail at the side of the stairs and clung to it. “S-strike? You struck someone? R-rape. In my Men’s Bar? Oh, God! I must be going mad. This can’t be really happening—it’s only a dream and soon I’ll wake up. I—”
“Don’t bet on it,” said Nick cheerily. “Well, the lady and I had better be running along now. Toodle-oo. But you better take my advice and blackball a few people around here.” He nodded toward the bar again. “That’s a bad lot down there. A very bad lot—especially the one with the big stomach. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was a sex fiend of some sort.”
A new look of horror had come gradually over the manager’s pallid features. He stared at Nick, his face twitching, his eyes imploring. His voice trembled. “A b-big man with a b-big stomach? Sort of a ruddy face? Rather d-distinguished looking?”
Nick’s answering stare was cold. “If you call fat and flabby distinguished, then that might be the man. Why? Who is he?”
The manager put a thin hand to his brow. He was sweating now. ‘That is Sir Charles Fotheringgay,” he said limply. “H-he owns a controlling interest in this club.”
Nick, peering through the glass door of the foyer, saw the old retainer beckoning a cab to the curb. He waved a hand at the manager.
“How cozy for Sir Charles. Maybe, for the good of the club, you can get him to blackball himself. Good night, now. And the lady says good night, too.”
The man seemed not to hear him. He was staring at the AXEman as if he were the devil just appeared from hell. Saliva dribbled from the carp-like mouth as the man said: “You s-struck Sir Charles?”
Nick grinned. “Not really. Only tickled him a little. Cheers now.”
The old man helped him load the Princess into the cab. Nick gave the old boy a fiver and smiled at him. “Thanks, Pop. Better go in and get the smelling salts now—His Nibs is going to need it. Goodbye.”
He told the driver to head for the Kensington district. Might as well face it, he thought. He studied the sleeping face lying so easily, so lightly, against his big shoulder. Again he caught the smell of whisky. She must have put a lot of the stuff away tonight
Nick faced it. He didn’t want to take her back to the Aldgate in this condition. He doubted she had any reputation left to lose, but even so it was not a thing you did to a lady. And lady she was—even in this condition. Nick Carter, at different times and in different parts of the world, had shared beds with enough ladies to know one when he saw her. Drunk she might be, promiscuous she might be, a lot of things she might be, but she was yet a lady. He knew the type. Acid head, harlot, nympho, bitch—or any of a hundred other things—all these she could be. But the features and the bearing, the regal grace even in throes of alcohol, these could not be hidden.
