“Velvet arranged it.”
“Did he, now!” That was something to think about.
“How come?”
“The same reason he arranged for you to go to the Quentins. Money. Hajstrom paid him.”
“But how come Velvet steered him to you?”
“Hajstrom wasn’t just looking for some underground fun. He was looking for a woman.”
“Carrie Cromwell,” I guessed.
“Yes. But I didn’t know that at the time. The way I figure it, he paid Velvet through the nose to get a lead on Carrie. But even so, Velvet was afraid to give him a direct lead. He didn’t know what might be involved, but he was scared. Too scared to steer Hajstrom directly to Barry, who knew Carrie Cromwell. Or even to the Quentins, where she’d gone with Barry one night. So Velvet just sort of steered him to me, which was a sort of indirect lead in a way.”
“Do you know where Carrie Cromwell is?”
“No. That’s what Hajstrom kept trying to find out from me. But I’d only met her the one time. All I knew was that Barry knew her.”
“Did you tell Hajstrom that?”
“No. I just told him I might know someone who could help him.”
“Why didn’t you level with him?”
“I was teasing him along. It kept him coming back for more.”
“Coming back to the ‘Friends of Sweden,’ you mean?”
“Yes.”
“But why were you leading him down the garden path that way? ” I wondered.
“Because I knew that once I told him what he wanted to know, I’d probably never see him again.”
“Were you in love with Hajstrom?”
“Not exactly. Not the way you mean, anyway. It was his eyes” Her own eyes shone as she said it.
“His eyes?”
“Yes. The way he looked at me when I used to strip for the camera bugs at ‘Friends of Sweden.’ It flipped me, that look of his. Sometimes I’d take him off into a room where we could be alone and just dance for him naked While he watched. His eyes on my body drove me nuts. I could really make it that way, just watching him ogling my naked body. His eyes were like the eyes of an animaclass="underline" savage, filled with lust, but deep and mysterious, too. Sometimes I could catch the reflection of my naked flesh in their depths, and then I’d really go over the top.”
“Is that the only way you could make it?”
“Yes.” She looked at me defiantly.
“Just with Hajstrom?” I asked curiously. “Or with other voyeur types as well?”
“Oh, I could do it with others. That’s why I started going there in the first place. But it was best with Knute.”
“Is that what you were doing the night he was killed?”
“That’s what we were about to do. But I had to go -- umm—-powder my nose, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean. So you weren’t actually there when he was killed.”
“If you mean when you stuck that sword into him, no. But you still had it in your hand with the blood dripping from it when I came back. Remember?”
“That I remember,” I granted her. “Do you have any idea why he was killed?”
“That’s one hell of a question for you to be asking me!”
“Take a stab at it anyway,” I prodded hers
“Something to do with Carrie Cromwell, I guess. You were both looking for her. What makes that dame so important?”
“Her husband,” I said truthfully. “Did you ever run across him in your travels?”
“I didn’t even know she had one,” Ingrid said. “And if you’re through asking questions, can I go now?”
“Yes. You can go. Mine eyes have seen the glory—- and once is enough!”
That riled her, as I’d known it would. “I didn’t notice you pulling down your lids the other night,” she said indignantly.
“Different circumstances.”
“What do you mean?”
“Then I could sample the texture. Now it’s a case of look, but don't touch. I don’t get my kicks that way.”
“If you weren’t so nasty—and so murderous—”
“Thanks all the same, but this is one of my busy nights.”
“It’s your loss.”
“Is it?”
Ingrid was facing the door now, away from me. She stood there for a full minute and suddenly whirled about. She’d unbuttoned her dress all the way down the front. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. Her hands were under her breasts, thrusting them towards me like some sort of sacrificial offering. The lower part of her body was moving in slow circles, the hips rotating, the belly undulating, the triangle of blonde curls pulsating over pink, quivering nether lips.
I'm human. I gasped. I stared.
The stare—that was all she wanted. Her hand dropped down, and a few seconds later a spasm shook her whole body. It was more than pleasure for her. It was an insult flung in my face. “Yes,” she said. “It is your loss.” Her hands flew up the buttons of her dress, and then she was going out the door.
“Give my regards to Phil,” I called after her. “Or Helen, as the case may be.”
I crossed over and closed the door behind her. Then I looked at my watch. There was still an hour to go before Gretchen was due. I curled up on the bed and grabbed a little snooze.
The phone woke me. It was the downstairs desk. Gretchen was there. I told them to send her up. I threw some cold water on my face and was just finishing combing my hair when she knocked.
I opened the door on a woman-and-a-half in a on-woman bag. Not that there was anything baggy about the dress Gretchen was wearing. Far from it. Her curves hugged the red silk so tightly that I figured the only way she could have gotten into it was by having someone blow her up into it like a balloon. Then I figured again-— There was so much to Gretchen that I had to blink for a second look before I could take it all in. She was six feet tall—maybe an inch or so over—-and with the heels she was wearing, she towered over me by a good two inches. I’d say she weighed about 150 to 160 pounds. But don’t get the wrong idea. There wasn’t an inch of fat on her. About half her weight was in three spots—her bosom, her hips, and her derriere. Yes, I guess the last-mentioned was a trifle plump, but it was firm and high and a natural focal point for any male eye.
She was the kind of woman all men admire, but are not necessarily attracted to. There was so much of her that many a man might be intimidated by all that pulchritude. Women, it follows, would resent her on sight. Gretchen would make almost all females feel inadequate. I hoped for my sake that my double leaned more toward sadism than masochism. The very idea of playing victim to this Amazon—-even by proxy—gave me butterflies in the tum-tum. I was scared she might want to pick up where my Russian look-alike had left off. On the other hand, if it was the other way around, Gretchen was an awful lot of territory to cover—-even with a whip.
She wore her long blonde hair loose and straight to the waist. The only makeup she had on was lipstick. She didn’t need anything else. Her eyes out-blued any mascara I’d ever seen, and her cheeks were red as ripe tomatoes with a touch of fever. They were even redder than the dress, which had a deep V neckline which followed her naturally deep cleavage. On either side of the V, the dress pushed straight out an impossible distance. Her breasts were so mammoth, you’d figure they’d have to be pulled downward by their own weight. But they weren’t. They stuck out firmly with no trace of sag, a mammarian defiance of the law of gravity.
“My goodness,” Gretchen said, “you’d think you’d never seen me before. Do I look that much better in clothes?”
“Sorry.” I remembered my manners and mixed her a drink. I mixed one for myself as well. I needed it. “You said you had some information about Carrie Cromwell,” I reminded her as she took a sip.
“And you said we’d discuss the matter of money. Five thousand isn’t enough."
“Isn’t it? Why not?”