She seemed beyond screaming. Her eyes bulged, her mouth strained, but no sound came out. Another notch, and the sleeves of her dress stretched so that the buttons down the front of it popped. Her breasts sprang free, the rigid nipples seeming but an additional proof of the tension pulling at her limbs. They were mammoth and trembling, like outsize balloons wafted by a gentle breeze.
Another half-notch, and now her legs seemed almost at right angles to her body. The skirt of the dress was up over her thighs. Her thigh muscles bulged as if they were at the snapping point. She wasn’t wearing anything under the dress. That was obvious now. Another notch, and there was the evidence that she was a natural blonde. Parting this evidence was the flesh of her womanhood drawn so tightly back that the treasure-cave it flanked was almost completely revealed.
One more tightening of the reels. The material of the dress tore away from her body. She was naked now. A rivulet of perspiration ran down the deep cleft between her breasts, collected in her blistered navel, then overflowed to moisten the blonde triangle. Another notch, and that did it. Gretchen fainted.
Von Koerner strode to the center of the arena. He held an ice bucket in his hands. He poised directly over her and overturned the bucket. Shaved ice cascaded onto her face.
It did the trick. She whimpered and opened her eyes. She was conscious again.
Von Koerner held up a hand to signal the four brunettes not to carry the torture any further. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “the time has come to take your pleasure. One at a time, if you please.”
A short, fat man in a tuxedo came forward. He removed his pants and shorts. He fell on Gretchen, wheezing and grunting his lust.
Immediately the four masked girls went into ritualized action. Whips in their hands, they advanced on the pair and lashed out in cadence. Two of them drew blood from the fat posterior of the eager man. The other two concentrated on Gretchen’s breasts.
Finally the fat man was finished. He scampered off, and the four furies stood back. A younger man, a Charles Atlas17 type, advanced. His naked legs and haunches bulged with muscles. He went at Gretchen brutally. Once again the four whips cracked out.
Another man, and another. Each time the same ritualized beating repeated. By the time Barry advanced to take his turn, Gretchen’s breasts were bleeding.
“Ooh! Isn’t Barry wonderful? " Elsa’s nails dug into my crotch.
I was too disgusted to answer. I pulled away and watched silently. Beside me Hortense was covering her eyes.
“Aren’t you going to take a turn, Steve?” Barry asked when he returned.
“No,” I told him shortly.
He looked at me curiously and shrugged. I realized that for a supposed discipline advocate I must seem to him to be lacking in enthusiasm. The hell with it! Let him think whatever he wanted to think.
Finally it was over. Gretchen, only half-conscious, was carried out by her four tormentors. The spotlight went out, and the room lights went back on. Von Koerner came straight to me and guided me toward an alcove where we could talk privately.
“Did you enjoy the exhibition, Mr. Victor?” he asked as we crossed the room.
“No!” I told him shortly.
“I’m so sorry. And I planned it so carefully. I wanted something extra-special because this is, after all, a farewell celebration. However, even if you didn’t enjoy it, I’m sure the others did. And Gretchen, I would say, will not forget me after I am gone.”
“I’m sure she won’t.” It came out a snarl. I controlled my feelings. “Let’s get down to business,” I told him. “Where’s Cromwell?”
“The amount agreed upon is in that package?”
“Yes.”
“Then give it to me and I will direct you to Cromwell.”
“Nothing doing. You don’t get your hands on this money until I have Cromwell in person.”
“I was afraid you would take that attitude. Very well, then. Much as your distrust pains me, we’ll do it your way. I will take you to Cromwell.”
Von Koerner started to lead me from the room. Just as we reached the door, Hortense intercepted us. “Where are you going?" she wanted to know.
“Your husband and I are merely stepping out for a little while,” Von Koerner told her.
“Can’t I come?”
“No.” I didn’t know what I might be getting into. I didn’t want to have to worry about Hortense as well as Cromwell and myself.
“I don’t want to stay here alone,” she pouted. “I told you how I felt.”
I looked at Von Koerner questioningly.
“Let her come,” he said. “It makes no difference.”
We went out the front way. Von Koerner had a servant bring his car around. It was quite a car—a new Dodge Charger, black, and equipped to the teeth. With Von Koerner at the wheel, it purred off like a pussycat. I sat in front with him, floating in the bucket seat. Hortense sat in back.
Von Koerner guided the car back along the route we’d taken with Barry before. He threw the stick shift into overdrive and we hummed along at sixty. It was a soft ride despite the sure road feel of the car under me.
We slowed down as we passed through the center of Washington. The Lincoln Memorial, the White House, the Washington Monument—-we glided past them all. Then we were approaching rock Creek Park. For a crazy minute it occurred to me that Von Koeruer might have Cromwell stashed away at the very hotel from which he’d vanished—my hotel.
But we passed it, and soon we were out on the open road again. We veered northwest and crossed over into Maryland, somewhere between Silver Spring and Chevy Chase. The landscape was sprinkled with upper-class houses on both sides of us, but the particular road Von Koerner was wheeling the Charger down was fairly deserted. He pulled off it onto a dirt road, rounded a grove of trees, and touched the control of the four-wheel disc brakes so that the Charger slid to a smooth stop beside a deserted looking shack.
We got out. “He’s in there,” Von Koerner told me. He held out his hand for the package with the money in it.
“Let’s see him.” I kept a firm grip on the package.
“You are too suspicious, Mr. Victor. I assure you that I am acting in good faith.” He reached in his pocket, took out a gun, pointed it at me, and smiled. “I could shoot you right now and take the money,” he pointed out.
“You wouldn’t get very far,” I assured him. “You’d bring the whole U. S. government down on you.”
“Exactly. I don’t want that. I am prepared to go through with the transaction exactly as planned. To prove it, I will leave my weapon out here--providing that you do the same.”
“All right.” I took my gun from my shoulder holster and handed it to Hortense. “Take this and wait in the car,” I told her. “If our friend here is trying to pull a fast one and comes out without me, shoot to kill. And don’t miss.”
“Steve, I don’t know what this is all about, but-—”
“There’s no time to explain now. Just do as I say.”
“All right.” Hortense got into the car.
I followed Von Koerner to the shack, still holding onto the money. He produced a key, opened a large padlock, and removed the chain which had ringed the door. He also had to remove an iron bar before the door could swing open.
It was pitch black inside. I motioned to Von Koerner to go first. He reached inside the door and groped. I guessed there must have been some sort of shelf there. Finally he came up with a flashlight. He turned it on and aimed the beam low at the far side of the shack. Standing at his elbow, I made out a cot there. There was a figure lying on it. As I followed Von Koerner inside the shack, I saw that the figure was tied to the cot. My eyes traveled upward to the face. There was adhesive tape over the mouth. Even so, and despite the years since I’d last seen him, I had no difficulty recognizing Anthony Bowdler Cromwell.