The man who had just entered the room was now leaning against the chipped paint of the door. He was maybe an inch taller than Darla's five-eight, and he looked wiry, but not too thin. Darla's first impression was that he could be one of the apache dancers of the cabarets. His olive complexion was complemented by the black curls at the front of his brow. He had a gypsy air about him, more pronounced as he flashed white teeth at Darla. He addressed her in French.
"I see you're awake, Miss Fleming. I hope you are not too uncomfortable." His smile seemed more to mock her than to put her at ease. She tried to speak, but the gag prevented any significant sound from passing her lips, and no one made a move to withdraw it.
"Just as soon as your father delivers a package to a specified place, you will be released near your hotel. Until then, I am very much afraid that your discomfort is necessary to our plans."
She struggled at her bonds, and tried again to speak. Her eyes were wild with her attempts to communicate. She had to tell them what they couldn't know, before this went on any longer.
Charles Fleming was quite an individualist. He was a man who acted with the courage of his convictions. And if Darla had heard him once state his attitude on kidnapping, she must have heard it a dozen times. Charles Eldon Fleming II knew his vulnerabilities as a man of wealth who received more publicity than he desired. He took many precautions to lessen the opportunities for those who might wish to victimize him. Darla and Tommy had been very closely supervised and guarded, especially in their earlier years. Few temptations and no opportunities were offered to would-be kidnappers.
But Fleming was adamant on one facet of this particular crime. He believed that only a fool would comply with a ransom request. It just was not practical for a kidnapper to operate so that the person kidnapped could not recognize him. Inevitably, the criminal would have to consider the possibility of identification and pursuit. So, once he proved that he had the missing victim captive, he would be likely to kill such a witness without further ado.
If he didn't do it then, he would never do it. At any rate, no guarantee ever existed that a kidnap victim would survive after the ransom was paid. Fleming believed that the only course was to play cat and mouse with the extortionists, calling in the FBI and the police at the start, and with no intention of ever paying off.
Right or wrong, Darla knew he wouldn't give in now. His pride as an American was also at stake, here. He wouldn't let any non-American sucker him, no matter what.
Darla continued her struggle to communicate this to her captors. But they ignored her efforts.
"My friend still return within the hour. If he brings the money, you are as good as returned to your family. Now, we will go and get something to eat. Come, Yvette."
They had left her alone, then returned a few minutes later and offered her food. When her gag was removed, she drank a little of the wine they gave her, to moisten her mouth so she could talk.
They laughed at her when she told them what her father's attitude was on kidnapping. They insisted that his talk about the subject would change, now that he was faced with the actuality, rather than the theory. No amount of persuasion could convince them otherwise. Darla was so shaken that she could not eat. They let her relieve herself, Yvette standing in the small bathroom with her, then they tied her to the bed again.
That had been Wednesday, the day they abducted her.
Thursday she remembered with shudders. Thursday she would always remember! Wednesday night had been unpleasant, especially after the third member of the group returned empty-handed. There had been much loud discussion, most of it arguing, all of it in French. She could hear a little of it through the thin wall, and interpret most of what she heard.
She knew when they had decided to wait until morning before making the next demand. Things had quieted down, and the gypsy-type had stuck his head in the door to give her the word.
"Your foolish father has refused to cooperate so far, just as you predicted. But I believe that tomorrow he will meet our demands, just as I predicted. You see, we are going to send him some pictures of you which should make him wish to end your visit with us. Good night, Mademoiselle."
Thursday, though, her real misery had started. It was after she had eaten two croissants, and had drunk a cup of surprisingly good cocked better than the hotel served.
The gypsy-type came into her room, sipping at a cup of the same brew. He watched her as she finished her last bite of croissant, and then he spoke to her as he lit a cigarette.
"Today will not be a good day for you, Mademoiselle Darla. It will not be a day you will wish to remember. But that is life, of course. One has those days."
"While you were unconscious from the anesthetic, we discovered the curious fact of your virginity. No need to blush; it was Yvette who made the inspection for us. But you will have less privacy from your hosts in the nest hours. I suggest that you rest while you can. It is your father who angers me, and I do not wish this to be more difficult for you than necessary."
As if on command, Yvette removed the breakfast tray from the decrepit dressing table beside the bed, and went out through the doorway to the other room. When she returned, she removed Darla's clothes all of them. Protest was useless, she knew, so she saved her strength, waiting for what she feared would follow.
The man looked at her appraisingly, and she felt defiled by his inspection. His gaze dwelled overly long on her full, ripe breasts and again on her curly, blonde triangle. "I think that I shall have to sample such a tasty treat before she is spoiled for all time. His dark eves gleamed greedily, and he met her shocked gaze with insolence."
"It is only just that I drive some pleasure for the trouble I must endure. Is it not so?"
She shuddered, and jumped into the bed, pulling the dirty linen sheet over her, as he laughed shortly, still watching her, letting his eyes appreciate the soft curves under the stained sheet.
Yvette sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, as he left the room. Darla's eyes strained to see an avenue of escape. The window was barred, and she knew it was on the second floor. When she had returned from the bathroom, she had seen that the street below was not busy. She could only spot one pedestrian, a man who fumbled with his fly as he entered the pissoir on the sidewalk.
Maybe they were only threatening her, anyhow. Trying to get her scared so they could make her tell her father something on the phone, or write him a note. After all, would they really dare to rape a tourist, one whose family had wealth enough to expend thousands of dollars in vengefully tracking down such criminals?
While lying there, trying to decide whether to make a wild dash for the window, she fell asleep. And when she was awakened, it was too late.
Yes, she would remember Thursday. Her eyes opened, and she saw that Yvette was gone. The gypsy-type was sitting on the edge of the bed beside her. It had been his hand on her breast which brought her out of her sleep. At the foot of the bed was another man. He was huge, and very black. A Moroccan, probably. He stood with his arms folded, hands clasped to upper arms. He was a little taller than her father, and must have weighed well over two hundred pounds.
But his face was not as frightening as the gypsy-type's leering countenance. The black seemed not to enjoy his position, even when the other man suddenly whipped back the sheet and exposed her ripe body to view.
"You may have much more meat, Le Boeuf, but this is one of a fine quality, is it not? Mignon, eh?" He chuckled to himself, then ran a cool, moist hand over her belly. She shivered.
They were actually going to do it, she realized. And she could never get to the window, now. Then her wrists and ankles were being tied, again. She struggled fiercely, now, but it was too little and too late. The Moroccan was helping, and soon she was spread-eagled once more, this time with her clothes gone.