Reassuringly, she moved his hand over her thigh, pressing it gently and tenderly. She was pleased to notice Mr. Bright-Eyes get an even hungrier gleam in his eyes and begin to breathe a slight bit heavier than before. It was all part of the game, but the game could be very pleasant for her.
“…one of the most exciting women I’ve ever met,” he was saying, and as he spoke the words his hand closed possessively around her knee. His eyes were glued to her breasts. She knew that they would leave any moment now, that he was almost ready and almost convinced that she would now follow him to the ends of the earth if he were only to ask.
And indeed she would.
“Honey?”
She smiled expectantly.
“Would you like to have the next one up at my place?”
“Of course,” she said.
His bright blue eyes gleamed more than ever. How bright they were! She was actually in love with him now, in love with his eyes and the hunger and beauty in them.
As they stood up, she saw Mr. Baldy shake his head sadly. Mr. Dark Suit’s jaw fell slightly and he looked quite awkward, sitting precariously on his stool with his mouth half-open. Then Mr. Bright-Eyes slipped his arm easily around her waist and walked her to the door. She could feel their eyes watching her every step of the way, and it wasn’t hard at all to imagine the regret in their eyes—regret mixed with admiration for Mr. Bright-Eye’s technique.
He was smooth, all right. So very smooth, and while it was a shame that Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy were doomed to sadness for the evening, it simply couldn’t be helped.
And besides, wasn’t there a book about survival of the fittest or something? If they had Mr. Bright-Eyes’ finish they wouldn’t be sitting by themselves, with their eyes all afraid and beaten.
It was dark out, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seemed to be in a hurry, and as a consequence they were walking very swiftly toward his apartment. He said something about wasn’t it dark out, and she agreed that it was, and his arm tightened around her waist.
She leaned a little against him and rubbed her body against his. Walking as they were and with the night as dark as it was, it was hard for her to see his eyes. Each time when they passed a streetlamp she leaned forward a bit and glanced into his face, as if to reassure herself that his eyes still wanted her as much as they had.
In his apartment everything went very well. He told her how beautiful she was and she thanked him quite modestly, and they went to the bedroom and he took her in his arms and kissed her very expertly.
Then, after she had been expertly kissed, he bent over to remove the spread from the bed. It was at just that moment that she took the knife from her purse and plunged it into his back, right between the shoulder blades. One jab was enough; he crumpled up on the bed and lay very still, without a scream or a moan or any sound at all.
Afterwards, back in her own apartment, she put his eyes in the box with the others.
MAN WITH A PASSION
HE SET HIS SUITCASE DOWN on the floor in front of the desk, then unslung the leather bag from his shoulder and placed it beside the suitcase. He smiled across the desk at the clerk, an easy, automatic smile. “I’d like a room,” he said. “With bath.”
The clerk nodded wordlessly and passed the hotel register to the man. He uncapped a pen and began filling in the blanks. Jacob Falch, he wrote. Free-lance photographer. He hesitated a moment before the last blank, then quickly scrawled No permanent address. He paid in advance, took a key from the clerk, and carried his luggage up the steep staircase to his room.
He was a short man, with broad shoulders and a rough, craggy face. He walked swiftly and purposefully, carrying the bag with ease despite its weight. He reached his room, turned the key in the lock, and seated himself heavily on the bed.
The room was drab and colorless. There was the bed, a straight-backed chair that looked as though it would buckle if he sat on it, and a dull-brown dresser studded with cigarette burns. In short, Falch reflected, it was a crummy room in a cheap hotel. But it would do for the time being.
He started to lie down for a nap, then changed his mind and began to unpack the suitcase. His camera supplies—flashbulbs, filters, chemicals, and film—he placed in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He hung his suit in the small closet, noting with satisfaction that the pants still held a crease. His shirts and other clothing went into the middle bureau drawer. Only one small package remained in the suitcase, and he took it out and held it lovingly in his large hands. It was a very important package. It contained ten thousand dollars.
Ten thousand dollars, he thought, and he chuckled softly. He’d had to work hard for the money. Any hack photographer could plaster a composite picture together, but it took skill to make one that would stick. It took plenty of skill to come up with a batch of shots that put the mayor’s wife in a compromising position. A very compromising position, he reflected, and chuckled once again.
The mayor had paid through the nose, but the mayor could afford it. And the mayor could definitely not afford to have his opponents get hold of those pictures. His wife seemed to be doing things that a mayor’s wife shouldn’t do. Very interesting things.
Falch chuckled again, and patted the packet of money tenderly. Of course he’d had to leave town, but Tarleton was a dull town anyway. And with ten thousand in his suitcase he could go far.
No more portraits, he thought. No more squirming brats in family groups, no more dirty pictures for backroom boys, no more publicity shots of fertilizer plants. For once in his life Jake Falch could do what he damn well wanted.
And Jake Falch knew what he wanted. Plenty of relaxation, for one thing. Decent food, and a woman now and then. His tastes were inexpensive enough, and he could be very happy in the dumpy hotel, with his battered coupe parked outside.
Oh, he’d take pictures now and then. A little cheesecake, if there was a decent-looking broad in the town. And, when the money ran out…well, every town had a mayor, and every mayor had a wife. Or a daughter. Or a sister.
He looked around the room for a hiding place for the money. No, he realized, that was senseless. It would be hard hiding a toothpick in that place, let alone a nice thick wad of bills. And, since he was staying in town, he might as well bank his dough, like a respectable businessman. He chuckled again, and left the room.
The desk clerk stopped him on the way out. “You a photographer, Mr. Falch?”
Falch nodded.
“Figure on staying in town?”
Falch nodded again, impatiently.
“You’ll need a studio, a darkroom. Brother of mine has a place…”
“No,” said Falch, cutting him short. “I won’t be working for a while. Came into some money and I feel like taking it easy.” He smiled again, the same easy smile he had flashed to the mayor, and walked out the door. The bank was across the street, on the corner.
Five minutes later he strode out of the bank, with $9500 in a checking account. He breathed deeply and headed across the street again to a restaurant. He felt good.
It was then that he saw the girl. She was walking toward him on the other side of the street, and even a half-block away he could see that she was beautiful. She was young—eighteen or nineteen, he guessed—and she had soft, shining blond hair that fell to her shoulders and framed her face perfectly. Automatically, Falch placed her face inside a mental picture frame.
By the time he reached the restaurant, the girl was within twenty yards of him. He saw that her body was a perfect match for her face. It was the kind of body he liked, with full, round curves. It was a lush body, a young body.
Just as he had placed her face inside a frame, he mentally undressed her. He let his eyes run over her body, lingering on the firm, jutting breasts and the rounded hips. Guiltily, he tried to turn away and enter the restaurant, but before he could move she had walked right up to him.
“Hi,” she said. “You’re new in town, aren’t you?” Her voice was as soft and as fresh as the rest of her. She’d make a good model, he thought. She had a face and a figure, and that was a rare combination.
He smiled then, the wide, friendly smile that came so easily to him. “That’s right. My name’s Jake Falch.”
“Mine’s Saralee Marshall. Are you the photographer?”
He blinked. “How did you know?”
“Jimmy at the hotel told my ma, and Ma told me. I figured you must be the photographer, because not many strangers ever come to Hammondsport.” She made the name of the town sound like a dirty word.
He smiled again. “You don’t like this town?”
“Oh,” she said, “I guess it’s okay. But it’s so awful dull. Nothing ever happens, hardly.”
“Where would you like to live?”
She shrugged her shoulders, and her breasts rose and fell with the motion. “New York, maybe. Or Hollywood.”
“You want to be an actress, huh?”
“No,” she said. “I want to be a model.”
He had to catch his breath, and before he could get a word out she was off a mile a minute. “I wonder if you need a model? I’d work hard, Mr. Falch. Honest I would. There’s no school all summer and I could work whenever you wanted me to and I know I don’t have any experience but I can learn real well and…”
“Hold on a minute!” He laughed and held up his hand. “I don’t know how much I could pay you…”
“You don’t have to pay me. Just for the experience, it would be worth it.” Her eyes pleaded with him, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. He’d pay ten bucks an hour for a gal like her, any day of the week.
“Well,” he said, forcing himself to hesitate, “I guess we could give it a try. But you might not like modeling; I mean, you might not like to pose for, well…”
She smiled. “You mean cheesecake? I don’t mind. Whatever you want.”
Whatever he wanted! If only she knew what he wanted, what plans he had for her. He looked over her body again, drinking in the vibrance of it. Paula must have been like that, once. It had been good with Paula, and he could almost feel the way it would be with Saralee.
“Saralee,” he said, aloud, “where would you like to work? I don’t have a studio yet.”
“How about outside? There is a little stream down the road, no good for swimming or fishing. Nobody goes there, so it’s a perfect spot. Nice scenery too. Kind of wild, like.”
“Fine,” said Falch. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, in front of the hotel. Eleven-thirty okay?”
“Wonderful. Oh, I can hardly wait!” She turned, then, and half-ran, half-walked down the street. Falch stood rooted to the spot watching her.
When he left the hotel the next morning, his camera bag over his shoulder, she was waiting for him. She wore a gray skirt that hugged her hips and a tight yellow sweater that threatened to burst any minute. He led her to the car, and they drove off down the road to the spot she had picked out.
It was, as she had said, a perfect spot. The tough wooden bridge and thick-trunked oak provided a rustic touch, which contrasted sharply with the green of the grass and the blue water. Falch wished fleetingly that he had brought color film.