Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'Well?
What
happened
to
her?'
'She
was
disappointed,'
he
said.
'That's
what
usually
happens,
isn't
it?
The
madame
admires
her
because
she's
"a
lady"
–
and
even
hints
at
the
prospect
of
a
partnership
–
a
profitable
business.
The
girls
when
they're
not
working
play
cards,
drink
tea
and
gossip.
A
lot
of
the
men
are
grateful –
which
isn't
the
idea
at
all.'
He
tried
to
read
her
expression
but
rounds
and
lozenges
of
light
tumbled
across
her
profile
like
a
series
of
carnival
masks.
'And
then?'
Or
back
there
at
the
table
while
they
were
eating,
Leo
offering
nudge
and
wink
stories
about
poor
John
Merchant
to
his
new
masonic
buddy;
some
kind
of
policeman,
what
was
the
name?
Standers,
sweating
and
flushed
with
steak
and
wine,
full
of
claims
about
leads
and
hints
about
the
state
of
the
body.
In
a
murder,
policemen
must
always
start
its
story
at
the
end;
getting
back
to
the
middle
would
count
as
one
of
their
successes;
beginnings,
presumably,
they
would
leave
to
do-gooders
or
defence
lawyers.
'Everybody
loves
a
story.'
He
laughed.
The
sound
of
his
own
voice
weaving
the
complexities
of
his
thought
around
her
was
pleasant
to
him.
'A
young
tough
–
a
crook
–
what
the
Parisians
called
an
apache
–
takes
her
one
afternoon
.
He's
a
real
animal –
and
he
comes
back
for
more.
Buys
her
over
and
over
again
.
Reality
suddenly
gets
to
be
a
little
bit
like
what
she
had
imagined.'
'And
then?'
The
simple
insistence
disappointed
him.
It
happened
that
way,
a
woman
caught
his
interest,
appeared
different,
and
it
was
all
a
pretence
and
paper
thin.
'And
then
,
'
he
went
on,
with
an
ironical
stress,
'and
then
one fine
day
he
follows
her
home.
Attacks
the
husband.
Cripples
the
husband
–
but
gets
himself
killed.
I
think
the
moral
for
tough
guys
must
be,
don't
fall
in
love.
For
wives
,
you
shouldn't
try
to
live
out
what
you
imagine.'
'She
seems
to
have
got
off
lightly
though.'
While
he
was
wondering
if
it
was
worth
testing
her
with
the
point
that
the
poor
husband,
paralysed
and
speechless,
knew
about
his
wife's
infidelity,
they
arrived
at
their
destination.
She
introduced
the
blonde
woman
who
came
through
from
what
he
assumed
would
be
the
bedroom
as
her
sister,
but
about
that
he
reserved
his
opinion.
The
idea
of
sleeping
with
sisters
might
be
taken
as
an
added
inducement,
something
that
would
put
up
their
price.
'My
sister
will
go
to
bed
with
you.
I
don't
do
that,'
the
woman, Belle,
said.
Standing
close,
smiling
at
one
another,
it
seemed
possible
the
women
might
after
all
be
sisters.
It
was
not
simply
that
there
was
a
certain
resemblance
–
make
up
and
a
shared
hairdresser
could
do
that
for
women
–
it
was
something
that
stirred
between
them,
as
palpable
and
indeterminate
as
the
smell
of
two
people
who
have
just
come
from
the
same
bed.
They
could
be
sisters.
Or
lovers.
Naked,
the
second
woman's
body
was
unexpectedly
fine.
He
was
in
the
habit
of
disappointment:
unclad
breasts
that
dwindled,
bums
that
drooped;
warts,
blemishes,
a
rash
of
pimples
across
the
shoulders.
The
sister's
skin
was
clean
and
unmarked.
Her
breasts
were
firm
and
pointed
and,
because
she
was
not
tall,
they
seemed
large.
He
turned
her
round
and
ran
his
hands
down
from
neck
to
haunches,
and
then
knelt
impulsively
and
stroked
with
his
tongue
the
skin
that
covered
the
round
clean
bone
at
the
cleft
of
her
buttocks.
Close,
her
skin
was
glossy
with
good
feeding
and
youth,
and
even
there
her
body
smelt
sweet.
With
his
hands
on
her
waist,
he
urged
her
forward
into
the
bedroom
attending
to
the
swaying play
of
her
muscles
as
she
walked.
Yet
it
was
not
this
nakedness
but
the
other
woman
being
there
and
fully
clothed
which
excited
him
so
painfully.
By
the
bed,
one
on
either
side,
they
undressed
him.
At
last,
crouching,
each
slipped
a
hand
under
the
waist
of
his
shorts
and
eased
them
out
and
down.
The
erection
unconstrained
leapt
out,
slick,
mushroom
capped;
'Ready
for
count
down,'
he
whispered,
grinning,
but
his
voice
trembled
foolishly;
and
the
woman,
Belle,
unsmiling
stroked
both
her
hands
along
its
length.
The
sister
lay
back
across
the
bed
and,
as
if
this
was
unfamiliar
to
him,
Belle
drew
him
forward
until
he
lowered
himself between
the
open
legs.
His
erect
flesh
was
cherished
in
her
warmth
as
if
by
a
boneless
hand,
but
because
he
had
felt
no
resistance
as
he
entered
her
there
was
no
danger
of
him
losing
his
seed.
Instead,
he
could
be
attentive
absolutely
to
the
sensations
produced
by
those
muscles
she
knew
so
well
how
to
use
in
clasping
and
squeezing
him.
Lying
on
her,
in
such
unexpected
control
of
himself,
he
had
a
sense
of
power
so
great
that
it
felt
like
happiness.
Even
when
he
felt
Belle
nudge
his
legs
open,
when
he
felt
her
legs
and
the
cloth
of
her
skirt
against
the
insides
of
his
thighs,
when
her
hands
rocked
him,
even
when
he
felt
her
finger
pressing
into
him,
the
ragged
little
pain,
the
indignity,
even
when
he
had
surrendered
and
shuddered,
the
happiness
grew.
He
buried
his
face
in
the
woman's
hair
and
whispered.
As
he
did,
he
felt
a
pressure
at
his
neck
and
then
a
sting,
but
before
he
could
react
the
woman's
body
under
him
began
to
shake
and
he
thought
she
was
in
orgasm
until
she
gasped,
'Don't!'
and
'He
wants
to
be
tied
up!'
and
lifting
himself
up
so
that
he
could
see
her
face
he
saw
she
was
laughing.