Chains of silk by Barry Devlin - Chapter 01

1954 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Romance

Moon-kissed

by Barry Devlin

The moon was a devil—a round yellow she-devil—sending her leaping beams down to kiss a bit of madness into each life she touched. Shedding her golden glow upon the wave-lapped beach, inciting sibilant sighs and sounds of soft violence. . .

It might have been a dull summer—most of them thought it would be. After all, they were there to work, not play. Waitresses and busboys at resort hotels were expected to do just that—work.

But they reckoned without Lady Luna and her moon-madness . . . Lyn Harper, for instance. All her life she sensed some strange seething within herself—demanding fulfillment, pressuring her with irresistible force into—what? Would she ever know? Would she ever find out?

Diane Graybar knew. She knew Lyn better than Lyn did herself. Naturally one doesn't spend one's life in show business for nothing, does one, dahling?

As for Gene Roberts—heck, it was the same old moon in Maine as in Miami. And they were all alike to him—rich widows or poor waitresses. That yellow moon was just a perfect prop for nocturnal gallivanting.

Even Bunny Cole caught the fever. And she was through with with love or so she thought. But gosh, there was Gene, tall and handsome. And there was Lyn—beautiful and . . . well, mysterious . . .

For hotel manager Andrew Jameson, the moon meant something else. Andrew was that kind of man. He got what he wanted, moon or no moon—even if he had to kill for it!

Yes, it might have been a dull summer. But it wasn't. Oh, no. The golden she-devil in the starry sky took care of that. Even the dullest of people become a little mad when they are—Moon-kissed

CHAPTER ONE

The telephone on the night-table beside the bed exploded into insistent life, rasping their ears with all the rudeness of an uninvited intruder.

By the soft glow of the pink-shaded lamp on the frill-trimmed dressing-table, accentuated by the three angled mirrors, Jack Lawrence watched the emotions play over the girl's face. Annoyance, disappointment and finally obstinacy appeared on her features, and yet in no way detracted from their piquant beauty. A full lower lip, moist and devoid of lipstick, slid out in a pout.

"Let it ring," she murmured huskily. "Let the damned thing ring its fool head off."

For a moment Jack Lawrence actually considered her suggestion. There was much in favor of it—so much that if the caller only knew, he would probably have chosen to shoot himself rather than let the phone ring further. But he did not know and the bell kept jangling. There would not have been any argument, of that Lawrence was certain, if whoever it was had gotten a good look at the creature who had made the point. All the arguments were on her side; in tact, she herself was on her side at the moment, cleanly voluptuous, with nothing to hide and nothing to hide it under if she tried. The sun-browned hue of flesh was broken only by two extremely narrow bands of white across her hips and her breasts, where a Bikini bathing suit had served as meager protection on the sands of Lake Pontchartrain.

She touched him. "Ignore it, Jack. If it isn't important, then nothing is lost. And if it is, then they'll call back."

Her lips replaced her hand. "Please?"

Jack Lawrence sighed the sigh of a man who is torn between two kinds of duty. It wasn't an easy decision, for one duty—that which he owed her—stemmed from a law of Nature. The other, that which he owed the phone, was a law of Man.

Man won out. "Sorry, baby," he said at last, watching her with amused eyes. "I can't take the chance."

"I can't, either," she said suddenly as her hand leaped across the sheets to the wall where the telephone wire disappeared.

As her fingers closed on it he realized her intent and he yanked back on the black hair of her head. Tears sprang into her eyes as she lay back on the pillow and looked up at him.

"Marcia, girl," he said softly, "it you ever try any more cute tricks like that I'll break your hand."

The phone kept ringing.

Marcia's eyes shifted from his face to the instrument and back again. Her hand moved closer to him. Jack pushed it away and picked up the phone.

For the next few minutes, after identifying himself to the caller, he merely listened, now and then inserting a yes or no or muttering a pointed question. At the same time the girl, Marcia, whose face and figure were not unknown on the billboards and in the newspaper ads that proclaimed the latest movie musicals, kept his eyes busy. Unhampered by any garb whatsoever, she writhed snakily next to him, her astonishingly large but shapely breasts quivering with the effort. It was from that same lovely chest that the famed soaring high C's emitted.

She shifted her torso until her solidly fleshed legs were pinioning his to the mattress. She seized his free hand and guided it gently.

It was five minutes before the voice on the other end stopped with a "See you soon, Jack," and then the line went dead. Lawrence remained where he was, vertical lines creasing his broad forehead, his eyes slits of concentration.

"Who was it, Jacky?" Marcia asked in a tone that indicated she didn't really want to know. "Whoever it was, I hate him. And I'll hate you too if you don't hurry and get back in my good graces."

He gazed down at her inviting loveliness, then ran his hands over the length of the legs which were still touching his. It was almost a sorrowful gesture. Finally, with a visible effort, he tossed the legs aside, rose from the bed and went to the chair over which his uniform was hanging. He started to climb into it.

By the time Marcia had recovered from the shock he was half-dressed.

"Where are you going?" she cried. "Are you angry? Jack! Answer me!"

"Orders, chicken. When the Great White Father calls, the young Captain Lawrence comes running."

"But how did they know you were here? This is my suite and I didn't meet you until just this afternoon. How did they know? Why did they know?"

"Let me put it this way, Marcia," he said as he knotted his tie. "The only reason I'm in New Orleans at all is because I've been waiting for further instructions as to my next post. And when I found out you were in town to plug your new picture and that you were staying at the same hotel, I knew fate had sent you to me to help me while away the hours. So I called headquarters and told them if they couldn't reach me in my room to try this one."

The singer's eyes blazed. This time she tore the phone from the wall and hurled it at him with all her strength.

Jack sidestepped neatly and the piece crashed harmlessly against the chair.

"How dare you treat me like a common streetwalker!"

she screamed. "You—you—you conceited ass!"

Lawrence nodded soberly. "Well, I like you too, Marcia.

But I don't wear my heart on my sleeve. We must be sophisticated about this."

"I'll sophisticate you," she answered. A pillow went the way of the telephone. For all her fury he still had to admire the symmetrical beauty of her nudity as she knelt on the bed, her thighs close together and her bosom shaking angrily.

At first he had been alarmed, but then he recalled that she had done a similar scene—clothed—in a recent picture.

He buttoned his tunic and then put on his garrison cap.

Before the dressing table he checked his appearance, simultaneously feasting his eyes on Marcia's reflection in the mirror. This had indeed been a test of his training. And if the message had been one whit less urgent he would have rationalized a half-hour's delay. But the colonel had taken pains to impress upon him the need for haste. He was being allowed fifteen minutes to get across town to headquarters, and five had already passed.

He turned around to face the now quiet actress. She looked less an idolized movie queen than a thoroughly disheartened young wanton. The storm had passed and in its place was an empty calmness.

She regarded Lawrence out of long-lashed eyes.

"Are you coming back?" she asked softly.

Jack shrugged. "Can't say. Maybe so, maybe not. I've got a hunch I'll be pretty busy, though."

"What doing? You act as if we were in a war or something.

What kind of soldier are you, anyway?" She cocked her head to one side, allowing the shimmering blackness of her hair to flow over her creamy shoulders.

One lock came free and trailed between her rising breasts.

Her hands were flat on her thighs as she knelt, sitting on her bare heels.

"It's a long story, baby," Lawrence said. "Too boring to go into right now. Some other time. Suffice to say that we are in a war," he finished cryptically.

At the door he paused once again, drank in the breathtaking picture she offered, sighed once more at the invisible bonds that forced him to make such impossible sacrifices.

Marcia put her palm to her mouth and blew him a kiss. He threw her a soft salute in return and then he stepped through the door into the hallway. Sacrifice was right. He was reminded of what the tired old infantryman said when the mounted general asked him how he was doing.

"I'm doin' okay, Gen'ral. But I'll be damned if I ever love another country."

That was how strong the colonel's argument had been.

Love of country over pleasures of the flesh. Well, it had happened before and more than likely would again.

Presently, he was standing in front of the hotel, on the edge of the French Quarter, peering into the night for a cab. There were none to be seen so he walked up St. Charles to Canal Street. The broad thoroughfare with the streetcar tracks running up the middle was, during the day, a hustling, bustling place. Now, at four in the morning, it was virtually deserted. The odor of fish intermingled with the pungent smell of chicory, combining to create a stench that was peculiar to New Orleans and no other city. Back of him the neon jungle of the Vieux Carre still throbbed endlessly.

He turned on Canal Street, intending to walk until he found some means of transportation that would get him out to the Port of Embarkation, where Army officers were burning the midnight oil on one of the most trying peacetime problems they had ever had. Blacked-out store windows were banked solidly on his left, the expanse of the street on his right. As he reached the next side-street and started across it he heard the humming rush of a powerful automobile. Thinking it was a cruising taxi, he swung around.

It took him a few instants to locate the vehicle. Then he saw why. It was bearing down toward him without headlights.

Before he could attempt to figure it out the car was abreast of him and was slowing perceptibly.

Lawrence stopped breathing. There was a dark flash of an arm and then a click—and something was hurtling at him through the air, something tossed by the arm in the car. Immediately the vehicle resumed its speed. The object clunked metallically on the sidewalk some ten feet from Lawrence and rolled erratically toward him. Still he did not move. Then, through the haze of surprise came a penetrating flash of light. He remembered that as the thing went into the air there had been an audible snap.

He knew then what the missile was. Hand grenade!

The numbness wore off suddenly and he was moving swiftly toward the only protection he could see—a trash can perched on the near curb. Without hesitation he flung himself behind it. The grenade exploded in a shattering, echoing roar.

Flat on his face behind the barrel, Lawrence heard chunks of hot, hungry metal pepper the can. A huge plate glass window cascaded in a smashing, glittering heap. Fragments ricocheted off the concrete building and whistled off into the darkness. There was a swift tug at his trousers where a jagged piece of steel had reached him only to fail in its effort to tear his flesh.

He lay there for a few moments, getting his breath back, thankful he had heard the telltale snap of the safety trigger of the grenade. It had saved his life, purely and simply.

Shaken, he regained his feet. The car had disappeared.

At the moment Canal Street was still empty, but in a matter of seconds he knew it would be full of inquisitive pedestrians and police. Grabbing his cap from the sidewalk he turned and raced toward the gloom of an alley.

So this was how things were. The colonel had told him it was going to be a rough go, but not this rough. He said things were going to happen in a hurry, but not this fast.

Yet he might have expected as much. From what little he knew of the job, it was indeed a big-league affair. A great deal was at stake. A country. Just one country to begin with, but ultimately it might mean an entire continent and then a hemisphere.

He was running full-tilt through the darkened streets of New Orleans now, headed for the river. It was likely that the would-be assassins would think him dead, but he felt impelled to hurry to the Port. It was possible there would be some people surprised to see him.

Well, anyway, no matter how the case turned out, at least it had started off with a bang.

Outside, a syrupy breeze blew heavily through the palm trees, rattling the fronds, and through the mango groves and the banana trees. At the writing desk in her room of the presidential palace, Victoria Arruba glanced toward the wide-screened windows. She got up and went to the window, sniffing the air. Rain, she thought, more rain.

Overhead, thunderclouds were gathering as for a mass attack.

There had been a time—not so long ago, really—when she looked on rain as the rest of her countrymen did, as a blessing, the lifeblood of the nation's economy. For rain meant that the fruit trees would yield well and huge yields meant dollars and pesos pouring into the coffers of the treasury. All of which meant prosperity and progress. And with those two help—meets, Carlos Arruba could probably remain as president of the republic for as long as he liked. Therefore she experienced a pang of conscience as she watched the first fat drops splatter against the screen. Yes, she used to accept rain as an integral part of life. But that was before she had spent the better part of four years attending school in the United States. Living so long in the mild climate of Maryland she had grown to love the bright, sunshiny days and to hate the rainy ones which meant there would be no picnics or swimming or hikes. The American brand of education had changed her in other ways, too—as Arruba had been only too quick to point out—but this one of the rain was symbolic of all the others.

Well, perhaps eventually she would be able to resign herself to the semitropical climate again—after all, she had returned less than a month before and there were many things to which she had to readjust. The interminable heat, for instance. Like now. The rain was bringing no cool air.

Instead the humidity was as high as ever and her hair was a mass of damp strands. Her dressing gown clung to her body as if it were glued there. Beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip.

Dramatically she flung open the folds of the garment to capture what relief the heavy breeze offered. With the slim length of her bared to the night, the air licked warmly at her throat and the proud projections of her bosom, not unlike the insinuating preparations of an ardent lover.

Odd, she thought, that I should use that simile. No, not so odd, particularly since she had been toiling over a letter to ... to an ardent lover. A former lover, anyhow. And perhaps a future one as well. But it would not do to dwell on lovers who were more than three thousand miles away.

It would be all right to write to him and politely invite him to Iberte to spend the summer, but to let her mind wander back to the glorious nights on Chesapeake Bay and at Virginia Beach—no good. Definitely not.

But then that was one of the hazards of traveling so far to school. Strong bonds—overwhelming ones, really—were created, and distance made it worse than it really was.

Yet Arruba must have known the danger when he first suggested it four years ago. But apparently he felt the chance was worth it if it meant he would have a daughter who could be of great use to him in his operation of the lbertian government. She knew her father had great things in store for her. She knew she was taking the place of the son he had never had. And she also knew she should be concerned with larger more important matters than those of the heart . . . and other portions of her anatomy . . .

Oh, she was so confused! Her childhood had been that of the aristocracy; her dear, dead mother had been a direct 18 descendant of the old royal family of Spain. She herself had been raised in the confines of little Iberte in Central America, speaking and thinking in Spanish. But now she found herself speaking and thinking in English. No, not English, American. And she had known love—wild, excitingly illicit love. How then could she be expected to return to her country full of fervor for a way of life that was almost archaic? Surely her father would realize she should be with other young people and would release her of her promise to devote all her energies to the peons of Iberte.

Or would he?

Rumors were spreading over the country that a powerful opposition party had sprung up and was attracting dissatisfied Ibertians by the score. Murmurs of unrest had been heard. And now and then there were whispers of a rebellion.

On the face of it the whole concept was ridiculous.

Arruba was known throughout the world as a good and generous president. The republic had thrived under his rule. Why there should be any talk of insurrection no one could figure out. But there was talk and even a few isolated instances of clashes between armed civilians and the soldiers.

Being a peaceable man Arruba had never been tempted to form a very strong core of police or uniformed thugs.

Consequently he would be quite unprepared if there was any violence. All of which was good reason for his wanting to gather about him people he could trust. And Victoria was one he could trust.

Still unsettled, she returned to the writing desk and tried to concentrate on her letter. She was on the second page when the white telephone next to her hand tinkled softly.

Victoria picked it up and said, "Yes?"

"This is Colonel Morales," a voice said. "Have you retired yet, Victoria?"

Colonel Alberto Morales, Arruba's military aide. Not yet thirty, he had already made a name for himself as a champion of the people and of the president. Victoria pictured him. Tall, broad-shouldered, with skin the color of burnished mahogany and a clipped mustache. Popular with the ladies . . . and strangely enough, with the men, too.

"No, Alberto," she replied. "I was writing a letter. What is it?"

"I know it's late, but your father was wondering if you would be able to come down to his study. We're in the middle of a conference."

Victoria considered. The bed looked so inviting, and the thought of the study, full of cigar smoke and swarming with fat, old men discussing politics, was repugnant. However, it must be important or else Arruba would never have asked for her at this hour. "Of course, Alberto. I'm not dressed. May I have half an hour?"

"Naturally. We'll see you then. Thank you." The colonel hung up.

It would be nice to not have to bother with dressing at all, but that was out of the question. Her father took a great deal of pride in his daughter's appearance and would expect her to look attractive.

She let the gown slide from her shoulders as she walked to the bureau and opened a drawer. Neat piles of soft-hued lingerie appeared before her eyes. Things she had also bought in the States. It nothing else, she had acquired new tastes in clothes up there. She selected a pair of robin's-egg-blue briefs and inserted her legs and slipped them upwards over the swellings of her hips until the elastic band snapped snugly into place on her trim waist. A strapless bra sufficed to cup her fresh, firm breasts. No need for stockings at this hour. From the closet she took a crisply pressed dress designed to show off her bosom to best advantage. Wide straps and square-cut bodice. The valley between her breasts was barely visible. Then she stepped into low-heeled shoes, holdovers from campus days, and she was ready.

She gave herself a cursory examination in the full-length mirror. Not glamorous, certainly, but the men would not expect it tonight. Her dark hair was pulled back severely into a chignon and tied with a blue ribbon. True, this attire made her look awfully young and innocent, emphasizing her slimness and the clean lines of her legs, but it wouldn't hurt those old fuddy-duddies to get a look at a college girl for a change. Quick movements of her feet made the skirt swirl out brightly and then twist tightly, outlining her thighs and hips. Not bad.

In the hallway she met Juanita, one of the household staff. A tall, slender girl with soft hair and dark eyes and a somber face which rarely smiled, Juanita was rumored to be the illegitimate daughter of a Scandinavian diplomat who had once served in lberte. Scarcely eighteen, she had joined the staff as a sort of lady-in-waiting while Victoria was away to school. Since her return Victoria had attempted to make friends with the girl, but had been rebuffed every time.

Now she smiled at Juanita and started to pass her. The girl put out a tentative hand and looked at Victoria imploringly.

"Senorita. Please, may I speak with you?"

"Why, of course, Juanita. What is it? Anything wrong?"

The girl's answer was a quick nod of her finely molded head.

"I'm in a hurry right now," Victoria said. "Can it wait?"

"Please. No, senorita. You are going to see Don Carlos now, yes?"

Now how did she know that? Victoria said, "Yes."

In the swift rush of words Juanita spilled out her story.

Her brother, Juan Coralon, was a fisherman in one of the seacoast villages, and as such, was the main support of his parents. Recently he had run into bad luck and had not caught many fish and had been unable to make much money and was therefore unable to purchase his annual license. As a result the authorities in the village, Atalan, had impounded his boat until he got a license. Now the family was very hungry—her pay was not nearly enough to feed them all—and she was afraid Juan would get into trouble unless he was able to resume his fishing. Many of the young men without work had taken to stealing and smuggling. Some even had joined the armed bands in the mountains.

When she had finished, Victoria said, "I feel very sorry about this, Juanita. Would you like some money as a help?"

Immediately she realized she had said the wrong thing.

Juanita's shoulders came back and her eyes grew hard.

That odd mixture of Nordic and Indian pride would not allow her to accept charity.

"No, senorita," Juanita snapped coldly. "I do not wish to be a beggar. I merely wanted you to speak with Don Carlos about Juan to see if he could not arrange for Juan to get his boat back."

There was something. Apparently there was a difference between begging for money and asking for political assistance.

Victoria studied the solemn face of the girl. With proper attention, she could be a beautiful creature. The bone structure of the face was really striking, combining the strength of Scandinavia with the delicacy of the ancient Aztecs. A firm mouth and flashing eyes slightly canted at the corners. Victoria felt peculiarly drawn to the girl, fascinated by her appearance and attracted by the appealing look of helplessness that had forced her to compromise her pride in requesting help.

"Why, I don't think there should be much trouble, Juanita.

I'm sure if you went to my father he would be more than happy to intercede."

Juanita shook her head fearfully. "But he is the presidente," she whispered.

Victoria understood. "All right. Don't you worry about it anymore. I'll see my father. By tomorrow Juan will have his boat back. That's a promise." As a binder she put her hand on the girl's. Beneath her fingers the skin was smooth and firm.

Something like an electric spark leaped between them.

The girl looked at her strangely, sucked in her cheeks and then turned and raced down the hall.

Victoria watched her go, a little jealous of her clean-limbed height and the animal-like grace of her movements.

Now why should she be jealous of a peasant girl?

Or was it jealousy?

The door to her father's study was slightly ajar and she paused there to regain her composure. The meeting with Juanita had been more disturbing than it should have been.

Her fingers still tingled from the brief contact. Her breathing was not as regular as it was five minutes earlier. The garment that held her breasts seemed suddenly binding.

Unreasonably so.

Voices came through the doorway. Feeling guilty, Victoria listened. She recognized the modulated, persuasive tones of the president.

"So gentlemen," Arruba was saying, "we are agreed that this is a national emergency. And we are also agreed that I have done right in asking for aid from the United States. Much as I dislike to use force of arms I have no choice. Unless we act and act quickly we are in imminent danger of being embroiled in a revolution. Now, Morales, how long do you think it will be before the rebels are prepared to march?"

There was a long pause. Then Colonel Morales spoke.

"Twenty days at the outside, sir. My men report large concentrations of men and equipment in the mountains to the south. They are not ready today, but in a few weeks, when they have accumulated sufficient guns and ammunition, they will be more than ready."

"Doesn't give us much time, does it?" Arruba murmured.

"Enrique—" That would be Enrique Valdes, the Foreign Minister. "Enrique, are you certain there is no way of settling this peacefully? Can there be no arbitration whatsoever? Or must we have this blood bath?"

Victoria pictured the huge, bluff Valdes. He talked a great deal and treated her like an idiot child, but he was nice all the same.

"Don Carlos," he rumbled, "you must know it is impossible.

Perhaps if they were mere bandits or brigands, then we could bargain. But they are not. I'm convinced that lberte has been selected as a testing ground. Just as Spain was, in 1937. And Ethiopia. And Korea. No, Don Carlos.

There is no bargaining or compromising with these people.

They are controlled by the communists and they intend to sweep through our country and then the rest of Central America. Mexico will follow. Ultimately all countries below the Rio Grande will be an armed camp—an ideal jumping-off place for a Russian attack on the United States."

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