I shuddered, but—put a brave smile on my face. He went away and got the gadget, it was no thicker than a pencil, and half as long as a cigarette. He handed it to me so I could study it. It would fit inside me like a Tampon, I decided. As a matter of fact, I intended to wrap it inside a Tampon, just as soon as I made a phone call.

  John Haverford was muttering to himself all the way back to his office. The gist of his speech was that he didn’t like it, not at all, and that I was one damn fool even to try it.

  I dragged him inside his cubicle and pushed him into the easy-chair, “Now listen to me, John. I know the boss of bosses, but I can’t prove it. I have nothing that will hold up in a law court. We have to catch this bastard in the act, so to speak.”

  “I realized who the guilty man was yesterday. Only two people knew I was going to the Sticky Wicket. You’re one of them.” I gave him a big smile. “I don’t believe you’re connected with the Mafia, so it has to be the other guy.”

  “All right, I’ll buy your reasoning. But why?”

  “Ian Clevering gave me the idea. We both felt the Sticky Wicket was like a mousetrap, but when Ian pointed out that somebody has to set a mousetrap, it came to me. Those three killers in that bedroom, and that night clerk who brought me to them, knew damn well I was going to go there. How did they know?”

  “They were told,” he muttered. “Right on. I didn’t tell them, I don’t think you did. It was the other man, who knew I was coming to Selcombe to try and free Ian Clevering, who telephoned them and told them to kill me. His orders were very explicit. I wasn’t to be given a chance. I was to be shot dead at sight.”

  My Smile grew reminiscent, “Fortunately, those musclemen were a little hard up where it comes to sex. It had been a while for them with a girl. And I’m accounted rather sexy. Let’s say they decided to enjoy themselves before they did me in.”

  “And you used your sex as a weapon. Clever girl.”

  “I’m goin to use my sex again.” I held up the transmitter. “I’m going to hide this on me before I go out to dinner tonight. You know where. This gadget is going to give off an electronic signal you’ll be able to follow without seeing where I’m going.

  “I want you to wait until I’ve been taken to some lonely spot, John. Give the Mafia boys a chance to betray themselves. Then I want you to move in. We’ll have them all neatly wrapped up as in a Christmas package.”

  “I just hope nothing goes wrong.”

  “If it does—I’m dead,” I told him gloomily. Then I reached for his telephone. Freddy Baxter answered, bubbling over with enthusiasm as usual. “Cherry, how are you? It’s good to hear from you.” He paused slightly, then added, “I hope I’m going to see you tonight? I’ve arranged a special dinner for you, something I’m sure you’ll love.”

  I waited a moment, knowing what he was going to say. Freddy didn’t disappoint me.

  “You’re probably tired of the usual London places, such as The Empress of Tiberio’s or Willton’s. I’m going to suggest a moonlight ride into the countryside, to a restaurant and inn I know. It’s called the Cock and Bottle, in Ascot. Not a far drive, really.”

  I winked at John-baby. “Freddy, it sounds out-a-site. I’ll be ready at—when? Eight? I want to look my best, you know.”

  His voice caroled, “Eight will be fine, Cherry. Pick you up at the Grosvenor.”

  We said sweet things to each other, than hung up. “The bastard,” I said flatly. “I told you he’d take me out to some remote place to do his dirty work. Well, that’s where it’s going to be, the Cock and Bottle in Ascot.”

  John Haverford shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Freddy Baxter Are you sure, Cherry?”

  “As sure as I’m standing here. And that reminds me. My legs are like rubber. I’ve been through a lot lately, I’m going back to the hotel to sleep.”

  John-baby patted my hand, “You’re not to worry, now. I’ll have men in Ascot and surrounding the Cock and Bottle long before you’ll arrive. This is in the bag.” He rubbed his hands gleefully,

  I drove to the Grosvenor House, crawled into the elevator and into bed, and slept like a little child. I didn’t even dream. My alarm clock woke meat six-thirty. I yawned and stretched, planning my wearing apparel before I slid out of bed and into the shower.

  After I was dry and had rubbed powder and perfume over my girlish figure, I slipped the transmitter inside a tampon—it made a very narrow fit and then inserted it in the proper place. I walked naked around the bedroom for a few moments to make certain it was comfortable.

  My body electricity would power it, as long as I was alive. Even now, signals were going out to John-baby and the other N.Y.M.P.H.O. agents, telling them where I was. Then I remembered. I didn’t really need the gimmick, I already knew where we were going.

  I left it in me, anyhow. Then I chose a baby doll dress with ruffled lace bib that gave me a demure, innocent-girl look. Of course, it was mini-length and I wore wicked black nylons with it, to add a suggestion of naughtiness. A matching Park Lane handbag filled out the ensemble.

  I was in the lobby a few seconds before Freddy Baxter arrived. He came toward me with that bouncy stride of his, both hands extended to catch my hands and hold them while he beamed his admiration at me.

  “You’re absolutely smashing, pet,” he exclaimed! He sure didn’t sound-like a Mafia capo di capo. “I wanted to look my best for you, Freddy,” I murmured.

  As we walked toward Park Lane where he’d left his car, with me holding onto his arm, Freddy kept looking down at me in utter admiration. From time to time he shook his head.

  “I just don’t believe you,” he said finally. “You have all the appearance of a girl who might have just come out of a convent school. But you’ve broken the back of the Mafia here in London, you’ve freed a dozen gambling hall owners of a threat they wouldn’t have been able to deal with, by themselves. It’s incredible.”

  “Flattery will get you anything,” I dimpled. He laughed, bent to open the door of a costly Iso Grifo. I let my eyes go over its low lines, the blue tints of its body job, the wire wheels. There was a Corvette motor under this Bertone body, I knew, and the Iso Grifo was capable of doing one hundred and sixty miles an hour.

  In a race, he would far out-distance any cars John Haverford or the rest of the N.Y.M.P.H.O. boys would be in; I was damn glad John-baby knew where we were going. Of course, since I was wearing the transmitter, they could trail us no matter how fast Freddy was traveling.

  He started out of London along Clerkenwell Road and Old Street, then swung north onto Kingsland Road. I blinked in surprise, burrowed deeper into the blue cushions of the Iso Grifo and murmured something about the Cock and Bottle being in Ascot, which was in the opposite direction.

  “Oh, I changed my mind about that,” he told me off—handedly. “I know a better place, more intimate.”

  My heart sank right out of my shoes. John Haverford and the N.Y.M.P.H.O. boys were in Ascot. I would be somewhere else. John-baby wouldn’t have anybody monitoring the transmitter inside my vaginal walls, figuring there was no need for this; I would arrive at the Cock and Bottle, there was no need to waste time and money by employing men in a useless job.

  I pressed the Park Lane bag deeper into my stomach, to put an end to the fluttering butterflies. Inside it, the weight of my Colt automatic was slightly reassuring, but I told myself I would never get a chance to use it.

  Maybe I could pull it out now, threaten Freddy with it, make him turn around and take me back to the Grosvenor House. It would have worked, I think. But my job was to get the goods on Freddy Baxter; it would mean I was chickening out, if I were to turn tail and run back to safety at this stage of the game.

  And N.Y.M.P.H.O. was paying me a damn good salary to take such risks as this. Aloud I said, and tried to make my voice convincing, “Freddy, you’re adorable! You’re always thinking of ways to make a girl happy, it seems.”

  He turned his face from the road for a second to look at me. He had that same smile plastered on his lips, but for the first time since I’d known him, there was a mean, cold look in his blue eyes. It did not last long, it was there a moment and then it was gone, but I read enough of his inner emotions to know just where I stood.

  I was the pig being carried to market. To be slaughtered. John Haverford was far away in Ascot at the Cock and Bottle, waiting fruitlessly for a girl who would never appear there. I got a cold feeling at the base of my spine, and the butterflies came back.

  “I’d go to a lot of trouble for you,” he said softly, turning his eyes back to the road. I’d just bet he would

  Out beyond the city limits, Freddy opened up the Iso Grifo. He did about eighty miles an hour for a time, then slowed when the road became narrower. It was dark-time, of course, but the powerful headlights slashed white paths through the blackness. He was a good driver, in complete control of his powerful machine.

  Epping Forest lay ahead, already we could see its trees against the glow of lights from Waltham Abbey. We drove through the night in a void of silence, me busy with my thoughts, Freddy sitting there with a triumphant little quirk at the corners of his mouth.

  Where our headlights picked out the silver birches, Freddy made a left turn. We rode with trees on all sides, it was as if we’d left our century behind us and were back in an England that used to be, long ago. Epping Forest is only twelve miles long and roughly two miles wide, but I was not as much interested in these woods as I was with what was going to happen when we got out of them.

  Lights lit up the road ahead. I made out a wooden sign with the pictures of a cornucopia on it. The name in gilded letters below read: The Horn of Plenty. Freddy Baxter turned the Iso Grifo into the yard and shut off the ignition.

  His hand reached out and grabbed my handbag. “End of the road, Cherry,” he smiled, tearing the bag from my fingers. His action so took me by surprise that I was quite unprepared for it.

  “Why, Freddy!” I said innocently, turning my face toward his.

  “Out,” he snarled. “Freddy,” I said sweetly, “you don’t stand the chance of a snowball in Hell. Honestly you don’t. Your real name is Salvatore Macciaconti.” He blinked at that, surprise showing on his face. “You’re the head of the Mafia operation here in London, your own gambling hall never lost a cent to those Mafia musclemen who went into the other places and broke their banks a number of times.”

  “Damn you,” he whispered. “You made a great big boo-boo, Freddy, when you set that trap for me at the Sticky Wicket. Only you and John Haverford knew where I was going. You phoned your bully-boys to meet me there, to kill me. I was just a little too smart for them.

  “As I’m about to be too smart for you. Sure, I told my fellow agents I was going to the Cock and Bottle in Ascot. They have men surrounding the place now.”

  “I planned for such an eventuality. You aren’t the only one with brains.”

  “Ah, but I have an ace up my sleeve,” I told him airily. I didn’t feel all this confident, you understand, but I always try to keep my opponents on edge.

  “It’ll be up a dead sleeve,” he snarled. “My boys have fallen down against you because you were a girl. They underestimated you. I don’t, I’m damned scared of you.”

  He put his hand in my handbag, lifted out the Colt automatic, turned its barrel at me. “Into the pub, Cherry. And don’t try any funny business. I’ll shoot to kill.”

  I shrugged, put a hand on the door handle and pushed it. I stepped out into the night. Three husky men were coming from the Horn of Plenty, walking toward us slowly. Each man had a gun in his hand.

  Well, here we go again, I told myself. I was unarmed, I was facing four men with guns and the willingness and ability to use them. It had happened to me before, I told myself, and pray God it would happen again. At some distant date, with luck.

  I sauntered toward the musclemen. There would be no using sex to tempt them into making a no-no. The boss of bosses was right behind me, my gun in his hand just about touching my spine. I was going to have to use all my wits to get out of this bind.

  For openers, I said sweetly, “There are three cars following us here, boys. If you kill me, you’ll be dead Cherry yourself.”

  The three musclemen grinned, but their eyes went beyond me to where Freddy was following at my heels. He snarled, “Don’t believe a word the bitch says. She’s full of tricks. She’s a goddamn magician.”

  I let unconcern ooze from my words. “You’ve followed this boss of bosses, done everything he’s told you—and where’s it got you? His whole operation has broken down, the gambling hall owners are allied, now. You won’t pull any more fast ones on them. They know Freddy Baxter is behind all this business, Your outfit is finished and done with, in England.”

  My Colt automatic jabbed my spine. “Inside the pub, hole!”

  I walked with swinging hips. The eyes of the musclemen surrounding me showed worry. They didn’t want to get arrested and thrown into an English pokey. On this side of the Atlantic, the law didn’t kowtow to Family hoods. English justice is fast and severe.

  One of the men said, “Maybe she’s right, boss. Maybe we ought to cut and run. The job here is ended, no matter what happens to her.”

  “It matters what happens to her,” Freddy was saying. “It matters a whole damn lot.” I noticed he’d lost his English accent, or was playing it down. “It’ll teach those other N.Y.M.P.H.O. slobs We mean business.”

  I walked up the front steps. The door was open invitingly. Freddy was right behind me. One glance inside the pub showed it was empty. This place—along with the Sticky Wicket—was Mafia property. I was reasonably sure it was empty, excepting for the welcoming committee which was even now marching me inside to do me in.

  At the open doorway, I stumbled. Deliberately. My left hand went to the door-frame. My fingers tightened for greater leverage.

  In the same moment, I kicked backward with my right foot.

  The heel landed on Freddy’s shin. Hard. He let out a howl of agony. I whirled, grabbed his gun-wrist and yanked him toward me. At the same time I stepped into the big common room, reached for the heavy oaken door, and slammed it shut.

  On Freddy’s wrist.

  I damn near broke it, I think. Freddy screeched. His fingers opened and the Colt automatic dangled on them for a moment. I snatched it, yanked the door open and fired two shots.

  Freddy Baxter was big as life in that doorway opening. There was no way my shots could miss him. I saw two holes leap into being in his middle. His ashen face stared at me, eyes huge and glittering in the electric lights that brightened up the pub’s interior.

  He was dead or dying on his feet. I lifted my foot, kicked him in the stomach, sent him flying backward into the arms of his three musclemen. They were on the steps, all this had happened so fast—in a matter of ten seconds or even less—that they were frozen with shock and surprise.

  His body catapulted into them, sending them off the steps. I slammed the door on them and ran across the common room. I found the light switch, flicked it. The common room went dark. Then ran back the way I had come, to a window. I hit the glass with the Colt’s barrel.

  My hands and the gun went through the opening framed by the shattered glass. The gun was in my right hand, my left hand held my gun-wrist steady. I sighted along the barrel. My finger squeezed the trigger.

  One of the musclemen was just getting to his feet. My bullet caught him. Smack in the chest and knocked him off his feet. He went down like a log and lay there. The other two bully-boys were running for the shadows that afforded them shelter from my eyes.

  I had touched of three shots. The Colt automatic magazine holds seven bullets. I had four shots left. I didn’t go shooting blindly, I meant to make each shot count. I was running away from that shattered window by this time, I wasn’t going to stand there and make a target of myself.

  I was on the stairs when the two musclemen opened up. They sent a hail of lead flying into the room through that window, and if I’d been standing there my body would have been splattered all over the rugs and flooring. I raced upstairs to one of the bedrooms.

  Very gently I lifted a window that gave me a fine view of the front yard. My two opponents were on their feet, no longer hidden by the bushes. They were staring at the window through which they’d loosed their shots. The inn was silent, seemingly empty. I think they figured I’d just stand there at the window and let them pump their shells at me.

  My Colt edged over the window-ledge. I zeroed my sights on the nearer of the two musclemen. The Colt bucked slightly as I fired.

  My target toppled over into the bushes that had sheltered him. The other man cast a horrified look at his dead body, then flashed a glance up at the bedroom window from which I’d fired.

  He threw away his gun and ran. I watched him go. I couldn’t bring myself to shoot him in the back, though I knew damn well he deserved to die. I sighed. Hell, let him go! The Mafia back was broken in London. My job was done.

  Then I saw the brilliant lights sweeping the road toward which the man was running. I heard car brakes squeal. A voice yelled something and the mafia muscle slid to a halt and raised his arms.

  “Don’t shoot Don’t shoot!” he screamed.

  watched as John Haverford walked into the beams of the headlights, carrying a sub-machine gun. Tears came into my eyes, I’d never been so glad to see anyone in my life.

  The mafia muscle pleaded, “Don’t let her get me the way she got the others. I give up. I’ll talk. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  John beckoned a N.Y.M.P.H.O. agent forward. I saw the headlights gleam on a pair of handcuffs as he swung them open and advanced on the Mafia muscleman who extended his wrists toward them eagerly.

  John yelled, “Cherry? You all right?”

  “Never better. Be right down,” I caroled back. As I came out the front door, John put his arms around me and hugged me. Then he pushed me away and said, “That was a bum steer you gave me. Nobody was at the Cock and Bottle, pet.”

 

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