The Spiked Death

The ballroom of the Hotel Mandalay gleamed with Art Deco splendour and sparkled with a thousand lights. A big band played swing music, people were dancing and waiters flitted to and fro between men in tuxedoes and women in evening gowns.

On the dancefloor, Constance Allen — orphan, heiress and noted beauty — was whirling around with Police Captain Justin O’Grady. For an instant, she was drawn close to O’Grady’s chest. Almost immediately, the captain let go of her again, nearly stumbling over his own feet. A flush of red raced across his stoic face. Constance couldn’t help but smile. Apparently, Justin had just realized that she was not wearing a brassiere tonight.

“Underwear,” Monsieur Gilbert, couturier to the rich and the famous, had exclaimed in horror, when Constance had pointed out the one flaw in the elegant gown of cream-coloured satin he had tailored onto her statuesque frame, “One does not wear underwear with a gown by Gilbert. Do you think La Garbo wears underwear? Jean Harlow? Norma Shearer? Underwear is for the fat and the ugly. A perfect body does not need it.”

Monsieur Gilbert calling her body perfect in his faux French accent had done much to persuade Constance to accept his rather unconventional ideas about proper female dress. Besides, it was a stunning gown and set off her titian hair to perfection. And so Constance had finally agreed to do away with the brassiere, though she had drawn the line at panties. Never, she had told the couturier, would she be seen in public without panties. So, reluctantly, Monsieur Gilbert had come up with something silky and slinky and nigh invisible for underneath and widened the flare of the hip-hugging skirt so it would not show.

Old Mrs Van Aken drifted past in the arms of a potbellied councilman and Constance couldn’t help but wonder how that pinnacle of respectability would react if she knew that Constance was not wearing a brassiere tonight. Most likely, she would be shocked. After all, Mrs Van Aken probably even went to bed laced and boned and corseted up to her neck. It was a miracle that she could breathe at all.

Whereas Constance was beginning to enjoy her scandalous lack of undergarments. The cool touch of the satin was so light on her bare skin that she barely felt it. And in the overcrowded, overheated air of the ballroom it was a relief to be able to draw a deep breath, unconstrained by wires and laces and elastics.

On the downside, Justin O’Grady was very careful to keep his distance, almost as if Constance had suddenly become afflicted with lepers. But then, she hadn’t purchased this gown in the expectation of dancing with Justin. She had hoped she would be dancing with Richard, the man she loved, the man she hoped to marry someday. As usual, fate had different ideas.

The music stopped and Justin led her from the dancefloor, always careful to keep at least a foot of air between them. He was not going to ask her to dance again tonight, that much was obvious. Well, maybe Mrs Van Aken hadn’t quite exhausted that potbellied politician yet. After all, a single girl at a ball couldn’t be too choosy.

“God, I need a drink,” Justin announced, “How about you?”

Constance nodded in agreement and watched as he made his way across the ballroom to the bar only to find himself accosted by Commissioner Johnston’s wife. She sighed. This might take a while.

Next to her, two elderly women were discussing the latest series of crimes to hit the city. Scraps of their conversation drifted over to Constance.

“…calls himself Baron Tormento…”

“…shot George Harriman, can you believe it…”

“…they found the Porter girl, crucified and nude…”

“…impaled on a spike, a most grisly sight…”

In spite of the heat, she suppressed a shudder. Where was Richard, she wondered. What perils was he facing? Damn, she should be by his side, aiding him. Not playing wallflower at the annual charity ball to benefit the Police Widows and Orphans Association.

Suddenly, Constance felt a hand on her bare shoulder. She spun around, only to find herself face to face with Justin O’Grady, a glass in each hand. Martini for Constance, Bourbon for himself.

“Back already?” she asked, taking the glass from him, “I saw the Mrs Johnston corner you and resigned myself to waiting at least half an hour for my drink.”

Justin grinned. “I excused myself and told her that there was a beautiful woman waiting for me.”

The grin vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Constance followed Justin’s gaze and saw that Mrs Johnston was staring at them from across the dancefloor. Like Justin she knew that the commissioner’s wife was an infernal gossip and she could imagine only too well what tales she would be spreading within the hour. Unlike Justin, however, Constance did not care.

“Damn, it’s hot in here,” Justin exclaimed, theatrically wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, “I need air. If you’d excuse me, please.” He bowed and was gone.

Constance looked after him as he strutted towards the huge plate glass doors that led out onto the terrace. She could, she spontaneously decided, use some fresh air herself. So she spun around in a whirl of cream-coloured satin and sauntered after Justin, Martini in hand.

The evening air was pleasantly cool, though unfortunately it also served to illustrate one major drawback of bra-less existence, as certain parts of her anatomy suddenly became a lot more perky. On the upside, she could breathe freely, which had to count for something.

The rooftop terrace of the Hotel Mandalay was deserted except for a young police sergeant who was making out with a platinum haired beauty on a deck chair beside the pool. Constance ignored them and made her way to O’Grady. She found him leaning at the balustrade, looking down at the streets and houses far below. Or maybe he was just staring into his whisky glass. It was hard to tell.

“Enjoying the quiet?” she asked.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

“Why not? The air in there truly was beyond stuffy.”

“You’re giving Mrs Johnston ideas.”

“Screw Mrs Johnston!”

O’Grady’s eyebrows rose at that unladylike expression. Though he should know by now that Constance wasn’t exactly a lady, even if she could mimic one to perfection.

“I am a happily engaged woman. Even if I’m without a partner tonight.”

O’Grady sighed. “Tell me the truth.”

Constance flinched as she always did when someone asked her that particular question.

“It’s not that I don’t enjoy dancing with the most beautiful woman in the room tonight…”

She flashed him a smile.

“…but really, Constance, what is it that’s keeping Richard from his duties? Again.”

Her smile faded. “He’s working.”

“Hacking away on one of those damned novels of his, I bet.”

The smile returned, though this time around it was forced. “He’s on a deadline,” she said apologetically.

“He’s always on a deadline.” O’Grady replied took a sip of Bourbon. “Honestly, I don’t understand why Richard bothers with those silly pulp novels in the first place. Typing his fingers off, hacking out serial novels at half a cent a word — why? It can’t be the money, I know Richard doesn’t need any.”

Constance looked out across the darkened city sprinkled with pinpoints of light. Somewhere out there was Richard, risking his life to bring justice to the backstreets and alleys, protecting those who had no one else to protect them. True, Richard Blakemore wrote novels. Cheap, gaudy pulp novels about a masked avenger called the Silencer. But that was not all he did. For by night, Richard Blakemore donned a mask of polished steel to stalk the streets in the guise of the Silencer.

“Maybe he likes what he’s doing,” she said quietly, “Maybe he thinks it’s important.”

O’Grady took another sip of Bourbon. “Okay, so he wants to write novels. Fine, I get that. But why can’t he write proper novels like Hemingway or that Steinbeck fellow? Why must he write for those damned junk mags? Even worse, he’s glorifying crime. The Silencer, the real one, is a problem. A huge problem. And Richard is turning him into a hero.”

“Many people…” Constance said, “…believe that the Silencer is a hero. I happen to be one of them.”

O’Grady sighed. “Still carrying a torch for that fellow?”

“He saved my life.” On more than one occasion.

“Yes, I know that the Silencer rescued you from the Scarlet Executioner and his guillotine. And I realize how horrible that experience must have been for you…”

Involuntarily, Constance’s mind flashed back almost two years. She saw herself tied to the guillotine again, she felt the rough caress of the leather straps on her bare skin, she saw the gleaming blade hovering above her, ready to strike, ready to cut her throat at the throw of a lever. No, Justin, had absolutely no idea how horrible that experience had been.

“…but that doesn’t change the fact that the Silencer is a criminal. A killer. No matter how noble his motives, he can’t just take the law into his own hands.”

“Maybe if the law wasn’t out partying…” Constance said with a glance at the assembly of police officers, prosecutors, judges and politicians waltzing behind the plate glass windows of the ballroom, “…while a gruesome killer stalks the city, then maybe then there wouldn’t be a need for the Silencer.”

“Damn it, Constance, that was a low blow! I have my people working double shifts. I have every available man on the street. We will track down Baron Tormento and we will find the missing girls…”

But would he find them in time?

Justin would have said more, but at that moment they were interrupted by a waiter. “Captain O’Grady? There is someone waiting for you downstairs. A police officer.” The waiter wrinkled his nose, as if the fact that there was a police officer in the hotel was incredibly distasteful to him. Which was odd, considering that the hotel was hosting the Police Widows and Orphans Association charity ball and therefore full of police officers.

“Yes, of course, I’ll be down immediately,” O’Grady said, a spooked expression on his face. Without another word he turned around and followed the waiter.

Constance gazed across the glittering city. There was only one reason why Justin would be called away in the middle of the ball. Baron Tormento, the villain who had already murdered two young women. The very man the Silencer was hunting. So if there was news of the Baron, Richard would certainly want to know.

Although, come to think about it, there was another possible reason for O’Grady being called away. The Silencer. So whatever the reason for Justin’s departure, it was either about Richard or about the man he was hunting. In any case, Constance had to hear it. So she picked up the train of her ballgown and went after O’Grady.

Constance attracted some attention as she slipped through various doors labelled “Staff only”, but no one tried to stop her. She caught up with O’Grady at the kitchen entrance. Apparently, the hotel would not tolerate the blot of a police uniform on a more public part of the premises.

The kitchen opened onto a darkened alley. Light spilled onto the pavement, somewhat relieving the gloom. Constance spotted O’Grady conferring with a uniformed patrolman. A second policeman stood close by. Strangely enough, there was no squad car to be seen. Quite possibly it was parked behind the black delivery truck, which blocked half the alley.

Neither Justin nor the two patrolmen had noticed her, they were much too engaged in whatever it was they were discussing. Constance was still too far away to make out words over the noise of the kitchen. But she could tell from the tense expression on O’Grady’s face that it was bad news. She was just about to call out, when a most alarming turn of events stopped her dead in her tracks.

One of the uniformed men suddenly pulled a curious object from his pocket. An object that looked uncannily like a bottle of perfume. As soon as the bottle appeared, O’Grady took a step backwards in alarm. He reached beneath his tuxedo jacket where even on this strictly social occasion he carried his gun.

Justin O’Grady was a quick draw and excellent shot as Constance had had ample opportunity to observe. The man with the bottle, however, was quicker. He gave the rubber balloon a little squeeze and O’Grady collapsed. He would have hit the pavement, had not the second man caught his limp body just in time.

Constance spun around and dashed back towards the light and safety of the kitchen. Out here, she could not help Justin. She was unarmed and outnumbered. No, best to return to the hotel and raise the alarm. All those police officers at the ball would have the entire neighbourhood cordoned off in no time. What was more, she had to find Richard and let him know what happened.

She had almost reached the kitchen door, when all of a sudden the heel of one of her jewelled sandals got caught in a pothole. Constance stumbled and let out an involuntary cry. She got herself under control again almost immediately, but it was too late. The fake policemen had already spotted her. One of them advanced towards Constance, bottle in hand, while the other continued dragging Justin’s unconscious body towards the black truck.