The Spiked Death E-Book

Cora Buhlert

• Herausgeber: Cora Buhlert
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

All Constance Allen wanted was to dance with her fiancé at the annual charity ball for police widows and orphans. But when your fiancé is Richard Blakemore, the man hiding behind the steel mask of the mysterious vigilante only known as the Silencer, even such simple wishes are often thwarted. And so Constance finds herself stood up at the ball, while Richard is out hunting Baron Tormento, a villain who terrorizes the city and blackmails powerful men – by torturing young girls to death. At first, it's just another case for the Silencer, albeit a particularly grisly one. But it quickly gets personal, when Richard's friend police captain Justin O'Grady is kidnapped. And soon Constance finds herself facing Baron Tormento's spikes of death… This is a novelette of 14700 words or approx. 45 print pages in the Silencer series, but may be read as a standalone.

Leseprobe

The Spiked Death

by Cora Buhlert

Bremen, Germany

Copyright © 2011 by Cora Buhlert

All rights reserved.

Originally published in Man's Story 2 No. 8

Cover image: © Inga Dudkina, Dreamstime.com

Pegasus Pulp Publications

Mittelstraße 12

28816 Stuhr

Germany

www.pegasus-pulp.com

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.”