Cat People (17 page)

The tall men did not seem to notice. His great luminous eyes watched her intently as she sipped the pink rum drink known locally as a hurricane.

"It's crowded in here, don't you think?"

Actually, Billie did not think so, but she was not about to disagree. "Yes," she said. "Lots of tourists, I guess."

"Can we go somewhere to be alone?"

It was like living out one of her fantasies. Trying to sound calm, she said, "My hotel isn't far from here. The room doesn't have much of a view, but—"

The man was obviously not interested in the view from Billie's room. Before she had the sentence out of her mouth he was signaling for the check, and a minute later they were leaving the bar, he with an intimate grip on her arm.

An hour after that both were in Billie's bed in the Hotel Emile Zola, naked. But Billie's romantic fantasy had come to a limp end some minutes before. Paul eat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, staring morosely at the floor. Billie reclined beside him, stroking his bare back.

"Don't be upset, Paul," she told him. "These things happen sometimes."

Without looking at her, Paul said, "You're a nice girl, Billie. I like you."

"Well, that's no problem," she said. "I like you too."

"You don't understand."

Billie squirmed around on the bed and rubbed her hand across his flat stomach, down to his groin. It was remarkable, she thought, how little hair he had on his body. And his skin was so smooth. Like a baby's.

"You're just a little nervous," she said. "Lie back. Relax."

Paul sighed. A deep sigh brought up from his soul. He let Billie ease him down on the bed.

"Every time I pray it won't happen," he said. "God knows I don't want to—"

"Hush now," Billie said. "It's not the end of the world. You just lie there and let Billie do the work for a change."

He lay back flat on the bed, staring at the ceiling as Billie kissed his chest, his stomach. Her hot Little tongue explored his navel.

Billie felt the tension grow in his muscles as her lips brushed the silky hairs at his groin. She cupped his testicles in her hand, squeezing them gently.

Paul moaned. His flaccid penis stirred. He started to sit up.

Billie pushed him back down. "There, there, love, you just let me take care of this."

He lay back again, hie arms straight at his sides, hands balled into fists.

Billie stroked the shaft of his penis. It grew. She kissed the head.

"There, you see?" she said, her lips touching the velvety flesh. She opened her mouth and took him inside.

Paul tried to protest as Billie's lips closed over him, but the words would not come. The warm, wet inner mouth sucked at him, caressed him, brought him rapidly toward the release he so badly craved. And feared. It was too late now to stop it. He raised his hands to his face, saw the fingers bent into claws.

His back was pressing on something cold. There was a bright light shining in his face beyond his closed eyelids. He heard the splash of running water.

Paul opened his eyes. It took a moment for him to get oriented. He was lying naked on the tile of a bathroom floor. Water was running from the faucet into the sink above him. He looked at himself. His bare skin was moist and paler than ever.

It had happened again.

He got shakily to his feet and stood before the bathroom mirror with both hands braced on the sink. He turned off the blasting cold water and leaned closer to the glass to study his reflection. His pale, smooth flesh was unmarked, except for a flap of grayish membrane that adhered to his stomach. He peeled it off as one would peel a sunburn, raised it to his mouth and ate it.

He dreaded opening the bathroom door, but there was no postponing it. He had to go out through the bedroom. He wiped his face on one of the hotel towels and went out.

It was as bad as he feared. Blood was everywhere—in soggy pools on the carpet, spattered on the walls, even a streak of dark red on the ceiling. The rumpled bed sheets were soaked crimson. Tangled up in the bloody bedclothes were bits and pieces of the woman who had been Billie Haines, insurance secretary from Seattle.

Paul stepped carefully over the blood-soaked patches of carpet to the chair where his clothes lay neatly folded. On the floor near his shoes was a hand. It had been severed well above the wrist. Broken bones and gristly tendons protruded from the raw end. The hand lay palm up, the fingers reaching out as though in supplication.

He put on his clothes quickly, being careful not to look at the hand. When he was dressed, he eased open the door and peered out into the hall. For the moment it was deserted. He slipped out of Billie's room, letting the door latch behind him. He walked swiftly past the elevators, heading for the stairway.

Oliver was tired when he keyed open the door to his little house on Burgundy Street. Riding around for hours in a vibrating helicopter, looking for the elusive black leopard, had led him with an aching back and a throbbing head. The thought of spending a relaxed evening at home with Irena cheered him.

He walked into the house. There were no lights on downstairs, and the room was in deep shadow.

"Irena?"

"Over here, Oliver."

He jumped at the sound of her voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw her sitting at his writing table, hands folded in her lap. He walked over to her.

"Are you all right?" He looked closer and saw the redness of her eyes. "You've been crying."

"A terrible thing happened today," she said.

"What?" Visions of monstrous attacks on the girl flashed through his tired mind.

There was a shoe box on the writing table. Irena pulled it over between them and gently unwrapped the tissue paper inside. Oliver looked in at the tiny body of the parakeet, then back at Irena.

"It's Peppy."

"I'm so sorry, Oliver."

He took the girl's hands and pulled her up so she stood facing him. "Darling, Peppy was just a bird. Birds die. He was getting old for a parakeet, anyway."

"He didn't just die, Oliver. I killed him."

"What do you mean?"

"I was only playing with him. I didn't want to hurt the little thing. I just reached into the cage to touch him and ... and he fell over. He was dead."

"You couldn't help that," Oliver said.

"No, listen to me, I think I frightened him to death."

"That's foolish, Irena. I told you Peppy was an old bird. It isn't your fault in any way." He put his arms around her, but she did not respond. Looking over her shoulder he saw for the first time her suitcase sitting on the floor next to the table.

"What's that?"

"It's better that I leave here, Oliver."

"Don't talk crazy. It was only a bird."

"That's not all of it. This afternoon I went downtown to a store where they sell birds. I was going to buy you a new one. But when I walked into the store all the birds started acting strangely. The closer I came to them, the more frantic they were. There's something wrong with me, Oliver. Those birds were terrified of me."

"Be reasonable, Irena. There could be any number of explanations for what happened."

"It's in the blood. That's what Paul told me. My mother and father, the way they died, now my brother. It's a taint that could be in my blood too. I don't want to involve you."

"Stop it," Oliver said. "There is no reason for you to believe that whatever has happened to Paul has anything to do with you."

"I think it does," she said quietly. "It will be better for both of us if I leave."

"You can't!" Oliver blurted. Then more calmly he added, "You can't leave, because I love you."

The tears Irena had been holding back spilled over and rolled down her cheeks. She hugged him. "Oliver, oh, Oliver, how can you love me when you know what I am? What I might become?"

"Hush, darling. This has been a rough couple of days for you."

"It'e not just what's been happening, it's what can happen in the future."

"Did you hear me say I love you?"

"Y—yes."

"I didn't mean just for tonight. What I mean is there will be two of us standing together in the future. You won't have to fight alone."

Irena looked up into his face. There was a hunger in her eyes. "Oh, I want so much to believe it can be that way."

"It can, darling," he said. "It can be any way we want to make it."

He kissed her, and this time she responded with her whole body. But after a minute she pulled away again.

"What if I told you I can't go to bed with you? Would you still want me to stay?"

"There's no rush about that. I want everything to be right for us."

"No, Oliver, I mean what if I could
never
make love to you the way I want to?"

"We'll talk about it," he promised, "but not tonight. We're both too tired to make heavy decisions. Let me take your bag back up to your room."

Irena did not object as he carried her suitcase up the stairs to her bedroom. They kissed lightly as she stood in the doorway, then Oliver left her and went to his own bed. He lay there for a long time running their conversation over in his mind, trying to understand what it meant.

Shortly after dawn he was awakened by the insistent ringing of the telephone. He stumbled down the stairs and grabbed the instrument, still not fully awake.

"Yeah?"

"Oliver? This is George Brant."

"Who?"

"Detective Sergeant George Brant, New Orleans Police Department."

"Oh, yeah. What's the matter?"

"I'd like you to come down to the Hotel Emile Zola. There's been a killing here."

"Somebody I know?"

"A tourist. Her name was Billie Haines."

Oliver was rapidly waking up and getting irritable. "The name means nothing to me. What's the matter, Sergeant, don't you have enough detectives?"

"This looks like the work of your leopard."

"In a hotel?"

"Don't ask me how or why, but that's what it looks like. The Haines woman was literally torn to pieces in her room. I've seen a lot of murder victims, but I've never seen one ripped apart like this. No human being could do it."

"All right," Oliver said, "I'll be there as soon as I can."

He hung up and stood for a moment frowning down at the telephone. What the hell kind of a cat was this? Massage parlor? Hotel? He picked up the phone again and called Alice Moore.

"Can you be ready to go downtown in ten minutes?" he said when her sleepy voice came on the wire.

"I guess so. What's happening?"

"You wouldn't believe it over the phone. I'll fill you in on the way downtown."

He loped back up the stairs and met Irena standing in the hall outside her room.

"What is it?" she asked.

"There's been ... some new evidence of the leopard. They want me to check it out."

Irena started to turn back toward her door. "I'll get dressed and go with you."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Oliver said. "You stay here, and I'll get back as soon as I can."

Irena's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you just call Alice?"

"That's right. Alice is a professional, and she can be helpful to me."

"And I'd just be in the way."

"Please, Irena, this is just something that I have to handle."

"You and Alice."

"Well ... yes, damn it."

Irena turned and walked into her room. She closed the door firmly behind her. Oliver started to follow, then thought, to hell with it, and continued to his own room to get dressed.

The Hotel Emile Zola was not one of the Old World establishments with wrought-iron balconies that are found throughout the French Quarter. Neither was it one of the gleaming new high-rises along Canal Street. Built in the 1950s, it was a conservative-looking place that catered to families and tour groups. It offered a minimum of frills at reasonable prices, all within easy walking distance of the Quarter.

The lobby was in a turmoil when Oliver and Alice walked in. Policemen were arguing with a loud news crew from a local television station, members of the hotel staff were apologizing to the guests, and everybody was talking at once.

Sergeant Brant bulled his way through the confusion to Oliver and Alice. He led them past the police guard into an elevator.

Brant punched the button for the third floor. "I'm not sure the lady ought to see this," he said.

"If you mean me," Alice said, "I didn't come all the way down here to go fetch coffee."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"Alice will be all right," Oliver assured him.

"Whatever you say."

The third-floor hallway was Tilled with policemen who were directing unofficial traffic away from room 312. Brant pushed open the door and stood aside so the newcomers could see.

Alice gasped. Oliver felt a lump of bile rise in his throat. The detective watched their reaction with a certain grim satisfaction.

"You tell me," he said, "could a man have done something like this?"

Oliver swallowed hard. "They say Jack the Ripper left them pretty bloody sometimes."

"But he used a knife. Like I told you on the phone, this woman was ripped apart."

"Didn't anybody hear anything?" Oliver asked.

"Oh, sure. Neighbors in the next room heard what sounded like animal growls. Also some screams. Trouble is, they didn't think about reporting it until after the body was found."

"Why on earth not?" Alice asked.

"They thought it was part of a tour group from South America having some fun. Didn't want to get involved."

"Wonderful," Oliver said drily.

"Nobody remembers seeing the victim come in last night. Her roommate was out on some party of her own. She came tiptoeing in about 4 A.M., and this is what she found.

Oliver knelt to examine a disembodied hand that lay on the blood-soaked carpet. The marks on the ragged flesh were almost certainly teeth.

"It does look like an animal attack," he said. "A particularly vicious one."

"There's something else I want to show you," Sergeant Brant said.

He beckoned Oliver over to the bed. "Walk around the outside edge of the carpet. There's no blood out there." When Oliver joined him he pointed to the wall above the headboard of the bed. "Our friend might as well have left his signature."