Naked Cruelty. Colleen McCullough

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СКАЧАТЬ the way of its claws. “Silly!” Robbie cried. “If your English were more locally colloquial, you’d realize what he said was a clever pun.”

      “In a pig’s eye it was,” said Kurt, demonstrating just how colloquial he could get. He turned on his heel and walked off.

      The twins watched him go, looking at each other in glee.

      “He’s so thin-skinned,” Robbie said, putting his arm around Gordie’s waist and turning toward their house.

      “Prussians were never my favorite people,” Gordie said.

      “How many have you met, sweetest?”

      “Kurt.”

      “They say he’s loaded. Oh, and that face! It’s to die for. Why didn’t Mother Nature give us Kurt’s face?”

      “Our face is fine, it suits our style,” said Gordie. “We have plasticity! Kurt has the face of a marble statue.”

      “True, true. They say his papa has an enormous factory.”

      “Which little bird twittered that?” Gordie demanded.

      “Babs, the waitress in Joey’s diner.”

      “Is there anything Babs doesn’t know?”

      “The identity of the fellow WRHM and HN are calling the Dodo.”

      “A putrid fowl.” Gordie shuddered.

      They walked together through their red-lacquered front door and divested themselves of their jackets: a dark grey one for Robbie and an ecru one for Gordie.

      “Dark—light—dark—light—dark—light,” Gordie chanted, skipping nimbly from a black tile to a white one on the tesselated floor, a caricature of an over-sized child.

      “Stick to the white,” Robbie said, leaping on a black tile.

      “Light!” said Gordie, on a white tile.

      “Dark!”

      “Light!”

      “Dark!”

      “Light!”

      Which finished their dance; they had reached the living room doorway and encountered a geometrically crazed carpet in black and white. Laughing, they flopped into easy chairs, Gordie in a white one and Robbie in a black one, breathless and happy.

      “Do you think it’s time we told Aunt Amanda where we are?” Gordie asked.

      “Patience, twinnie-winnie, patience.”

      “Our clown and check will go to San Diego, and you know we’re renting the house to strangers. What if they pinch our present?”

      But Robbie’s mind still dwelled on their neighbor.

      “There was a professor named Kurt

      Who wore a plutonium shirt;

      A mushroom-shaped cloud

      Did Kurt really proud

      When the garment proved far from inert.”

      “Very good, Robbie! I love your limericks.”

      “The Dodo’s victims do have one thing in common,” Delia said the following Monday, the last day of the month.

      “Expound,” said Carmine.

      “None of the seven has what I’d call a menial job, though there are several thousand Carew women working at menial jobs. Shirley is an archivist—extremely thin on the ground. Mercedes is a dress designer, but not a struggling would-be. She’s the chief designer of that famous boutique line, “Cobweb”. Leonie’s a brilliant mathematician, working at Chubb and surrounded by men who regard her as a freak. Esther was on a fast track at East Holloman State College teaching the more esoteric aspects of commerce— apparently her teaching abilities were outstanding. Marilyn is the one I’d call unlucky, in that she should have been in Alberta working the digs there—she came home unexpectedly. No, the Dodo didn’t send her any trick messages, the summons was genuine. Natalie buys women’s clothes from factories for Huxley’s department stores. She has an unerring instinct for what women are going to want to wear, so Huxley’s are feeling her absence severely. And Maggie, as we all know, is a bird physiologist at Chubb, no mean feat,” Delia said.

      “That’s an impressive list, even for 1968,” said Helen, taking over from Delia. “It suggests to us that the Dodo is well aware what his victims do professionally. He’s an intellectual snob, and we’re guessing that file clerks, waitresses and cleaning ladies are safe. Also undergraduates. All his victims so far have been old enough to acquire at least one degree.”

      “How does he find out their professions?” Carmine asked with a frown. “There’s a list of Gentleman Walkers and their occupations, but the most Sugarman does with women is to write them down on his list for a party. Helen, your job is to check how many of them are on Sugarman’s party lists. We can’t hope for that from Mason Novak, he’s too disorganized.”

      “He must be organized at work,” Delia said.

      “You’re right, he must be. However, the Walkers have no idea from seeing a girl out and about in Carew whether she’s a doctor or a file clerk. The Dodo must find out the hard way, by multiple break-ins. A woman’s living space will tell him for sure. But it adds to the danger of discovery.”

      “File clerks don’t carry heavy briefcases,” said Nick.

      “No, I believe the Dodo has access to records of some sort. What throws me off are the non-academics,” Delia said. “Two of them, a dress designer and a dress buyer. Both women’s wear, yet not really related. How does one find out about them?”

      “Walk up to them in a shop and ask, with a very charming smile?” Nick said, half joking.

      “He’s a snob in all kinds of ways,” said Helen, tired of Nick. “He doesn’t use a foreign object during his rapes, except maybe his fist, but that’s a part of his body. It interests Delia and me that the most strenuous tussles he had with his victims were before he put socks on their feet and cut their nails. We think he’s taking precautions for later in the night, when he might flag a little himself. Those long, huge erections must take a heavy toll. I mean, sex is a pleasure, but it’s also something you have to work at, especially the man.”

      “Has anything further turned up about the books? It seems weird to me that the victims don’t remember a title,” Carmine said.

      What a pertinent way to change the subject, Helen thought. The boss could see my frankness made Nick uneasy, so Carmine to the rescue of a fellow man.

      Delia answered. “The smallest library held three hundred books, and all of them contained at least a hundred novels. Most of the novels were old and hadn’t been read in years. All the victims could have named a purloined textbook, but an old novel? They knew one had gone because the shelf held a gap where no gap had been before.”

      “That says it СКАЧАТЬ