| SLAVES OF THE PREYING MANTIS Part 2 by Noel Burch (nburch@wanadoo.fr) Further adventures of Countess Clara de Mantis, Parisienne righter of wrongs in the 1920s. On New Years Eve, an unfortunate attack of the flu kept me from escorting the Countess to le Bal negre, a fashionable dance hall on the rue Blomet. "At our age", - though spoken over the telephone, this pronoun went straight to my heart - "there is no point in taking chances with one's health. There'll be nothing to amuse you, anyway".... Indeed, that evening, contezza went out solely for her pleasure: she enjoyed dancing to the new American bands. But already that New Year's Eve had become a red-letter day in my life: the countess, for the first time, had alluded to our connivance, to the faintly culpable pleasure I took watching her thrash men to within an inch of their lives with her bare hands, and the strange satisfaction she derived from knowing I was her witness. That evening had been important for the countess, as well, for at le Bal negre she had met the lovely Ines in tumultuous circumstances, which for once did not involve her. I have always regretted having missed that momentous occasion. Thus it was not until the countess' first soiree of the new year that I made the acquaintance of that striking woman. One's first impression was of a rather vulgar person, with dark hair cut straight around like a helmet. She wore a black satin sheath that was too low at the top and too short at the bottom and a big feather boa. Her sheer stockings were black and her escarpins were a shade of red that matched her lips. A collar of imitation pearls set off the angular features, the deep eye-sockets and the hard, weary eyes: I am not especially attracted to what is known as a belle-laide, but Ines indubitably had chien - what the current anglomania calls 'sex appeal'. And there she stood, in the middle of the Countess' delicately scented salon, smoking Turkish cigarettes in chains at the end of an ebony holder. The enthralled male subjects of the countess' hypnotism, seated in a circle of armchairs, staring at one another, had no way of reacting to the woman or to her offence. But I could tell that the female guests were as disapproving of her behaviour as I was myself. And I thought I could detect signs of distress in our hostess, but she said nothing to her new guest. I wondered whether I was alone in my knowledge that at times of great stress the countess would, in fact, 'light up a coffin nail'? At all events, I was about to speak up discreetly in the name of us all when the countess, wearing black and white silk lounging pyjamas designed by Picasso, went over to what looked like the huskiest of the men present, laid her hand on his forehead and spoke several words to which the man listened attentively. Then turning to Ines she removed the cigarette from her mouth and motioned for her to follow. Holding the man's arm as if it were the steering wheel of her Bugatti, she drove him across the room and through a door. That evening, as always, we pretended not to notice the countess absence, which we knew could last into the small hours. At this point in my account, I have a confession to make: the shameful inquisitiveness I had displayed on the night I stumbled on the secret of those men whom the countess decided not to punish but enslaved through her hypnosis - was indulged repeatedly over the months that followed. For indeed, the Countess and her dark powers had hypnotised me - still figuratively, at the time. Was it love? Some sort of love no doubt, a quirky sort of love, I am sure the reader will agree, and one to which would be ultimately fatal. But again, I must not get ahead of my story. In order, then, to feast my eyes upon the countess in the act of passing on to a few chosen young women deadly tricks from her endless repertory, each time the Countess left the room with one of her lovely guests, I slipped away as soon as soon as manners would allow and headed for the little room behind the one-way mirror. And that evening, I confess, my curiosity had been specially piqued by this new woman - of whom I was probably a bit jealous, like the rest of the contezza Clara's harem. But was there not, as well, an element of sexual arousal in all of our conflicting feelings about In. She was a remarkably seductive woman, and her superb body was on generous exhibition. My first stop was the water closet, as on each occasion since that first evening: it was a perfectly valid excuse were I be caught out, and I relied on the sound of flushing water to drown the creaking of the spiral stairs. At last the basement gymnasium appeared before my guilty eyes. At one end of it stood the over-sized pimp. The countess was staring into the man's eyes and speaking to him so softly that I could not make out what I gathered to be his instructions. Waiting at the opposite end of the room was the whore, since one must call a spade a spade and all of us that evening had guessed the lady's trade, though some of us were less amused than others. Ines was beginning to fidget. At length, the Countess stepped away from the man I supposed to be in a deep trance. Yet actually it was hard to tell: as he put up his guard and prowled cautiously forward, he looked perfectly normal. You're sure about this? I can really go to town on this guy? I get a kick out of it all right, but this doesn't seem to me on the up-and-up. Ines uncultivated voice reached me more clearly down here than it had over the din of music and conversation upstairs and I have to say that despite the rather crude style, I found it had a certain charm. It's absolutely all right, the countess answered suavely. What happened next remains etched indelibly in my memory. The man kept coming. The woman had struck a negligent, provocative pose; "as though she were back on a street-corner" I remember thinking to myself. She looked him over from tip to toe, weighing him up, as it were. When he was still some six feet way, she did an unexpected thing: she turned her back on her adversary, squatted down, and leaning forward on both hands, sent the heel of her shoe right under the man's guard and towards his throat. By luck, he managed to half-parry the kick, but even the glancing blow her heel struck his shoulder was enough to knock him on his back! I recognised what I had just seen as a savate kick, the fighting art of the petty criminals of my youth, the apaches, the coureurs des barricades... In those days, it had not been rare for music hall dancers or prostitutes to become experts in the noble art of boxe francaise. Today, I should have thought such practices had disappeared among the women who sell their charms. Since the new legislation on brothels and other protective measures, I'd have expected these unfortunate women to have become less prone to violence. Yet clearly, with Ines at least, the tradition was alive and well. Naively enough, I imagined it was out of fair play that she stood waiting for the man to rise, but as yet I had no idea of the brutality of this terrifyingly experienced street-fighter: the man did try to stand, but hardly was he off the floor when she seized his wrist and pulled him into a roundhouse kick to the temple which laid him low once again. The back satin dress had now ridden up to her waist but Ines seemed not to care, so intent was she on finishing off her opponent. She again turned her back on him, drew up her legs abruptly and let her full weight drop onto the bottom of his rib cage. In addition to the whoosh of air being driven from his lungs by the impact of her perfect bottom, I thought I heard ribs crack. The man stopped moaning, he had no doubt fainted. When the countess finally laid her hand on In shoulder to call a halt, the girl was sitting on the big barrel chest, fingers poised in a 'V', about to put the man's eyes out. I was utterly horrified. The countess violence - feminine, graceful, moderate, and always appropriate to the situation - was one thing. This whore, on the other hand, fought like a brawling Irishman. The way she went at that a man who was already quite defeated and whom she must have known was not in control of his mind! But the Countess seemed very pleased with her new friend and embraced her affectionately before bringing first aid to the injured man. Was he bleeding from the mouth? This would have augured badly for him. And as a matter of fact I never again saw him in the contezza's entourage. Now what about you, they say you're so tough, why don't do we see what you can do in tussle? Ines voice, innocently provocative, interrupted my thoughts about the innate differences between the social classes. The two women were standing side by side and the Countess had a friendly arm around Ines shoulders. Suddenly she gave something deep under the collarbone a hard, digging squeeze with those steel fingers. Ines uttered a shriek and stood paralysed, unable even to speak. You don't want to fight me, little one, you're not ready for that, but I am going to add to your vocabulary. But before that, perhaps we can enjoy ourselves in other ways? And still maintaining her vice-like grip, she gave her captive a long, intense kiss. She then released the girl, who took a few seconds to regain her powers of speech. There was no resentment in Ines voice, nor did she seem especially upset: Will you teach me that one? I'd like to know how to do that! What a grip you got! I guess what they say on the street is right. But none of that dykey stuff for me, thanks, try some of the other girl, I'm just crazy about cocks! The contezza shrugged her shoulders and I went back up those stairs as fast as I could on tiptoe. I was so upset by the display of violence I had just witnessed that I took a wrong turning and found myself face to face with the housekeeper, Lu Fehn, coming from the kitchen with fresh bottles of wine. As I turned back towards the salon, I felt her gaze boring into my back. The contezza had discovered Ines on that evening at the Bal Negre when she had similarly disposed of an inebriated black giant who'd spoken out of turn to her. This, the countess herself described to me in some detail a few days later while I was admiring the harmony of her muscle-development exercises. She also told me how disappointed she was with her pupils - it was the first time I'd heard her call them that -, how unprepared they were as yet to second her on one of her missions. Ines on the other hand, was more than ready (I pretended this was news to me) and she went on to announce that now at last she was going to take on the scourge that kept her awake at nights, the traffic in women! True, she went on, Ines does not belong to our world, and often seems a rather crude person, but this is precisely why she is useful to us. (for some time now she had been gracious enough to include me in that 'us'). And you'll see, Maxime, she has a lot of spirit, that girl. She intends to give up her trade but she wants revenge first. And now the countess, scarcely perspiring in a form-fitting one-piece suit of heavy grey silk, lifted weights that seemed awfully big to me while she laid for my incredulous ears the project she had devised with Ines. To sum it up: Ines who seems to gravitate between street and stage according to the season and her mood, had had wind of a white slave traffic to Brazil: the bait was a juicy music hall contract. It appalled me to learn that in this day and age there were still young women who could fall for that old trick. Perhaps the new transport facilities. In any event, a group of girls - some of them drugged, according to Ines- is about to leave from Le Havre on the 'Queen Victoria'. And the two women had decided that the weak link in the chain was the embarkation, since the lower decks of a modern ocean-liner would offer multiple possibilities for 'guerrilla tactics'. And their chances of success were very high since Ines had easily succeeded in joining the shipment. The countess set down the weights and wrapped a towel around her swanlike neck: "Do you know how to handle a revolver, Maxime?" The question took me by surprise: I must have learned that a long time ago.Queen Victoria. Do you think you can manage that?" "No doubt, dear friend," I replied, fighting back anxiety mounting in my heart since I had grasped the intentions of this amazing woman whom I was so proud to call my friend. Was she not overestimating her powers? It was the first time since I had met the countess Clara de Mantis that such a question had crossed my mind. We were driving along the cliffs that overlook the Seine downstream from Rouen, whose lights were receding behind us. The Countess was driving with her usual, seemingly reckless maestria. She was hatless, with only a wide headband around her short hair; her wiry frame was swathed in a long coat of fur-trimmed black velvet, while around her neck she wore a white wool scarf reminiscent of Isidora Duncan's. Her shoes had sturdy 2-inch heels, were cut low in front and laced to the ankles with tough satin ribbons; they danced from brake pedal to clutch, caressed the accelerator, flashed the headlamps, mastering her torpedo as surely as the nervous systems of her luckless opponents. The indispensable gloves were black this evening but of a type that was new to me, tied around the wrist with a thong and with little rough pads sewn to the palms, while the index and middle fingers were cut off at the third knuckle, revealing gleaming red nails, long and sharp. Before setting out across the pont de Neuilly and heading West, the countess had taken the time to show me how to operate the revolver she lent me - it was a lady's weapon, she said, but deadly - and to work out the details of her plan with the help of the document I had brought her. Her plan was an ambitious one, for it involved eliminating the hoodlums who would be accompanying the shipment and bringing all the women ashore - some perhaps against their will, insofar as they saw this 'golden opportunity' as a way out of their miserable condition. In this connection, the countess assured me that once our mission accomplished - she seemed to have no doubts it would be! - those unfortunate women would not be abandoned to their fate. It was six o'clock in the morning when the contezza parked her Bugatti on the vacant lot reserved for this purpose not far from the dock where the Queen Victoria was berthed. Before leaving the car, however, she took from the glove compartment a small bottle and using a tiny brush, painted her nails with a sticky, pale green substance. She sensed without looking at me the anxiety that was suddenly mine. "Don't worry, Maxime, those men are cogs in a machine, they don't deserve to die: this will simply make my scratches sting a little more, a lot more, in fact! Give them something to think about." Carrying suitcases stuffed with towels, we presented our tickets and passports at the bottom of the gangway: the countess had thought of everything. We had arranged to be among the first on board. But then, like many others, we hung over the rail, gazing at the new arrivals, with no intention of visiting the cabin we would never occupy. The hours went by. The countess' scarf wafted in the chill morning breeze. 'They' arrived around ten. Through what devious channels had they permission to park their three big cars on the quayside, at the bottom of the gangway? At all events, the authorisation was for a limited time only: no sooner had the eighteen occupants - ten women and eight men - left the cars, than three chauffeurs, hustled by the harbour police, drove them off again. The papers were presented and rather cursorily inspected, I thought; then the group started up the gangway. It was then that something totally unexpected occurred, something so unforgettable that here I must briefly interrupt my tale, dear reader, and describe for you the powerful emotions that I was to experience during the minutes that followed. For the contessa Clara de Mantis, without a hint of warning, suddenly took me in her beautiful arms and started kissing me passionately while explaining, in matter-of-fact tones, that she did not wish the escort party to see our faces. Someone might have recognised here and raised the alarm: surprise was the key to our success. It took many long minutes for the party to come aboard, and they were the happiest minutes of my life: to hold in my arms that sinewy body, to be tenderly cradled by those hands that broke bones with a twist of the wrist, to feel around my neck the rough surfaces of those deadly gloves, the delicate scraping of those diabolical nails, to lose myself without fear in the depths of those eyes that enslaved men I nearly swooned... And yet in the meantime - I was cleft on the horns of a dilemma! - the drama continued to unfold, inexorably. At the head of the group, three women came on board, discreetly supported by a man on either side. "That tallies with what In told me," whispered the countess in a tone that was perfectly neutral, though her lips were brushing my ear. Ines herself finally came into view, in the midst of the queue of women. Did she see us? There was nothing in her demeanour to show it. But I noticed that beneath her shapeless coat, she wore boots laced to the calves with dull metallic tips. The countess withdrew from our embrace as if nothing had transpired, seemingly oblivious to my emotion, yet the intimate contact she had thrust upon me had provided her with ample evidence of the state I was in. "I'll be right back," she said simply. And appearing to be off for an aimless stroll, as one will take on shipboard, she fell in behind the group of beguiled women. I fought down the turmoil that had submerged my senses and concentrated on the mission at hand. Having observed how many men accompanied the girls, I was even more worried: the odds seemed daunting. True, I had the countess' revolver, but would I know how to use it effectively? Would I have the courage merely to pull the trigger? After only a few minutes, three of the men reappeared and prepared to go ashore. That made three less to contend with, I said to myself. But then I was started by the sudden reappearance of the countess at my side. She seemed tense as she gazed after the three men descending the gangway. When she was quite certain they were not about to join the small crowd of well-wishers waiting to wave their handkerchiefs after the departing ship, she obtained two shore passes from the officer in charge, seized me firmly by the wrist and practically dragged me down the gangway, unceremoniously squeezing past the oncoming passengers. On the quayside, she broke into a loping run, like some Olympic athlete, and I had the greatest difficulty keeping up with her. She seemed to know exactly where she was going and as she threaded her way between the huge warehouses, she unwound the white scarf, peeled off the velvet coat and flung them back over her shoulders, never once breaking stride. I had only to put out my arms to catch the clothes and the contezza did not even look round to make sure that I had. I was now in a position to admire the unusual ensemble she was wearing for that occasion: what looked at first sight like an ample skirt, allowing her such freedom of movement, was in fact I now saw a kind of pleated culotte, divided between the legs and cut from the same fine tan suede as the thigh-length jacket, belted high up the back. We came to the end of an alleyway between two long grey buildings; the countess pulled up short and with a gesture put an end to my breathless run. She beckoned me forward and I peered round the corner to see the three big cars, parked not far from the Bugatti on the lot reserved for visitors and now fairly full. The drivers were chatting next to one of their vehicles and the three men from the ship had not yet joined them: the countess' short-cut had paid dividends, but I thought it would be only a matter of minutes before we would six to deal with! The Countess took the measure of the situation and gave me my instructions. Next she made a bizarre request: a cigarette from my pack of Murattis but she refused my offer of a light and walked out 'on stage'. To all appearances, she was merely a bourgeoise looking for her car, carrying the unlit cigarette in a gloved hand. Pretending to catch sight of the three men, she approached them for the light she needed. One struck a match and leaned towards the elegant lady... A gloved hand rose before his defenceless face, wrist bent forward, fingers together in a cone like the beak of some bird of prey: before he knew it, she had scratched him badly, from brow to chin. The man screamed with rage and pain, hands to his face, bent double with the burning agony caused by whatever the countess had applied to her sharp nails. The countess paid no further heed to him and turned her attention to the other two, who had immediately laid rough hands upon the slender woman in search of redress. I saw the contezza seize two of the wrists that held her, but what followed was difficult to make out: executing a broad, graceful rotating movement much like a dance-step, the woman skilfully entangled the four arms of her unfortunate assailants, who were now so twisted together, in an almost comical way, that she easily forced them over backwards make in spite of all their efforts of resistance. It was, moreover, precisely these efforts of theirs that the countess now turned against them: suddenly reversing her own effort, she hurled them easily to the ground. However, as she stepped forward to deliver the coup de grace, one of the men executed a rather successful flying tackle that knocked the countess off her feet. I was terrified. Never before had I seen the countess on the ground except by her own choice. I let out a cry of dismay but forced myself to stay where I was, in accordance with the countess' instructions. My fears proved ungrounded, of course, for my champion reversed the situation in a thrice, thanks to the freedom afforded by the divided skirt. The man was trying to follow up his momentary advantage by pinning her to the ground, by throttling her perhaps, but did not get very far. A leg rose into the air and the slender calf that emerged from the flapping suede caught him a hard swipe on the neck while with her hands the countess was doing something with his wrist. The man began to topple and in a twinkling of an eye, Clara had reversed the situation, trapping her aggressor's arm between her legs, the elbow strained to the breaking point, her ankle jammed down hard against his throat. She lay back, pulled sharply and the man's cursing turned to screams: "She broke my arm, the bitch!" I could hear him say. Still lying on her back, the countess seemed to reply to the man's abuse striking him a sharp blow with the back of her heel squarely between the eyes and he fell silent. Just then, the man with the matches whom the countess had originally scratched, managed in spite of the pain he was in, to fling himself at the woman on the ground. This gave me an opportunity to admire the admirable suppleness of that ageless creature: a backward roll, an acrobatic leap and she was on her feet again. Seizing the man's wrist, she ducked under his arm, jammed her delicately sculpted shoulder up into his armpit and with a downward jerk broke his arm like a matchstick. Then, leaning forward with a practised roll of the hips, she threw the heavy man over her back as though he weighed nothing at all. And as he flipped over, she grabbed one trouser-leg at the last second so that he landed not on his back but on his head. His screams immediately ceased. She seized the unconscious man's ankle, lifted it and brought her elegant shoe down on the kneecap like a piston. She had just finished inflicting the same damage on her other victim's leg, when a shot rang out. The third driver had had time to fetch a revolver from the furthest car and had just fired into the air, perhaps because he scrupled to shoot at an 'unarmed' woman. The Countess turned to face him and raised her hands in surrender. Once again, I was on the verge of disobeying my instructions. But then I saw that she was walking confidently towards the armed man. Would he shoot? Would he be frightened by the imminent proximity of such a dangerous woman? I realised however that as she walked relentlessly forward, her hands held high, the countess, the Countess was talking to the man. I could not believe the evidence of my senses. Could she possibly be trying to hypnotise her enemy, at such a distance and in such unquiet circumstances? My question was soon answered. The countess glided in close to the man who still had not reacted to her advance. Her leather fingers closed gently over the revolver-hand and now, with the edge of her free hand, she struck him a sharp blow on the Adam's apple. The big man's body was suddenly contorted with pain and violent coughing, the revolver fell to the ground, but instead of releasing the captive arm, the contezza folded both of her slender arms around it in a complicated hold and with a sudden movement of the shoulders wreaked havoc, I was sure, on a multitude of tendons. After which she let the man collapse piteously at her feet, put him to sleep with a kick to the temple and promptly broke his leg as well. Needless to say, this spectacle - which had lasted much less time than it takes to describe, less than a minute, I would surmise - had held me fascinated: never had I seen the countess take on several men of that size at the same time and I was deeply moved by what this incontrovertible demonstration of her invincibility. But I had thus become derelict in my duty. I was brought brutally back to reality by the thud of footsteps drawing near. As the three running men passed the alley where I had been concealed from their view, I stepped boldly forth, brandishing the countess' revolver. I was resolved to show myself worthy of the confidence placed in me by my 'Diana', my Goddess of the hunt, and to sell my life dearly if the necessity arose. "Hands up! Police! You're surrounded." I cried out to the fresh trio, rummaging through the remnants of those detective novels I had read as a youth. One of the men was holding a revolver - he swung round and fired it in my general direction, but fortunately the bullet went astray and I took shelter behind some rubbish bins. Through the narrow gap between them, I saw the three men all looking my way, wary of the revolver and behind them the Countess silently and rapidly approaching. The gunman was her first target, of course: her slender arm looked ridiculously weak as it snaked around the huge barrel chest; but when she slashed at a precise point on his wrist with the edge of her gloved hand, the powerful fingers flew open and the weapon clattered harmlessly to the pavement. In the same movement, she seized him firmly by the hair and pulled his head back sharply, then raked his face with her terrible nails. Now, using his efforts to regain his balance against him, she gave a sharp forward thrust: he would have fallen on his face had she not held him up with the grip on his hair, which henceforth maintained him a humiliating position of unstable equilibrium, bent almost double, unable to stand or fall, obliged to hobble whichever way the countess wished. The effect on the observer was extremely comic. It had taken her only a few seconds to take control thus of the gunman, whose screams of pain were no doubt a consequence of the countess' very special nail polish, and now she turned her attention to his companions, paralysed by the suddenness and the terrible efficiency of her attack. The first to spring into action lunged for the fallen revolver: one of the countess' fashionable heels broke his hand. He tried to stand, but was knock over by the hurtling weight of the gunman, whom the countess, after what must surely have been a crippling elbow strike to his spine, released his hair with a shove. At this point, however, there came a dramatic hitch: the third man succeeded in seizing the countess from behind, trapping her upper arms and torso in what wrestlers call a bear-hug. Now he swung her around to present a human shield to my gun! What was I to do now? True, the man was a head taller than the countess was, but I felt quite unprepared to play William Tell. But then, deep down inside, I knew that there were few men, however strong, capable of holding in their arms the countess Clara de Mantis' sleek and sensual body if she did not wish it. And the countess immediately set about proving the validity of this axiom, by taking advantage precisely of the man's advantage in height. She slouched down, letting the suede jacket slide along the man's broad chest, spread her legs, slipped gloved fingers through the folds in the culotte, at the same time as she lay her the other hand over the man's fingers, locked together just beneath her breasts. Then the man screamed - ah, the countess' pinches! I thought to myself - and suddenly she was free, as if by miracle, delicately controlling the man who had foolishly thought her at his mercy with a grip on just one of his fingers. Screaming with pain, paralysed by that simple hold, he was now at her mercy. The countess cocked her free arm and chopped him sharply on the upper lip; he staggered but kept his balance. She seized the man's wrist and twisted his arm into a powerful lock that put him on his knees - there were sickening sounds of snapping ligaments again and more screams as the countess delicately lay the flat of her gloved fist on the very top of the man's large cranium, raised her arm slowly, taking careful aim, and smashed down with the force of a butcher's mallet. The man was out like a light, to put it mildly. The culotte fluttered in the air once more above the last survivor, moaning on his stomach, as she put him out of his misery with a heel-kick delivered bizarrely enough to his tailbone. Then, moving quickly among the three unconscious men, she left each with a broken leg, as well. As I ran towards the contessa, I was feeling more dead than alive. "Are you all right, my dear?" I cried. Scarcely out of breath, she seemed mostly concerned about a broken fingernail. "You were perfect, Maxime, I'm proud of you. And now lend me those sweet little nail scissors of yours and let us get back. The ship weighs anchor in ten minutes time!" (To be continued) |