Destroying Angel (22 page)

‘Beat me,’ she begged as she started to come.

The cane landed immediately. Paulette shrieked in ecstasy as a line of fire cut across her thighs.

‘My bum!’ she managed, rubbing frantically at her clit, her back arching as the cane cut hard across her naked bottom. She screamed her emotion. Her orgasm exploded in her head; once, twice, and then she slumped onto the sofa, blissfully exhausted.

Susan cuddled her and Paulette swooned in her friends embrace. She was vaguely aware of Oswald MacNaughton sinking into his armchair.

‘Come on,’ Susan whispered.

Paulette slipped wearily to the floor and crawled to where he sat. His large cock was sticking up from his open trousers. Susan cradled his balls while Paulette curled her fingers around the rigid stem and leant forward to lick the bulbous tip. It was impressively large in girth and length; a great pillar of male flesh. As she pumped her fist she lowered her head and tightened her lips around him. She felt him shudder and heard a soft groan. His generous dimensions quickly had her jaw aching.

‘Perfect…’ MacNaughton croaked. ‘Make me come in your mouth, my dear.’

A hand fumbled with her breasts as she began to suck and toss him avidly. She knew he was about to ejaculate, and sucked all the harder.

Susan knew too: ‘Let me share it,’ Paulette heard her friend implore.

An instant later his cock spasmed and her mouth filled with his salty seed. She skilfully rode his jerking hips until he gradually stilled and she was sure he was fully spent, and then she turned to Susan. They kissed hungrily, equally overcome with passion as Paulette fed his offering into her friend’s voracious mouth.

‘Port is ideal after an erotic encounter,’ MacNaughton said as he studied his glass against the light. ‘And a truly excellent encounter that was, too. My thanks to you both.’

‘Not at all,’ Susan smiled. ‘I loved it.’

‘Me too,’ Paulette concurred sleepily.

‘Tell me something, though, Susan,’ MacNaughton continued. ‘Do you always cry like that?’

‘Only when I’m having fun,’ she said. ‘I—’

‘Just yesterday,’ Paulette broke in, ‘an operation went wrong and she ended up being stripped, tied, dumped by a railway yard, shagged, and covered in filthy oil. And all she needed after that was a cuddle!’

‘Somehow you don’t surprise me,’ MacNaughton replied. ‘I’ve often found that it’s the most submissive females who are ultimately the strongest inside. I enjoyed your tears though, Susan, I freely confess it.’

Susan accepted his words as a compliment. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘So if Ruddock or Annabella did it, then they must have been in France recently,’ Susan stated.

‘I simply cannot believe it of Annabella,’ Paulette responded. ‘Not murder, anyway.’

‘At the very least she’s a fraud and an accessory to arson,’ Susan insisted. ‘She’s a good actress, too. Keep an open mind.’

‘But if Ruddock burnt the warehouse?’ Paulette said.

‘Then he’s probably the murderer,’ Susan admitted, ‘but all Paul says is that Ruddock owns a river cruiser, nothing more.’

‘Still—’

‘Okay,’ Susan interrupted, ‘so Ruddock’s our prime suspect. Look at it like this, though. It is highly improbable that the murderer kept a store of dried Destroying Angel just in case they needed to poison someone. It does occur in England, but it’s rare, whereas the related Death Cap,
Amanita Phalloides
, is much more common, grows in the same habitat and is even more deadly. All that argues for prior knowledge of a Destroying Angel site. It can’t have been collected before Sowerby told Annabella he thought that de Vergy Fine Wines were being ripped off, and we know that that was July the fifteenth, from his diary.’

Susan paused, pushing the guide to poisonous fungi aside and reaching for Alan Sowerby’s diary. She lay on her front on her bed, surrounded by books and papers. Paulette sat cross-legged on the floor. Among the papers was a note Paul Berner had left the previous night. It stated two important things: that the police had received a tip-off that another Fire Ghost attack would happen that night, and that Philip Ruddock owned a river cruiser. There had also been a veiled apology for his part in the previous night’s debacle.

‘And he died on August the twenty-fourth,’ Paulette added.

‘Exactly. And, given the time Destroying Angel takes to act, that puts his poisoning some time in the second week of August. So if we are right in assuming the fungus was collected from France, then Annabella or Ruddock would have to have visited France between the sixteenth of July and, say, the twelfth of August. They surely wouldn’t have visited their main supplier when the manager was in England, so when was Charrier over here?’

‘He said he visited some sort of trade fair,’ Paulette replied. ‘Look in Sowerby’s trade calendar: it’s that thin one with grapes on the front.’

Susan reached for the slim book Paulette indicated, flicking over several pages before speaking again. ‘There was some sort of combined co-operative show in a hotel in Victoria in mid-August,’ she said. ‘Nothing else seems likely, so that’s probably it, and if so it clears Charrier, unless he arrived nearly a week early. No, what we want to know is whether Annabella or Ruddock visited France over the relevant period. If either did, it makes them pretty well certain. Both of them seem to have had dinner with Sowerby at that time, so if we just knew about their trips we could probably work it out. Unfortunately their work diaries will have gone up with the warehouse. Still—’

‘What struck me,’ Paulette interrupted, ‘is what Oswald said about it only being worth adulterating wine if you can make it look much more expensive than it really is. It was wines that tasted a lot poorer than the bottles looked that made Sowerby suspicious in the first place. I think we should go to the restaurant he tasted them at and see if they’ve still got any left.’

‘I agree,’ said Susan. ‘After all, if whatever was going on happened actually in the warehouse, then any wines still around will be different from our samples from France. It wasn’t obvious what it did, and it was too small to have been a bottling plant or anything, but after what Oswald said, I suspect I know what’s going on. Let’s find this restaurant.’

Susan flicked through the pages of Alan Sowerby’s diary once more, discovering that the restaurant in which he had first become suspicious of a wine scandal was called Chez Emil and located in Golders Green.

‘We’ll have lunch there,’ Susan stated decisively, snapping the book shut.

Paulette looked around the interior of Chez Emil, her mind automatically considering how she would word a review of the establishment. ‘Pretentious rather than impressive’ was a phrase that came to mind, not that she’d ever have actually reviewed the place as it completely lacked the young, fashionable atmosphere on which she concentrated her reports. She was surprised Alan Sowerby condescended to review it. The menu was entirely in French, yet had less variety than that of the tiny hotel in Choray. The patron, presumably Emil himself, was a small, greasy man who smelt of garlic and all too obviously had an unjustifiably elevated opinion of himself.

The decor was stereotypically French, the prices high and the entire place pervaded by an air of snobbery. Oswald MacNaughton, she imagined, would have been horrified; Christian Charrier hardly less so. Both men certainly would have had something to say about the wine list. It was exclusively French and predictable in the extreme. It also included no wines from the Choray co-op at all, a fact which was evidently puzzling Susan as she scanned the list.

‘Champagne, Chablis, Vouvray, Sancerre, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, St. Emilion, Beaujolais…’ she read out. ‘Just as I suspected. Order the Sancerre, will you?’

‘What’s just as you suspected?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Susan!’ Paulette objected.

‘Just shut up and order the Sancerre,’ Susan whispered. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘You’ll explain now, or I’ll put you over my knee!’ Paulette whispered back. ‘With your knickers down! In front of the creepy Frenchman!’

‘Mmm, yes please!’ Susan chuckled cheekily, before becoming serious again. ‘Look, I think I know how the scam operates, but it’s possible Emil over there is in on it, so for God’s sake don’t mention de Vergy Fine Wines.’

‘Okay,’ Paulette agreed, looking nervously at the owner of the restaurant. He was seated at the bar, holding forth with some piece of supposedly deep philosophy to a couple of cronies.

Susan thought again. ‘Actually, order the house white. We ought to sample all these wines, except the Champagne.’

‘If we sample all the wines we’ll be as pissed as newts, not to mention broke,’ Paulette protested. ‘Have you seen the prices?’

‘Yes,’ Susan answered, ‘and I wasn’t suggesting we pay for them. We need to take the bottles away, so we’ll pinch some.’

‘Susan!’ Paulette hissed.

‘Relax, I’ll do the risky part. All you’ve got to do is distract Emil.’

‘How?’ Paulette demanded. ‘And what about the waiter and the barmaid, not to mention the customers?’

‘Relax,’ Susan repeated. ‘Just follow my lead. I think I’ll try the goat’s cheese salad.’

Paulette began to study the menu, feeling rather exasperated. Susan’s casual attitude to theft alarmed her, as did her equally casual assumption that it would be easy. A range of bottles was stored behind the bar, in easy reach but impossible to take without being seen.

She ordered the house wine and salad, then ate slowly. Susan chatted of this and that with total unconcern. Around two o’clock the restaurant began to empty of the local businessmen and women who had come in for lunch. Susan ordered crème brûlée for both of them and then cognac. Emil and his two friends had more than once turned lecherous eyes to the two English girls. At last all the customers had left, and Susan leant forward over the table.

‘Just go with me,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to pretend we’ve got no money and offer to do the washing up. If he refuses and threatens to call the police, I’ll suddenly find a credit card. Otherwise, continue washing until the staff and those other two have left, then pretend to get fed up and offer Emil a little fun instead—’

‘Oh no!’ Paulette objected. ‘I’m not doing anything with that greasy little man!’

‘You have to,’ Susan hissed.

‘No! You do it. You’re the one who likes to feel humiliated.’

‘I need to nick the wine and get a look at the files. You’ve got to get him out of the way. I’ll act outraged and refuse to go along with it or even be in the same room. He’ll have to take you down into the cellar or you’ll be visible from the street. Come on, Paulette, don’t let me down!’

‘Couldn’t you just bash him over the head with a bottle?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t the movies!’

‘Oh, I suppose so – I just can’t bear the thought of him touching me!’

‘Come on, Paulette. It’s the only way.’

‘Oh God… okay, but I’ll expect maid service for a week!’

‘Anything you want – just make sure you take your time with him.’

Paulette groaned inwardly as Susan began to go through the motions of pretending to have no money. The plan worked smoothly, failing only in that Emil’s two mates showed no signs of leaving. Paulette and Susan washed and tidied as slowly as they could, but when Emil sent his staff home and opened yet another bottle and poured three glasses, it became apparent that his two friends would not go before the girls’ chores were done.

‘You’ll just have to do them all,’ Susan whispered. ‘It’ll be easy; the little bald guy can’t keep his eyes off our tits.’

‘Susan MacQuillan,’ Paulette snorted, ‘when I’ve finished with you, your bottom will be
so
sore you won’t want to sit down for a month!’

‘Promises, promises,’ Susan teased as Paulette threw the dishcloth into the sink and walked towards the three men with a sexy wiggle.

‘You have not finished,’ Emil said in an arrogant drawl as she approached.

‘Yes, I have,’ Paulette responded. ‘I’m finished with being your skivvy. Look, I’ll put this straight. I’ll be nice to you – you know what I mean – if I can leave afterwards.’

The sudden silence was deafening. The bald man’s glass of wine stopped and hovered halfway to his mouth, and his big red-haired companion turned to stare at her.

‘Well?’ Paulette asked, keeping her voice deliberately aggressive.

‘Go for it, Emil,’ the bald man encouraged, licking his rubbery lips and blatantly ogling her cleavage.

‘What about your friend?’ Emil asked.

‘She’s a prude – she won’t go for it,’ Paulette answered. ‘Come on, I’m supposed to be back at work.’

Emil blew his cheeks out and looked at his companions. The bald man nodded enthusiastically.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ the big one interrupted as Emil was about to accept her offer. ‘You guys have no idea. A little negotiation is required here. Let the expert handle it.’

Paulette sighed inwardly, cursing the fact that not only did she have three men to handle instead of one, but that one of them was a complete jerk.

‘This is the deal,’ the man said to her. ‘Now, it’s not like you’re not going to enjoy it, we both know that.’

Paulette managed a smile, despite her real feelings.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘how about a nice leisurely fuck; three on one?’

‘No way!’ Paulette shook her head, silently cursing Susan for getting her into this.

‘Not got the balls for it, huh?’ the man sneered. ‘Okay, if you’re shy, then one at a time.’

‘You are not going to fuck me,’ Paulette insisted.

‘Blow-jobs, then,’ the loathsome man persisted. ‘With you topless.’

‘Look, let’s get out of sight of the street and I’ll let you do it between my tits, but that’s it.’

‘Like I said,’ he grinned arrogantly, ‘negotiation.’

Emil unlocked the cellar door, switched on the dim light, and they led a reluctant Paulette down the rickety steps. It was a little chilly down there, making her nipples stiffen, but Paulette sat on the wine cases Emil indicated and pulled her top off. As the three lecherous men stared at her breasts, encased in the snug bra that squeezed and lifted them together, she noticed the cases were marked ‘de Vergy Fine Wines’.

‘Well, now,’ said the big man, rubbing his hands together, his eyes still glued to the silky dark slopes of her breasts, ‘this is your lucky day.’

I wouldn’t say so, thought Paulette bitterly.

‘I think,’ said Emil, ‘as restaurant owner, I should go first.’

Paulette slipped her bra off, and three pairs of eyes bulged as her firm breasts spilled forth. Despite the unsavoury predicament, their mutterings of homage ignited a proud spark of arousal in her tummy.

Emil shuffled forward. Paulette sat quietly and let him cup her breasts. His clammy fingers kneaded her flesh as though he was making dough in his kitchen as he treated himself to a lengthy grope. Paulette did nothing to interrupt the molestation, reasoning that the more time Susan had alone upstairs, the better.

He finally released the luscious globes and feverishly undid his trousers. Paulette watched quietly as he dropped them and his pants to display a thin erection peeping out from under his shirt-tails. Paulette sighed resignedly, and moulded her breasts together to make a deep, warm valley for him.

He needed no further invitation, and slid his cock up into the soft cleavage. Paulette adjusted her position until the purple tip protruded from where the pulsing shaft nestled comfortably. Breathing hoarsely, he placed his hands against the wall above her head, leant over her, and pressed his corpulent belly against her face as he began to jerk with little finesse. His bulbous helmet nudged her chin each time he shoved. Paulette prayed he wouldn’t take too long, but he kept pumping and grunting, and muttering to himself in French.