She was holding the small black purse in one hand and a small black automatic in the other. The gun was trained on him.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," she said. "I was just going to take your car, I would even have left you a little money to get home on, but not now."

His mouth dropped open in shock. "Wait," he stammered. "Wait a minute."

"You can't stop me," she said, levelly. "I'm going to kill you. You might as well lie back and enjoy it."

The bullet made a small, round hole in his stomach. He fell on the ground and lay there moaning while she straightened her clothes and took the wallet and keys from his pockets. He watched her get into the car, blow him a kiss, and drive away down the road.

It took him twenty minutes to die.

LOOK DEATH IN THE EYE.

SHE WAS BEAUTIFUL.

She was, and she knew that she was-not only by the image in her mirror, the full and petulant mouth and the high cheekbones, the silkiness of the long blond hair and the deep blue color of her eyes. The image in her mirror at home told her she was beautiful, and so did the image she saw now, the image in the mirror in the tavern.

But she didn't need the mirrors. She was made aware of her beauty by the eyes, the eyes of the hungry men, the eyes that she felt rather than saw upon her everywhere she went. She could feel those eyes caressing her body, lingering too long upon her firm ripe b.r.e.a.s.t.s and sensuous hips, touching her body with a touch firmer than hands and making her grow warm where they rested. Wherever she went men stared at her, and the intensity of their stares undressed their pa.s.sions and hungers just as thoroughly as the stares attempted to strip her body.

She sipped at her drink, hardly tasting it but knowing that she had to drink it. It was all part of the game. She was in a bar, and the hungry men were also in the bar, and now their eyes were wandering over her. But for the moment there was nothing for her to do. She had to drink her drink and bide her time, waiting for the men-or one of them, at least-to get up the courage to do more than stare.

Idly, she turned a few inches on the barstool and glanced at the other customers. Several men were too busy drinking to pay any attention to her; another was busy in a corner booth running his hand up and down the leg of a slightly plump redhead, and it was easy to see that he wouldn't be interested in her, not that night.

But the other three customers were fair game.

She regarded them thoughtfully, one at a time. Closest to her was a young one-no more than twenty-one or twenty-two, she guessed, and hungry the way they are when they're that age. He was short and slim, dressed in a dark suit and wearing a conservative bow tie. She noticed with a little amus.e.m.e.nt the way he was embarra.s.sed to stare at her but at the same time was unable to keep his eyes off her lush body. Twice his eyes met hers and he flushed guiltily, turning away and nervously flicking the ashes off his cigarette.

And each time the eyes returned to her, hungry and desperate in their hunger. Mr. Dark Suit couldn't keep away from her, she thought, and she wondered if he would be the one for the evening. It was always difficult to predict, always tough to calculate which pair of eyes would get up enough courage to make the pa.s.s. It might be Mr. Dark Suit, but she doubted it. He had the hunger, all right, but he probably lacked the experience he'd need for hero.

Mr. Baldy was two stools further from her. She named him easily since his baldness was his outstanding feature in a face that had no other memorable features. His head was bare except for a very thin fringe around the edges and the light from the ceiling shined on it.

Next, of course, she noticed his eyes. They were hungry eyes, too-but hungry in a way that was different from Mr. Dark Suit. Mr. Baldy was a good twenty-five years older, and he was probably used to getting his pa.s.ses tossed back into his lap. He wanted her, all right; there was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze. But the possibility of a refusal might scare him away.

For a half-second she considered flashing him a smile. No, she decided, that wouldn't be fair. Let them work it out themselves. Let the hungriest a.s.sert himself and the others forever hold their peace.

And there was no hurry. It was rather a pleasant feeling to be caressed simultaneously by three pairs of eyes, and though the sensation was hardly a new one, it was one she never tired of.

And the third man. He was seated at the far end of the bar, seated so that he could study her without turning at all. But, strangely, his eyes were not glued to her body the way Mr. Dark Suit's and Mr. Baldy's were. Instead he was relaxing, biding his time, and occasionally letting his eyes wander from his beer gla.s.s to her and back to his beer.

He was somewhere in his thirties, with a strong and vaguely handsome face and jet-black hair. Mr. Bright-Eyes, she named him, laughing inwardly at the glow of a.s.surance and confidence in his eyes.

Mr. Bright-Eyes wouldn't be afraid or stumbling about it. At the same time, she wondered whether or not he would care enough to make an approach. He wanted her; that much she knew. But he might need a little shove in the right direction.

A rock-and-roll tune was playing noisily on the jukebox. Not yet Not yet, she thought. Wait until everything is just right, with soft music and all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Let the eyes stay hungry for a few minutes. Wait until everything is just right, with soft music and all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Let the eyes stay hungry for a few minutes.

She studied them again, the three of them. Mr. Dark Suit's eyes, she noticed, were brown. Mr. Baldy's eyes were a watery blue, a bit bloodshot and sick-looking. But Mr. Bright-Eyes had, happily, bright blue eyes. They seemed to gleam in his powerful face.

She wondered who it would be. Another night, another pair of eyes-but who would it be tonight? Which eyes were the hungriest? Which eyes wanted her, wanted her enough to hurry up and make a pa.s.s?

Mr. Dark Suit finished his drink and signaled the bartender for another. He sipped at it nervously when it arrived, then set it down on the bar and stole another glance at her, drumming his fingers on the bar all the while.

He's so nervous, she thought. she thought. If I made the first move he'd come running. But he's scared silly. If I made the first move he'd come running. But he's scared silly.

Mr. Baldy, his drink forgotten, stared at her quite openly. He didn't seem shy at all, and the watery blue eyes moved up and down her body without the slightest embarra.s.sment.

He can watch, she thought. A looker, but not much for action. What's the matter, Mr. Baldy? A looker, but not much for action. What's the matter, Mr. Baldy?

Mr. Bright-Eyes looked up from his beer and saw her studying him. For a moment a shadow of a smile pa.s.sed over his face; then it was gone, and he was gazing once again into the gla.s.s of beer.

Although she wanted to be perfectly fair, she felt herself hoping that it would be Mr. Bright-Eyes. She always played perfectly fair, always went with the first one, but this time she felt a decided preference. There was something about those eyes, something about the way they looked at her so openly...

The rock-and-roll tune came to a noisy finish. She waited on her stool, fluffing her hair into place and taking another short sip of her drink.

The next record was a slow one.

Now, she thought. First she stretched a little, throwing her shoulders back so that her two perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s stood out in bold relief as they pressed against the thin fabric of her blouse. Then she crossed one leg over the other, letting her skirt fall away as she did so and giving Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy a quick glimpse of milk-white skin.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bright-Eyes couldn't see her legs from where he sat. It was a pity.

Then, with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jutting and her legs crossed, she tossed off the rest of her drink and leaned forward on her stool, hesitating a moment before ordering a refill. This was the crucial moment, the time when one of the three had to be ready for a game of drop-the-handkerchief. Somebody had to pick up the cue.

"Another beer for me, and one more for the lady."

She started, turned her head, and discovered happily that it was Mr. Bright-Eyes. He certainly was smooth, she marveled, the way he was right at her side the minute she was ready for another drink.

A moment later the beer was poured, the drink made, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seated on the stool beside her. She noticed the sad looks in the eyes of Mr. Baldy and Mr. Dark Suit, sad because they realized the chance they had missed.

Too bad, she thought. she thought. You had your chances. Why, you had a better chance than Mr. Bright-Eyes, what with looking at my legs and all. You had your chances. Why, you had a better chance than Mr. Bright-Eyes, what with looking at my legs and all.

"You're a lovely woman," Mr. Bright-Eyes was saying, and she was pleased to note that he had a fine manner of speaking, s.p.a.cing his words nicely and p.r.o.nouncing all the consonants the way they belonged. Why, that man a few nights ago didn't talk very well at all, mumbling the way he did. Of course it was partly the drinking, but she was glad Mr. Bright-Eyes could speak so clearly and nicely.

But she didn't pay much attention to what he was saying. It wasn't too important, and besides she was far too busy looking into his blue eyes and enjoying the way they traveled so gently over her body. She could feel them on her, and when his gaze traveled down her body and caressed her hips she almost shivered.

He continued to talk to her and she continued to answer him and the jukebox continued to play, but she spent most of her time looking into his eyes and loving the feeling they gave her. He told her his name, which she promptly forgot because Mr. Bright-Eyes suited him so much better, and she told him that her name wasn't especially important, since it really wasn't.

Mr. Bright-Eyes said something about a rose by another name and she laughed politely, but it was his eyes that really held her interest. Even when his hand moved down to rest gently on her thigh, she was more aware of the hunger in his eyes than the gradually more insistent pressure of his hand.

Slowly his hand moved up and down her thigh, gently caressing her flesh, and all the while Mr. Bright-Eyes was talking earnestly, his voice just a little louder than a whisper and his eyes deliciously l.u.s.tful and hungry.

But it wouldn't do to ignore the hand. Keeping her gaze rooted to Mr. Bright-Eye's face, she gently placed her own hand on top of his. At first he seemed taken aback, thinking that she wished him to remove his hand from her thigh. That, of course, was not what she intended at all.

Rea.s.suringly, she moved his hand over her thigh, pressing it gently and tenderly. She was pleased to notice Mr. Bright-Eyes get an even hungrier gleam in his eyes and begin to breathe a slight bit heavier than before. It was all part of the game, but the game could be very pleasant for her.

"...one of the most exciting women I've ever met," he was saying, and as he spoke the words his hand closed possessively around her knee. His eyes were glued to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She knew that they would leave any moment now, that he was almost ready and almost convinced that she would now follow him to the ends of the earth if he were only to ask.

And indeed she would.

"Honey?"

She smiled expectantly.

"Would you like to have the next one up at my place?"

"Of course," she said.

His bright blue eyes gleamed more than ever. How bright they were! She was actually in love with him now, in love with his eyes and the hunger and beauty in them.

As they stood up, she saw Mr. Baldy shake his head sadly. Mr. Dark Suit's jaw fell slightly and he looked quite awkward, sitting precariously on his stool with his mouth half-open. Then Mr. Bright-Eyes slipped his arm easily around her waist and walked her to the door. She could feel their eyes watching her every step of the way, and it wasn't hard at all to imagine the regret in their eyes-regret mixed with admiration for Mr. Bright-Eye's technique.

He was smooth, all right. So very smooth, and while it was a shame that Mr. Dark Suit and Mr. Baldy were doomed to sadness for the evening, it simply couldn't be helped.

And besides, wasn't there a book about survival of the fittest or something? If they had Mr. Bright-Eyes' finish they wouldn't be sitting by themselves, with their eyes all afraid and beaten.

It was dark out, and Mr. Bright-Eyes seemed to be in a hurry, and as a consequence they were walking very swiftly toward his apartment. He said something about wasn't it dark out, and she agreed that it was, and his arm tightened around her waist.

She leaned a little against him and rubbed her body against his. Walking as they were and with the night as dark as it was, it was hard for her to see his eyes. Each time when they pa.s.sed a streetlamp she leaned forward a bit and glanced into his face, as if to rea.s.sure herself that his eyes still wanted her as much as they had.

In his apartment everything went very well. He told her how beautiful she was and she thanked him quite modestly, and they went to the bedroom and he took her in his arms and kissed her very expertly.

Then, after she had been expertly kissed, he bent over to remove the spread from the bed. It was at just that moment that she took the knife from her purse and plunged it into his back, right between the shoulder blades. One jab was enough; he crumpled up on the bed and lay very still, without a scream or a moan or any sound at all.

Afterwards, back in her own apartment, she put his eyes in the box with the others.

MAN WITH A Pa.s.sION.

HE SET HIS SUITCASE DOWN on the floor in front of the desk, then unslung the leather bag from his shoulder and placed it beside the suitcase. He smiled across the desk at the clerk, an easy, automatic smile. "I'd like a room," he said. "With bath." on the floor in front of the desk, then unslung the leather bag from his shoulder and placed it beside the suitcase. He smiled across the desk at the clerk, an easy, automatic smile. "I'd like a room," he said. "With bath."

The clerk nodded wordlessly and pa.s.sed the hotel register to the man. He uncapped a pen and began filling in the blanks. Jacob Falch, Jacob Falch, he wrote. he wrote. Free-lance photographer. Free-lance photographer. He hesitated a moment before the last blank, then quickly scrawled He hesitated a moment before the last blank, then quickly scrawled No permanent address. No permanent address. He paid in advance, took a key from the clerk, and carried his luggage up the steep staircase to his room. He paid in advance, took a key from the clerk, and carried his luggage up the steep staircase to his room.

He was a short man, with broad shoulders and a rough, craggy face. He walked swiftly and purposefully, carrying the bag with ease despite its weight. He reached his room, turned the key in the lock, and seated himself heavily on the bed.

The room was drab and colorless. There was the bed, a straight-backed chair that looked as though it would buckle if he sat on it, and a dull-brown dresser studded with cigarette burns. In short, Falch reflected, it was a crummy room in a cheap hotel. But it would do for the time being.

He started to lie down for a nap, then changed his mind and began to unpack the suitcase. His camera supplies-flashbulbs, filters, chemicals, and film-he placed in the bottom drawer of the dresser. He hung his suit in the small closet, noting with satisfaction that the pants still held a crease. His shirts and other clothing went into the middle bureau drawer. Only one small package remained in the suitcase, and he took it out and held it lovingly in his large hands. It was a very important package. It contained ten thousand dollars.

Ten thousand dollars, he thought, and he chuckled softly. He'd had to work hard for the money. Any hack photographer could plaster a composite picture together, but it took skill to make one that would stick. It took plenty of skill to come up with a batch of shots that put the mayor's wife in a compromising position. A very compromising position, he reflected, and chuckled once again.

The mayor had paid through the nose, but the mayor could afford it. And the mayor could definitely not afford to have his opponents get hold of those pictures. His wife seemed to be doing things that a mayor's wife shouldn't do. Very interesting things.

Falch chuckled again, and patted the packet of money tenderly. Of course he'd had to leave town, but Tarleton was a dull town anyway. And with ten thousand in his suitcase he could go far.

No more portraits, he thought. No more squirming brats in family groups, no more dirty pictures for backroom boys, no more publicity shots of fertilizer plants. For once in his life Jake Falch could do what he d.a.m.n well wanted.

And Jake Falch knew what he wanted. Plenty of relaxation, for one thing. Decent food, and a woman now and then. His tastes were inexpensive enough, and he could be very happy in the dumpy hotel, with his battered coupe parked outside.

Oh, he'd take pictures now and then. A little cheesecake, if there was a decent-looking broad in the town. And, when the money ran out...well, every town had a mayor, and every mayor had a wife. Or a daughter. Or a sister.

He looked around the room for a hiding place for the money. No, he realized, that was senseless. It would be hard hiding a toothpick in that place, let alone a nice thick wad of bills. And, since he was staying in town, he might as well bank his dough, like a respectable businessman. He chuckled again, and left the room.

The desk clerk stopped him on the way out. "You a photographer, Mr. Falch?"

Falch nodded.

"Figure on staying in town?"

Falch nodded again, impatiently.

"You'll need a studio, a darkroom. Brother of mine has a place..."

"No," said Falch, cutting him short. "I won't be working for a while. Came into some money and I feel like taking it easy." He smiled again, the same easy smile he had flashed to the mayor, and walked out the door. The bank was across the street, on the corner.

Five minutes later he strode out of the bank, with $9500 in a checking account. He breathed deeply and headed across the street again to a restaurant. He felt good.

It was then that he saw the girl. She was walking toward him on the other side of the street, and even a half-block away he could see that she was beautiful. She was young-eighteen or nineteen, he guessed-and she had soft, shining blond hair that fell to her shoulders and framed her face perfectly. Automatically, Falch placed her face inside a mental picture frame.

By the time he reached the restaurant, the girl was within twenty yards of him. He saw that her body was a perfect match for her face. It was the kind of body he liked, with full, round curves. It was a lush body, a young body.

Just as he had placed her face inside a frame, he mentally undressed her. He let his eyes run over her body, lingering on the firm, jutting b.r.e.a.s.t.s and the rounded hips. Guiltily, he tried to turn away and enter the restaurant, but before he could move she had walked right up to him.

"Hi," she said. "You're new in town, aren't you?" Her voice was as soft and as fresh as the rest of her. She'd make a good model, he thought. She had a face and a figure, and that was a rare combination.

He smiled then, the wide, friendly smile that came so easily to him. "That's right. My name's Jake Falch."

"Mine's Saralee Marshall. Are you the photographer?"

He blinked. "How did you know?"

"Jimmy at the hotel told my ma, and Ma told me. I figured you must be the photographer, because not many strangers ever come to Hammondsport." She made the name of the town sound like a dirty word.

He smiled again. "You don't like this town?"

"Oh," she said, "I guess it's okay. But it's so awful dull. Nothing ever happens, hardly."

"Where would you like to live?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose and fell with the motion. "New York, maybe. Or Hollywood."

"You want to be an actress, huh?"

"No," she said. "I want to be a model."

He had to catch his breath, and before he could get a word out she was off a mile a minute. "I wonder if you need a model? I'd work hard, Mr. Falch. Honest I would. There's no school all summer and I could work whenever you wanted me to and I know I don't have any experience but I can learn real well and..."

"Hold on a minute!" He laughed and held up his hand. "I don't know how much I could pay you..."