Chapter One

 

Lightning flashed down over the dark sea, illuminating the figure of a man standing at the rocky edge of the cliff. Thunder creased the night and then subsided in the inky sky over Shark Beach.

I climbed from my car, tugged at the low neckline of my gown and listened for a moment to the sound of the breakers.

"Are you all right?" I called over the surf's din. "Hey, where are you? What's the matter?"

I took the .32 revolver from my purse and moved toward the edge of the cliff, strands of hair clinging to my forehead as the rain began.

"Are you in trouble?" I called, wishing I'd thought to swing my car's headlights onto the cliff edge.

As I crept nearer to the precipice, one of my heels snagged in a rut and threw me off balance. Suddenly two strong arms caught me from behind, locked tight around my breasts and sent my gun sprawling.

Lightning bit into the sky again, explosively plunging its crooked blade into the sea. A man bent down for my revolver. In the brief flash of light he looked like a silhouette cut from luminous paper. He had curved horns and a red cape swirled up from around his shoulders in the wet wind.

I fought to break loose, but the arms held me like steel rods.

A voice said, "This one's a wildcat, Hel. What'll I do with her? She's liable to kick something loose in a second!"

The red man moved nearer in the darkness. "Tear off her clothes," he roared, "and throw her into the sea!"

"Look," the man behind me protested, "fun's fun, but—"

"Wait a minute!" Satan interrupted. "This feels like a real gun. Reed, hand me your flashlight."

A third figure moved toward the red-caped Satan, casting a yellow glow onto the barrel of my revolver. One of the men whistled as he clicked open the cylinder.

"Holy Geronimo, this doll plays for keeps. Gimme that flashlight!"

The beam was raised to my face and slowly lowered over my bare shoulders and down the clinging gown I'd worn for the New Year's Eve party. The whistle was repeated. This time it was long and low with a bend in the middle.

"Man alive, if it isn't the Dragon Lady with peach parfait piled on top of her head. Are you a blonde all over, baby?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know," Satan chuckled. "It might be interesting to find out. What's with the artillery?"

"What's with the judo lessons?" I asked. "Don't you keep office hours around these parts?"

"Baby, with parts like yours we don't keep any kind of special hours. What are you doing here on the Collier's road?"

"Attending a party," I said. "I didn't expect to be greeted by the devil and two of his henchmen."

The arms around my chest relaxed. One of the men laughed. "Who were you expecting, baby? The kissing killer?"

I hesitated. "Perhaps."

The New Year's Eve's electrical storm, a rarity along California shores, lit up Shark Beach's rocky cliffs once more and revealed a smile on Satan's thick mouth. He tossed the revolver into my hands.

"Smart girl," he muttered. "So that's why you carry the rod! Afraid you might be his third victim?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe, nothing." He laughed. "I've never seen you around Shark Beach. Where you from anyway?"

"L.A. I know Rote Collier from the days he directed horror movies," I said, stretching the truth a little. "I'm sure you three are not with the police."

"Nope," Satan said. "I'm a magazine photographer. Name's Helmet Gandy. Better known to my friends as just plain Hel." The flashlight beam flickered over to a tall, lean-faced man wearing a Buck Rogers outfit. "This is Reed Walker. Captain, United States Marine Corps. Jet pilot extraordinaire. And the muscleman behind you is Wolf Larson famed for his exploits at thirty fathoms and fathomless bedrooms. He won't admit it, naturally, but we're all convinced he's the kissing killer."

The man with steel-band arms stepped in front of the light. "That isn't funny, Hel. I ought to bust you one for that."

"Speaking of bust," Hel said, "don't you gentlemen agree that our fair captive has a generous amount of same? What do you do in your spare time, baby? If it's what I think, you can count me in any time."

"You're counted in, Mr. Gandy," I said, touching the neckline of my gown. "I'm a model. A photographer's model. Name's Honey West. Ever hear of me?"

I was hoping he hadn't. A private detective, especially a female of the species, did hit the front pages once in a while. In my business, sometimes once was too many.

"Don't recall the name," Hel said. "But, I'm sure I've seen you in some magazine. Maybe one of the nudie books, huh?"

"Perhaps," I said, with a hint more yes than no. "Why don't we adjourn to the party and talk more about it there?"

The jet pilot winked. "Good idea. I'm tired of standing out here trying to scare all the single dames that come along. This was a rotten idea from the start, Hel."

I crossed the road to my convertible. "Why don't you three ride with me? There's plenty of room. How far is Rote's house from here?"

Hel laughed in his devilish sort of way. "You mean you can't hear the screams and music? It's just up the road. You've never been to one of Rote Collier's fabulous New Year's Eve parties before?"

"No, I've never had the pleasure."

Hel Gandy and the jet pilot climbed in beside me. Wolf Larson vaulted into the back. He was as strong as an ox and dressed in nothing but a loin cloth.

"You're going to love this party, baby," Hel said, squeezing in tightly. "Of course, a lot of my pictures have to be censored before they hit the magazines. You know what artists' balls are like!"

"I can imagine."

"Just keep that gun handy, baby. You may have to shoot your way out." He laughed raucously. "Are you in for some surprises! Watch out for the vaults!"

"The what?"

"Shut up, Hel," Wolf said. "You're always spoiling the fun. Maybe she'll like the vaults. Do you swim, Honey?"

Loud and sensual rhythm swelled up from a massive, spiral-topped castle at the end of the road.

I drew the car to a stop. "Sure, I swim, but I didn't bring a bathing suit."

Reed Walker brushed my bare shoulder accidentally with his hand. It felt warm, almost too warm. "We'll dig you up a suit," he said.

"That's what I'm worried about," I said, getting out of the car. "You mean one with cement sleeves? Come on, now, let's have the truth. Which one of you is the kissing killer?"

"That's for you to figure out, baby," Hel answered, following out my side. "Just be careful who you pucker up with. Right, Wolf?"

Wolf didn't answer. He took my arm and walked me down a steep dark staircase to the front door of the Collier mansion.

"This place looks at least a hundred years old," I said, glancing at Wolf's face. He was ruggedly handsome, the Marlon Brando type with sensitive deep-set eyes and a broad nose that was slightly flattened at the tip where he'd apparently taken one too many punches. His mouth was thin and hard with a trace of bitterness chiseled in the corners. He suddenly smiled and the change was quietly disturbing. On each side of his mouth Wolf had two fangs that seemed almost fake in their needle-sharp perfection. Now I knew what had inspired his name.

Hel stepped around us and banged on the oak door. "Open up! The Devil's here, you filthy sinners!"

In an instant, the old bronze handle turned and we were staring into a strangely half-lit madhouse. The living room could have passed for a small amphitheater with its domed ceiling and ornate balustrades. Colored streamers fluttered weirdly in the semi-darkness, like hungry tentacles of an octopus, touching the costumed figures and making them thrash with abandon. In the center of the huge room, bathed in a purple spotlight, was an elevated platform with two pillars rising almost to the ceiling. It was difficult to see through the smoke and colored ribbons, but the grimly spectacular structure seemed reminiscent of the sacrificial altar used in the old movie, King Kong.

Wolf pushed me into the room. The music stopped. It was almost as if everything suddenly and brutally froze as the figures stared at us, their bodies stiffly caught in the rhythm of their fantastic dance. Even the thick smoke seemed to pall at the interruption. The ribbons hung limp and lifeless in the soundless vacuum. Hel stepped forward and raised his arms high in a garish salute.

"She has come!" Hel's voice was a thundering roar in the huge room. "Out of the dark night! Out of the empty deathless regions of time, a blonde princess has come to light the sacrificial fire of the New Year. All hail!"

The masked figures, seemingly supported by a myriad of hidden strings, fell forward on their knees and arms raised, they echoed, "All hail!"

"Bring the torch!" Hel bellowed. "Bring the torch!" The crowd picked up the chant.

A bent and horribly disfigured man got to his feet. His huge misshapen head was formed in the image of the famed Quasimodo from Victor Hugo's, Hunchback of Notre Dame. Slowly, he dragged his legs across the room to a lighted torch flickering in an earthenware urn in the corner.

"What is this?" I whispered to Wolf. "Maybe I'm at the wrong party!"

The hunchback brought the torch to me. I shook my head, but Hel shoved the flaming stick into my hands. Wolf pushed me toward the sacrificial alter. The weird figures moved back, prostrate on their knees, creating a path across the deathly silent room.

"Courage, baby," Hel whispered as we reached the bottom step leading up to the pillars. "She won't feel a thing."

"Who won't?" I asked, peering through the semi-darkness at the red-suited Satan, wondering when the joke was going to end and how. I trembled from the grisly realism they were injecting into this rite.

Hel pointed up to the sacrificial altar. My eyes followed his gesture.

Chained to the pillars was a nude woman, her head hunched forward, dark hair dangling limply over her eyes, body slumped into unconsciousness. Splintered pieces of wood were piled under her body.

I dropped the torch and screamed. I screamed so loud the rafters caught the sound and hurled it back in a wild, unreasoning echo. Wolf caught me as I started up the steps toward the altar. The prostrate figures leaped to their feet. The music began to roar. The screams and laughter of a hundred throats joined in mine. The ribbons rose into the air as the crescendo of sound reached a defying pitch. Then it stopped as quickly as it had begun. Quasimodo limped to me and tore off his grisly headpiece. It was Rote Collier!

"Happy New Year, Honey!" Rote said, wrapping his warped arms around my shoulders. "I'm so glad you could make it!"

I gestured futilely at the nude figure chained to the altar.

"A dummy, baby," Hel said, grinning. "Rote pulls this gag on all his first-time New Year's Eve guests. What do you think we were doing out on the road? This was planned, baby, planned. We were your reception committee."

I shook my head dismally. "Leave it to the master of horror. I should have known, but it was all so—"

"—realistic," Rote finished. "Listen, Honey, maybe my directing days are over but I can still create a pretty convincing scene."

Rote Collier was a femininely handsome man in his early fifties. His costume was a strange contrast to his well-groomed features: finely-trimmed mustache, pink cheeks, delicate blue eyes. He ran his rubber-covered fingers through his thinning gray hair and laughed. "I always did have a yearning to play the Hunchback. Silly quirk, I guess. Gee, it's good to see you, Honey." He squeezed me again, then leaped onto the steps.

"Everybody!" he roared. "I want you to meet Honey West. The prettiest gal to come along the pike in a long, long while—except my wife, Helena, naturally." Rote's exception came out too flat and he knew it. "Have fun, everybody," he added with more enthusiasm. "The night is yours!"

Wolf Larson reached around my waist and squeezed tightly. "How about that swim? Rote's got a pool down on the water. You'll love it."

"I bet she'll love it," Rote interrupted. "But later, Wolf. Honey and I have something to talk about. Privately."

"Okay," Wolf said, his fangs bared slightly, "I can take the hint. I'll see what I can do about digging up a bathing suit. Don't be too long—and don't get caught in a vault, get me?"

"I got you," I said. "Just be sure to come back with a bathing suit."

Wolf shook his head and disappeared in the myriad of dancing, costumed shapes. Rote steered me into his study. It was another tremendous room tinged with the weird flavor of his old movies. He offered me a chair and a cigarette.

"What's your problem, Rote?" I said. "You didn't really say much over the telephone."

"I think you know, Honey." Rote walked to the window. "Two women have been murdered in Shark Beach during the past six months. Two beautiful women. They were smothered. Or, as the police and newspapers call it—kissed to death."

"Fantastic," I said, using his favorite word.

"Yeah, fantastic is right," Rote turned and looked at me. "I couldn't have thought up a better idea for a picture of mine. That's what bothers me. The whole business has been too close to home. The police have called me in for questioning several times. Luckily I've managed to keep it out of the papers. They claim the bizarre method of murder is too reminiscent of a movie script.

"Is that really what bothers you, the fact that you've been suspected?"

Rote slumped into a chair and wiped twisted fingers across his pink forehead. "No, of course not, Honey. That's only added a little flavor to a dull winter down here. What I'm worried about is my wife—and Fawn."

"Fawn?"

"Yes—a child—from my first marriage. I don't think you've ever met Fawn." Rote got up, grinning sheepishly. "But of course you've never met Helena either. They're the same age."

"What?"

"Fawn's the same age as my wife Helena," Rote continued in an embarrassed tone. "In fact, Fawn's a few months older. As you can imagine that's somewhat of a conversation piece in this small town."

"How old are they, Rote?"

"Twenty-three."

"I thought you had a son, too, about the same age."

"I—I did have. But, unfortunately, he was killed, in Korea."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Me, too. But, now I have Fawn—and Helena. And a fear. A cold sort of fear, Honey, like in the old days when I started in pictures. This kissing killer is going to strike again soon. Perhaps even tonight here at this party."

"Sounds like a story conference for one of your movies, Rote. Are the police worried at all?"

"Sure they are. But, in a small town they're not equipped for this sort of thing. They asked me to call off the party. What could I do? It's been an annual event here in Shark Beach for the last five years. Fawn and Helena wouldn't hear of a cancellation. So, here we are. A couple of policemen in costume have been mingling with the crowd." He shook his head. "I doubt if they can prevent anything from happening, if it's going to happen. The killer's after a woman. Knowing we're on guard he's going to take particular caution—and that'll be that."

I stood up and crossed to an old Egyptian mummy case that lay flat on a table in the middle of the room. "In other words, Rote, you want me to prevent our osculating friend from using his talents on Fawn or Helena."

"Right. They're both beautiful. Exceptionally beautiful. And, I might add, very gullible."

The mummy case lid raised easily. It was empty and smelled of mothballs. "Gullible to what extent, Rote?"

"Well," Rote said hesitantly, "Helena's extremely naive, easily taken in by people, if you know what I mean."

"Are you trying to say your wife's been straying a little?"

He grimaced. "I—I don't know. It's possible. She's young, impulsive, beautiful. Men go crazy for her." Rote frowned and he stopped to stare at new flashes of lightning out over the sea. "It's possible she might be lured into a compromising situation. But, I'd say that was true of almost any young woman at a New Year's Eve party, wouldn't you?"

I moved to a gun case and peered through the glass at a collection of old-fashioned revolvers. "Considering I'm a female, and over twenty-one myself, I don't think I should answer that question." I smiled. "What about Fawn?"

Rote shook his head. "Dangerously familiar with people. Just too damned friendly for her own good. Fawn's the sort of person who gets mixed up in something and then doesn't know how to get out. Weak, impulsive, unconventional. That's Fawn. Worries the hell out of me."

I lifted a long-barrelled .45 out of the cabinet. "I take it, then, you want me to lure the killer over to my side of the parlor."