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CHAPTER ONE

The model moved across the floor with that stride which seems peculiar to girls who model clothes. She was pretty, of course, and her black hair enhanced the pallor of her face. Yet I was not so much interested in her face as I was in the dress she displayed.

It was a Lanvin creation, a striped satin dress to be worn over organdy bloomers. It fitted the body closely, and I told myself that while it didn't reveal too much of the model, who didn't have my curving contours, it ought to be something of a sensation on me.

I was just about to signal that it be set aside for me when there was a distraction. A tall man, rather lean, with a somewhat craggy face under a mop of brown hair and with brown eyes to match, paused under the white archway. His eyes sought me out unerringly.

"Oh, damn," I muttered.

He started toward me, ignoring everyone else. Eyes swiveled toward him. He was the only male in the room, but it didn't seem to bother him. He came to a halt a few paces away from me, and his face positively beamed.

"Work, Cherry," he smiled.

Fletcher Atkinson has a smile which resembles the grin a wolf might give when it sees a helpless chicken waiting to be devoured. I swear, he uses it on me just 16 when he is about to crush my spirits.

So I sighed and murmured: "Sit down, Fletch. I can't see the model."

"No time for that. Duty is calling."

My name is Cherry Delight, and I am employed by an American outfit known as the Department of Unusual Events. Or D.U.E., if you prefer it that way. I was born Cherise Dellissio, I am an American of Italian extraction, and I am usually a girl of very even temperament.

When I see Fletcher Atkinson, I lose my cool most of the time, because Fletch means work. Nasty work, in the course of which I could easily get hurt. Maybe even permanently. Not that I am averse to risking life and limb, but there is a time and a place for everything.

Even for Fletcher Atkinson.

"But not now," I moaned. "I've just come back from Greece on that centaur matter, and I figured I could have a few free days."

His smile was even more wolfish. "Duty calls."

I felt like telling him what he could do with duty, but I am basically a lady. I gathered my purse and gloves, told a girl hovering near me to save that dress which was being modeled, and then I got to my feet.

"Someday, Fletch, I am going to walk in on you when you have a pretty girl swooning at your feet, when the candles are lighted and the wine is chilled, and I am going to tell you that duty calls."

"And I would answer your call," he nodded. "Girl or no girl."

He would, too—the bastard.

There was no use arguing with him, so I asked:

"What is it this time? Did somebody see another centaur? Or is there a werewolf running loose somewhere?"

"It's devil worship."

At the head of the short staircase, I turned and stared at him. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Not in this day and age. So what if a bunch of boys and girls get together for a little hoo-hah and take off their clothes and make love?"

He chuckled. "Ordinarily, I would agree with you. But a complaint has been made, a girl has been killed— after being violated, I might add—and it seems there's a particularly nasty bit of deviltry somewhere up in Brittany."

I eyed his closely. "How nasty?"

"Blackmail. If it isn't paid, someone dies."

Well, that seemed straightforward enough. I considered that as we made our way down the stairs. "And where is this bit of nastiness taking place?"

"Not far from Pontivy, in a particularly lonely stretch of countryside. But I mustn't tell you all this.

I'd prefer that you listen to Guy Pascal. He is the one making the complaint, the one whose daughter was violated."

"Where do I find him?"

"Oh, we're on our way to see him right now. I left him grieving in his hotel room."

There wasn't much else to say at the moment. I walked with Fletch to where he had left his car, a Renault, and I slid in beside him as he got behind the wheel. Fletch is a good driver. We moved out into traffic and eased along nicely.

I stretched out my legs and caught Fletch eyeing them. Now I have very shapely gams, and like every other girl, I take pride in my female assets. I don't mind a bit of ogling, I feel it does something nice to my spirits.

So I pulled up my skirt and tugged at my stockings. Not that they needed it, they fit like my own skin. But I showed off some of my thigh and the leg itself. I figured the sight of my leg might put him in a better mood,

"Very nice," he said suddenly.

"What is?" I asked innocently.

"Those legs of yours. Best pair I've ever seen."

Well, now. This was really something, coming from him. I stared down at my legs, with my skirt up above the middle of my thighs, and I smiled, "They aren't bad," I admitted modestly. "I suppose you've seen worse."

"But none better. Nor any half as good."

I eyed Fletch suspiciously. If it were anyone else who had complimented me, I'd have been sure he was making a pitch. But Fletcher Atkinson? This cold-blooded Englishman who ran D.U.E.?

"You don't have to, you know," I muttered.

He seemed honestly surprised. "Have to what?"

"Butter me up this way. I'll go because it's my job."

His laughter rang out boyishly. His hand came down to slide up and down my inner thigh, almost up to dangerous heights. It felt warm and good, that hand.

"I've never met a girl like you," he said quietly, with that hint of laughter in his voice. I noticed that he didn't take away his hand.

"There aren't very many of us around, I suppose."

"We'll have dinner tonight."

Just like that. He didn't ask, he told me.

"Do we have time?"

He thought that one over for a few seconds. But Fletch is quick on the uptake. He's no dope, whatever else I may have thought him to be. His chuckle was slow, sort of warm.

"You won't leave until tomorrow."

A car cut in front of us so swiftly it startled him. He took his hand away and put it back on the wheel. To show I appreciated his concern over our safety, I slid a little closer, until my hip and shoulder were touching him.

"Can I get a good night's sleep?" I asked with laughter in my voice.

He didn't have time to answer that one, because we were almost on top of the Crillon, which is one of the finest hotels in all Paris. American newspapermen frequent it, which is a recommendation enough, I suppose.

We parked and walked into the hotel, with Fletch clinging to my elbow as though he might be afraid I would run away. I had no such intention. Even if I weren't on my way to see the father of some poor girl who had died over there in Brittany, Fletch himself began to intrigue me.

We went up in the elevator and along a hallway. Fletch rapped on the door.

It was opened by a man who wasn't any taller than I am, a small man, with surprisingly wide shoulders and a face that seemed wracked with pain and anguish. He had been weeping recently, and his eyes were moist and red.

Yet he gave me a bow, his lips quivered into a smile, and his black eyebrows rose. His eyes asked a question as he glanced at Fletch.

"Is this the agent of whom you spoke earlier?" he wondered. "This so charming young lady?"

Fletch introduced us, adding, "This is one of our finest agents, m'sieu. She has just returned from Greece where she solved the riddle of a centaur who killed people, where she did some killing herself, and found a treasure."

Those black eyebrows rose upward as his lips quirked into an O. There was disbelief in the eyes, and something like hidden laughter. He was too polite to burst out with a guffaw, I guess.

Fletch knew what he was thinking, so he said gently.

"She used to be with N.Y.M.P.H.O. and went up against some of the toughest gunmen the Mafia could get. As you can see, she doesn't look any the worse for the experience."

Guy Pascal was all apologies, bowing low and assuring me that he did not doubt this, but that I was so beautiful, it didn't seem possible that I could have done what it was claimed I had done. At the same time, he managed to gesture us toward chairs near a table that held a bottle of red burgundy, and I noted that it was a Chambertin—Clos de Béze, which is one of the very finest of French burgundies.

He did the services of a host perfectly, pouring the wine, handing my glass to me and his to Fletch, and then lifting his own. His eyes sparkled as he stared at the red wine in his glass and he took a deep breath.

"I drink to the damnation of the devil," he said softly, "and to the end of his accursed cult."

I would drink to that, and did.

Then he put down his glass and sat across from us. He frowned thoughtfully, gazing at the tips of his shoes. He gave a faint sigh.

"Brittany is a strange land," he began. "There have been cults there since the beginning of time. There are the standing stones of Carnac, which legend says were pagan soldiers trying to kill Saint Cornely, who were turned into stones by a miracle.

"Actually, of course, they are part of a huge burial ground that dates from several thousand years before Christ. Yes, Brittany is a strange land. Originally, its name was Armorica. Its people are Celts for the most part, allied with the Welsh, the Irish and the Cornishmen. Not French, no, though they are Frenchmen by reason of the fact that Brittany is a part of France."

He leaned and poured more wine, and we sipped as he went on speaking. For a time he seemed lost within his own mind, and it was only by an effort, or so it seemed, that he remembered us.

"I could speak of the carrig an Ankou, which is a cart drawn by horses. To see it means that you will die very shortly. Or there is the Yeun Ellez—the marsh of Hell—located on the peninsula, which is believed to be a gateway into another world."

He sipped at his wine thoughtfully.

"There is so much to tell you. Did you know that Brittany has over five hundred saints that supposedly protect it? You will think there must be a lot of evil in Brittany if five hundred saints are needed to fight it. And I will say, you are perfectly correct.

"Much of Brittany is wild hills and wild heath, with sandstone abounding like sharp teeth sticking up here and there from the ground. It is a primeval kind of land. It had been known to frighten visitors."

He looked at me as he said that last bit, and his eyes twinkled. "Do I frighten you, Miss Delight?"

"You've aroused my curiosity. I gather that Brittany, or your part of it at least, consists of rather wild countryside. Farmers till the soil, I should say, and don't make a very good living at it."

He inclined his head.

I went on: "As a result, the native people of that countryside call on the devil to give them a hand. Or maybe it's only for excitement."

"Devil worship," he said heavily. "Yes, I am very much afraid that the devil is worshiped there. I am certain of it, in fact. There have been rumors, Whispers...

A breath of something cold and malignant came into the room. It may only have been my imagination, but Fletch appeared to straighten up and shake himself, and our host appeared almost to shrink.

He shook his head. "I have made inquiries, but I have learned nothing. The people are afraid to talk, and I admit that I can scarcely blame them." His eyes darted at me, held me in an almost hypnotic grip.

"A demand was made upon me for money," he announced harshly. "This was before—before my daughter was abducted and—and killed." He sat back in his chair and drew a deep breath. "God forgive me, I refused to pay."

"And so they took Denise away, and I never saw her alive again. Only her dead body, when it was brought home. She—she was very beautiful. Long golden hair and blue eyes and skin as white as a cloud in the sky."

Guy Pascal shook himself. His face was flushed, his eyes fell as though in embarrassment. "You must forgive me. It hit me very hard, her loss. She was everything to me, Without her, life really doesn't seem worth living."

"I can think of one reason why you should stay alive," I smiled. "You can help bring her murderers to justice. I admit that revenge isn't a very great motive, but if we can stop other girls from being killed, it would be a good deed."

Guy Pascal nodded heavily. "You're right, of course.

I think only of myself, my loss. But I came here to enlist the help of your organization. You were recommended to me by the Paris police."

"The Paris police?"

Pascal shrugged his wide shoulders. "My own police of Brittany are helpless. They cannot be everywhere, watching over everyone. And other girls will die, as my Denise died. Those devil worshipers stop at nothing."

Fletcher Atkinson turned to me. "That's why he came to see me, Cherry. Pierre Bellocq recommended you. You remember Pierre Bellocq of the Department of Defense?"

I smiled and nodded. We had been through a lot, Pierre Bellocq and I, when I was working for N.Y.M.P.H.O. and after a Mafia man by the name of Carlo Farlinghetti, who was also known as Charley Farley.

"How is Monsieur Bellocq?"

Fletcher chuckled. "He is splendid. He also sent word to you to go and get them, with his compliments."

Guy Pascal was looking dubious. "One girl? Is that all anyone can send?" His gaze caught mine and he spread his hands. "No offense, mam'selle. But this is a serious matter."

I shrugged. It made no never mind to me whether I was sent off to Brittany or stayed here in Paris to finish my shopping spree. Something of this I must have imparted to Fletch, because he scowled suddenly and sat forward on the edge of his chair.

"This "one girl' will do the job for you, m'sieu. Now, do you want her help, or don't you?"

"I want help. If this young lady is the only help I can get, then I'll take her, with gratitude. But I must say, I am not confident as to the results."

I rose to my feet, clutching my Gucci handbag. I said: "I go it alone, if I go. You are not to know me, you understand? Unless I make myself known to you. It is agreed?"

He rose politely, bowing. "Of course. It goes without saying. But I will not be responsible for your death. I want this clearly understood. We are not playing with children, you know. These people who are devil worshipers are devils themselves."

I shrugged. "I've faced devils before. And defeated them, I might add. Your devil isn't going to scare me."

He smiled again. It was a sort of chilling smile, and it did not reach his eyes. Guy Pascal was thinking that he had wasted his time, coming all the way to Paris from Brittany. He was telling himself that he had received no help, it was futile, he might as well go home and forget about vengeance.

"I sincerely trust not, Miss Delight. Very well. I shall expect you—when you get there, eh?"

Fletch and I went out into the hall. The door closed behind us with a faint thud. I looked at Fletch, who was eyeing me somewhat ruefully.

"He is a badly worried man, Cherry. I can't blame him. I guess he thought the whole Sûreté should come tramping into Brittany to put an end to these devil worshipers"

"In which case, the devil worshipers would have gone into hiding."

"Exactly how I feel myself." His shrug was Gallic rather than English. "We'll do what we can to help.

And now, for a short time, we're going to forget about devil worshipers"

His hand took my arm and he walked me toward the elevator. "We are going to a nightspot I know on the Left Bank, in what is also termed the Latin Quarter."

I regarded him quizzically. "You say that as if you might have something up your sleeve."

"Now, now," he murmured, as if to a bothersome child.

"Are you putting me off? Come on, Fletch—’fess up. You have something in mind. Something—naughty, ought I say?"

He appeared disconcerted. "We—ell, there is a floor show. Somewhat rough, I do believe. But that isn't why I'm taking you there."

"Of course not," I agreed.

I put enough laughter in my words to make him understand that I thought he might be planning a seduction. At least, that's the way he took it, because he looked down at me rather crossly.

"I do wish you wouldn't misconstrue my motives, Cherry. It isn't that I'm a moralist who would shelter a woman from seeing certain—ah—things. It's just that I know someone who may be able to help you."

"Oh? Who's that?"

"A man," he mumbled vaguely.

I eyed him more closely. Now Fletcher Atkinson is not one to be particularly embarrassed by any person or situation. Still, something was gnawing inside him.

"Oh, come on. You can tell me."

"All right, all right. If you must know, I'm taking you to meet the devil himself."