The Mistress - an Erotic Noir Novel (10 page)

“I guess my nerves got the better of me,” she sighed.
“I’ll be graduating from my program soon, and the
pressure... well, that’s nothing that would interest you,”
she laughed herself off. “Thanks for making sure I got home
safe. There’s plenty of untoward people out there.”

Nodding to her slowly he said, “There certainly are. Though
I wouldn’t have expected so right here on this campus, of all
places,” he remarked before sipping his tea again.

She shrugged her shoulders as she finished her tea. She was quite
the fast drinker, and she hated the way her hands were shaking. “When
I was growing up, people used to leave their doors unlocked. Things
are changing.”

Nodding to her in understanding he took another sip and then laid
his own cup and saucer down, not close to finished, “Did you
happen to see anything of note last night at the party?” The
man was nearly so large as Allen, though at least ten years his
senior of course.

She shook her head, her eyes falling to the paper, “Nothing
that could explain that, no. After dinner, however, I’m afraid
most of my night was a blur.”

Nodding slowly he shrugged his shoulders, “I only ask
because I know a few of your compatriots from the university were
there that you likely know. So I was wondering if you saw them, and
if they were up to anything suspicious.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she thought, then shook her head, “I
spoke with a lawyer and, of course, Doctor Sinclair. He had invited
me after all. I can’t recall who else was there, however. Which
other professors attended?”

He paused a moment and studied her before saying, “Doesn’t
matter, just some people from your department. But if you didn’t
see them there even, it hardly matters.” He rose up and took
his hat in hand once more, smiling kindly, “Thank you for the
tea, miss Perkin’s.”

“You don’t think it could have been Doctor Sinclair,
do you?” she asked as she stood, true concern coming through
for the man. “I could scarcely imagine him hurting a fly, let
alone the mother of his children.”

Nodding slowly he began to make his way towards the door, “I’ve
heard that,” he said, then gave her a shrug. “Hard to
say, miss Perkin’s,” he remarked in his gravelly voice,
made so much darker by his lack of rest. “You don’t
happen to know of any reason why someone would have it in for Mr. or
Mrs. Sinclair, do you?”

“I don’t know Mrs. Sinclair well, so I can’t
speak to that. And, well, the Professor is cutting edge in his field,
and obviously well to do, though I don’t understand why anyone
would take anger for him out on an innocent woman,” she shook
her head, following after the detective. “Is... Is Doctor
Sinclair still being held?”

Opening the door and pausing before heading down the steps he
shook his head regretfully, “He’s a prime suspect of
course. The husband always is,” with a shrug of his shoulders
he said, “only time will tell how this all pans out then, miss
Perkin’s. Thanks for your kindness,” he said, donning his
hat and then tipping it to her again.

“If... If you need anything, I only wish to be of help. And
If I hear of anything, I will let you know,” she smiled, but
behind the chocolate coloured eyes, her minds were reeling. Who else
was there? Why hadn’t she seen them?

Worse yet, had they seen her?

Reaching into his pocket he smiled and pulled out a card, handing
it to her, “Here you go, miss. If you think of anything, do let
me know, will you? I only wish to see this all resolved as soon as
possible, for the good of everyone involved.”

“Me too...” she agreed with a sigh. At least Martin
will be happy. Likely he’d be getting more classes to teach.
She looked so defeated as she took the detective’s card,
slipping it into her robe and inadvertently tugging it open just a
tad before she gasped, a blush coming over her form. “You look
like you could use some sleep. Your wife likely misses you.”

The motion didn’t go unnoticed, for how could any man ignore
a glimpse of her generous breasts? It obviously captured his
attention for he had to hesitate before speaking. Clearing his
throat, “I could,” he said in that hard, gravelly voice
of his, “it was nice seeing you again, miss Perkin’s. Do
take care, won't you? This campus may not be as safe as we once
thought,” he said, turning and heading to the downstairs door.

Shutting the door behind him she took in a deep breath. Settling
into her chair, she once more read over the sensationalistic paper
and began to pen a note to Doctor Turing. She was going to
reschedule, but perhaps that would be seen as suspicious. Perhaps he
was there.

Crumpling it up, she endeavoured to get ready once more. Her
outfit was by far more low key than usual, even closing in on
frumpy—in her mind. The long skirt and the fitted blouse did
little to show off her figure, though it was nearly impossible to
hide the curvaceous body. Pinning back her hair and placing her hat
atop it, she sucked in a deep breath and made her way out.

With a background in medicine as well as psychology, Samuel
Turing’s office was not with the other professors in her
department. He had a special place with an adjoining room for working
with patients. So when she arrived at his office, the man wasn’t
there but in the other room. As she knocked on his door he came out
and locked the hallway door into his lab, “Ah, miss Perkin’s,”
he said, and that hawkish man actually had a rare smile on his face.
“Timely as usual,” he said, coming over and opening the
door to his office, letting her in.

The office itself was fairly large, though it seemed less so with
all the clutter. Stacks of papers and books everywhere, and a couch
similar to the one in Russell’s office made the place seem
especially crowded.

She put on a bright smile, despite feeling less than cheery, and
placed her briefcase down at her side, “I’m just pleased
you were able to make time for me. I understand how busy they all
keep you down here.”

With a scoffing laugh he replied. “You have no idea,”
he said, moving on in with her and shutting the door. “Being
the only one in this department with any actual medical skill makes
me something of a pariah,” he said, the man in a tweed blazer
and sweater that bulked up his slender form some.

Leaning in he added, “It’s jealousy my dear. That’s
all you’d ever have to fear by following in my footsteps and
taking up pharmacology as an approach to the mind,” he tapped
his temple and smiled at her wryly.

“If you’ll pardon my immodesty, I think it’s
something I’ll have to fear regardless of what I choose to
focus my further studies on,” she teased good naturedly, trying
to push the unpleasant thoughts from her mind. Mrs. Sinclair’s
body lying in the snow as Eva made love to her husband, sullied her
name and their relationship.

“I’ve always found it interesting, yet my studies
always lead away from it.”

If Turing was there last night, he wasn’t showing it, not
with the way he laughed at her joke and the old man leered at her,
much as the hawk he so resembled. Pushing his glasses up the bridge
of his nose, he said to her, “That is a travesty, my dear,”
and waved her onto the couch. “Freud recognized the benefits of
pharmacology, and though they’ve all gotten away from it, it’s
a colossal error, miss Perkin’s!”

“Well if they were all perfect, there’d be nothing
left for us to do,” she quipped as she settled into the sofa,
her briefcase placed at her feet. “Jealousy, however, is a
wicked creature. We should build onto one another’s successes,
further proving or disproving theories and not get caught up in such
pettiness against our lessors.”

“Well said,” he responded, smiling so pleasantly. “I
know, dear girl,” he began moving around his desk, sifting
through some documents and in the process nudging a pile of papers
which revealed the open and seemingly read daily newspaper, with that
now familiar headline across it.

“You’re quite the clever one. Which,” he began
with a deep intake of breath, “is why it pains me to see you
taken in by someone like Russell, who has nothing to offer anyone but
his ego,” he declared so vehemently.

Her eyes rolled, “He’s a fool,” she lamented.
“However, I would have rather spent a half hour with him one
night and confirmed it than have him constantly chasing me for some
more time. He’s like a child. He’s the typical result of
an unresolved Oedipus complex.”

Turing let loose such a pleasured laugh at that, taking malicious
delight in her insulting the other professor. “You are too
right!” He declared and rubbed his hands together. “But
enough about that British twit, hmm?”

There was a certain glint in his eyes as he searched through his
things, and as he nudged the papers and documents around she could
see some opened envelope poking out from the newspaper itself.
“There’s a new drug I’ve been experimenting with,
my dear. It has the delightful effect of treating most any ailment
you can think of in some manner, but is especially useful for
depressives.” Looking to her with excitement in his eyes he
asked, “Would you like to give it a try? It’s quite
harmless, I assure you.”

She laughed, though her keen eyes were focused elsewhere as she
stood up to his desk, her fingertips pressing against the table as
she stared up at him past the desk, “If you’re
experimenting on it, how do you know that?”

Her fingers edged towards the envelope, but the provocative manner
in which she stood, even in her modest garb, was quite distracting.

Her ploy had its desired effect, for Turing was far too enraptured
with her and her provocative approach to notice the motions of her
hand. “Ah, my dear,” he began much softer than normal,
doubtlessly because of his distraction, “the uses of it are
what’s under experiment. The safety, I assure you, is fully
confirmed as safe,” he said reassuringly. “I have a
feeling this drug could be used in the future to treat everything
from chronic pain to depression and psychosis.”

“My, my,” she slipped the envelope into the sleeve of
her blazer, “If that’s true, you’ll be heralded
near and far, Doctor Turing. Your name will be on everyone’s
lips,” she quirked her own mouth into a smile. “Do you
take it, then?”

Giving a display of false modesty he touched his breast and
laughed lightly, “Of course I’ve tried it, a true doctor
of medicine has to understand such things before just prescribing out
these medications,” he said. “Just a moment dear,”
he touched her arm, “I’ll go grab a bottle from the other
room,” and he turned to go to the attached laboratory.

She quickly tried to glance in the envelope, moving to her
briefcase and sitting down, placing it on her lap to hide her
actions. Her heart pounded in her chest, fear rising within her, yet
it couldn’t overwhelm the sick curiosity she felt.

She could hear the man from the other room, still talking as she
checked out the envelope, “It’s not a new drug, of
course,” no return address on the front. “But then the
most interesting treatments are often from discovering new uses for
old drugs,” tugging the envelope open and peering inside she
saw writing in elegant cursive, appearing to be written in a ladies
hand. Without time to read it she had to suffice for peering to the
end, where it was signed ‘Sylvia S.’

Cursing her lack of time, she stood up and grabbed the paper,
acting as if the letter had fallen to the ground and gasping a bit as
she ‘read’ the front page.

Turing returned shortly after with a vial of amber fluid in hand
as he looked her over, “You quite alright?” he asked,
stepping back inside with a syringe in hand.

“Just...” she looked up from the paper, her face
looking a bit pale, “Have you read this yet?”

Turing was slow to look to the paper, but she could tell the
insincerity of his words, “Ah yes. A tragedy that.” With
a dismissive shrug he said, “The decadence of this place,
sometimes...” he trailed off as if disinterested in the topic.

“Decadence?” she asked as she set the paper back on
the desk, looking as though she just realized the envelope had fallen
out and placing it on top of the paper before moving back to the
couch. Her eyes were on him, wide and curious.

Testing the bottle he took the syringe and stuck it into the top,
“Oh yes, my dear. These society types of New England,”
rolling his eyes he filled the syringe,” endless drama over the
littlest of non-things. I say she probably leapt to her death over
some broken nail.”

“That would be a sad ending,” she mused before
remembering, quite suddenly, that he was about to stick her with some
drug. “Do you have a wife, Doctor Turing?”

A distinct look of annoyance crossed his face, “Ah, yes.
Indeed I do,” he stated in the most dull and disinterested
voice she had ever heard. “Betty,” he said with some
distaste as he took the syringe out and smiled to her toothily, “Lay
back on the couch, dear girl.”

“It’s a shame that all the educated men are married
with children already. The men my own age,” she sighed and it
spoke all too well of her experiences as she lay back, “What
will this feel like?”

Pulling his chair up to the couch beside her he gave such a smile,
“It is a shame indeed, sweet girl. If only I were a little more
unencumbered myself, hm?” he said to her, looking quite leering
as he moved to roll up her sleeve, “It shall feel quite nice,
but don’t let me ruin the surprise!”

Her gaze met his, and she suppressed all the worry and doubt from
her mind as she smiled, “I was speaking with a man not long ago
about the Elektra complex. Does that run in your family? I know the
theory is contentious, but I find it quite entrancing.”

With her arm exposed he sunk the needle into her skin. To give the
white haired old man credit, he had a steady, precise hand, and it
barely stung at all as he injected the fluid into her. “Ah,
no,” he said, “my wife never so much as provided me a
daughter, I’m afraid,” he said, the words sounding a bit
funny to her as she could feel heat rising to the surface of her
flesh and sensations becoming dramatically amplified.