Angela Pearson: There_s a whip in my valise

Wilhelm Franz-Ruller shook his head apologetically at the three hitch-hikers who waved their hands dejectedly at him, as they stood beside their rucksacks on the verge of the road. He felt a little guilty. He was alone in his car, which was a large Rolls-Royce, and there was plenty of room for them, ruck-sacks and all. And they did look quite decent, quite safe. They were probably university students. They were English, too. There was an English flag sewn to one of the ruck-sacks.

He put his foot tentatively to the brake pedal. Perhaps, he thought, he ought to stop for them, after all. Then he remembered some of the chilling stories that appeared constantly in the newspapers about robberies, beatings, even murders, by hitchhikers who had looked decent and safe to the drivers who picked them up. He moved his foot back to the accelerator.

The Rolls swept up the road with the gentle swish of an approaching gale. In his driving-mirror he watched them sit down on their ruck-sacks.

If they are English university students, he thought to himself, it's a great pity. But how can one be certain of hitchhikers these days? That flag doesn't prove they are English. An English flag-or any other flag, for that matter-can be bought in almost every tourist souvenir-shop all over Europe. And what is to prove they are university students? They may just as easily be thugs.

He recalled, with a shiver, a story he had read only a few weeks ago. A Swiss business-man had picked up two young men on the outskirts of Kiel. They looked like university students. For the first hour or so they were pleasant and stimulating companions, and the Swiss began to congratulate himself for having picked them up. But then one of them drew a gun and ordered him to drive into the first quiet side-road. With a sick feeling of fear he obeyed, and stopped the car immediately he was ordered to do so. As he sat, with pounding heart, wondering what was going to happen next, he was hit hard under his right ear with the butt of the gun.

The two men bundled him, unconscious, out of the driving seat, and one of them took his place. The car was driven into a clearing in some nearby woods. It was parked carefully in a position in which it was screened by bushes and trees from the sight of anyone driving along the road below. The two men dragged the Swiss from the car and emptied his pockets of all his money and valuables. Then they stripped him naked. They picked him up and laid him face downwards over the front of his car. With some cord that they took from their rucksacks they tied him securely in this position, with his legs wide open. They found a tin of water in the luggage-boot and poured it over his head to help him to regain consciousness. When he finally came to his senses, they opened the fronts of their trousers and, one after the other, savaged him brutally. Satiated, they sat beside the car, smoking, listening to his moans, and waiting for their virility to return. Then they savaged him again.

Wilhelm Franz-Ruller shivered again. No, he thought. Let other people pick up hitch-hikers, if they want to. A sensible person doesn't take chances.

He looked at the dashboard clock. Six-twenty. With any luck he would be home before midnight.

Five kilometres further up the road, two beautiful girls sat on a bridge, waiting for a car to pick them up. It was not a busy road and few cars had passed them. The few that had done so, and had failed to stop for them, had all had women sitting beside the drivers. The girls were not at all despondent. They knew they had only to wait for a car that was driven by a man who was alone.

One of them, a blonde, wearing a pair of very well-cut jeans and a light brown suede-leather jacket, was passing her time by firing a small pistol at the various objects that floated on the surface of the slowly-moving stream beneath them.

The other, a red-head, wearing a similar pair of jeans, thrust her hands deep into the pockets of her shiny black kid- leather jacket and said irritably: "I do wish you'd stop playing with that pistol." She spoke in Swedish.

"Why?" said the blonde.

"It gets on my nerves."

"I'm sorry. But it amuses me."

It was the end of a long day, and each was rather irritated with the other.

"Suppose a policeman comes along?" said the redhead.

"All right. So?"

"Do you think he'd like you taking pot-shots at the river?"

"Why not? We have a permit."

"We have a permit to carry a pistol for self-defence, not for taking a pot-shot at anything that catches our fancy."

The blonde sighed and put the pistol in her pocket. "All right. But you're in an awfully had mood."

"So are you."

The blonde smiled suddenly, a warm humorous expression lighting up her face. "Yes. I suppose I am. I'm sorry."

The other responded at once to her smile. "I'm sorry, too. It's been a long day."

The blonde put her chin on her hands. "I know what would make me feel better."

"What?"

"A man."

The red-head laughed. "You're really awful, you know. How anyone can be such a nymphomaniac beats me."

The blonde raised her eyebrows. "Look who's talking!"

"I'm not a nymphomaniac."

"Perhaps not. But you have other perversions."

"Yes, perhaps I have. But they're under control."

"More or less."

"More than yours, anyway."

"I'm not ashamed of being a nymph. I wish some man would come along now." She took the pistol out of her pocket. "I'd make him do just what I want. He'd take off his trousers and-"

"Sshhh! I think I hear a car."

They stood up and looked along the road. A Rolls-Royce came into view. It was moving fast. They stepped into the middle of the road, waving their arms. As far as they could see, the driver seemed to be a man, and he seemed to be alone.

Wilhelm Franz-Ruller saw the two girls standing in the middle of the road, waving their arms at him. Automatically he put his hand to the horn. They jumped quickly back to the verge as he swept by them.

He put his foot quickly on the brake. He had seen that they were very beautiful. He had also seen that they were both wearing leather jackets, and he had a strong perverted fetish for leather jackets that were worn by beautiful women. With no memory of his decision of a few minutes ago not to take chances with hitch-hikers, he put the car into reverse and backed towards the bridge.

The girls picked up their ruck-sacks and opened the doors of the Rolls. The red-head got into the front, the blonde into the back. They disposed their ruck-sacks on the other end of the back seat.

"Thank you very much," said the red-head in German. "You are German, aren't you? You have a German number."

"Yes," said Wilhelm Franz-Ruller, his eyes on their leather jackets, "I am German. But you are not, huh?"

"No, we are Swedes. And we don't speak German very well."

"You speak it beautifully."

"Thank you, but that is not true."

"Where are you heading for?"

"Kiel."

He made sure that their doors were shut, and drove off again. "How nice for me. I am going to Kiel, too."

They drove for some time in silence. Then: "Are you going to Kiel for a holiday?" he asked.

"A sort of holiday," answered the blonde, from the back of the car. "A friend of ours is a governess there."

"A governess? With which family? Perhaps I know them."

"A Swede called Per Petersen. Do you live in Kiel?"

"Yes. And I know Per Petersen. His wife died six months ago."

"That was when our friend became the governess of his children."

"I see. Yes, I remember something about that. How curious our meeting like this."