Double

I pushed the inlaid button. Nothing happened for a time, but I got the feeling I was being studied through the peephole. I tried to look like a guy with an interest in erotica instead of what I was, and I must have managed all right; there was the sound of a lock snicking free and the door popped open and the guy standing there said pleasantly, “Yes? May I help you?”

He looked like somebody’s kindly grandfather. He was about sixty-five, he had wispy white hair and a wispy white mustache and polished-apple cheeks, and he was decked out in a conservative three-piece gray suit and a bow tie. He didn’t surprise me much. Purveyors of pornographic art, like everybody else, come in all shapes, sizes, ages, and dispositions.

I said, “Mr. Littlejohn?”

“At your service. I don’t believe I know you, sir.”

“Ah, no, you don’t. I’ve never been here before.”

“May I ask how you learned of Priapus?”

“You were recommended by a friend — Lloyd Beddoes.”

He beamed at me. “Yes, of course, Mr. Beddoes is one of my most valued customers. And your name, sir?”

“Wade. Ivan Wade.”

“Come in, Mr. Wade. Please come in.”

He stepped back and I went into an area carpeted in plush wine-red, softly lighted, and outfitted as a showroom. There were glass cases along three of the four walls, another in the middle of the room. The cases were full of books and carvings and things, none of which appeared to be particularly erotic when I got close enough to see what they were. The same was true of the paintings, pen-and-ink sketches, and woodcuts illuminated on the walls. It all might have been pretty hot stuff thirty years ago, but in this permissive age it wouldn’t stimulate anyone — except maybe a sheltered old maid or a member of the Moral Majority.

Littlejohn watched me browse for a couple of minutes. Then he asked, “Did you have anything particular in mind, Mr. Wade?”

“Well, something a little more — you know, graphic.”

“Books? Art?”

“I’m not sure. Is this all you have?”

“Oh no. This room is for my more conservative clientele. I have another that might prove more suitable. Priapus wouldn’t be worthy of the name if it didn’t offer something for the taste of every connoisseur.”

“It wouldn’t?”

“Ah, you’re not familiar with the mythological reference?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“In Greek mythology, Priapus was the son of Dionysus, best loved son of Zeus, and the god of wine and pleasure. Priapus was the god of virility and procreation; his symbol was an erect penis.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Will you follow me, Mr. Wade?”

I followed him — into another room, much larger than the first one but similarly appointed. There was also a desk unobtrusively tucked into one corner, and beside it a portable bar that appeared to be well stocked. Littlejohn asked me if I cared for an aperitif; I said no thanks. Then we got down to the real stuff, the most erotic and no doubt most expensive items in Littlejohn’s stock.

First he showed me what he called “Dionysian literature”: old books, many of them beautifully bound in leather — copies of the Chin P’ing Mei from China, Harlot’s Dialogues from Italy, Fanny Hill from England, Sade’s Justine and Juliette. Then it was Rajput miniatures from India, delicate Chinese Ming scrolls, small screen blocks and painted scrolls and two-hundred-year-old folding paper fans from Japan; wooden statues and carvings from Madagascar, Central Africa, the Philippines, silver figurines from Peru, bronze figurines from the Ivory Coast, a humorous phallic demon from Bali; paintings and sketches, both primitive and modern, from all over Europe and from the United States. Some of the stuff was downright obscene, but in the main it was highly sensual. I found myself thinking that it was a good thing I’d come here and not McCone; a few of the items made me blush. But that was my paternal streak again. McCone was a grown woman, as she’d tartly reminded me. For all I knew, she might have enjoyed all of this much more than I did.

Littlejohn gave me a running commentary on each of the objects we looked at, beaming on them in a paternal way of his own. “Erotica from every culture has passed through Priapus,” he said. “Think of it, Mr. Wade. Every culture of man! The human animal has always been fascinated by matters of the flesh, always paid tribute to his desires.”

“Uh-huh. Tell me, what kind of erotica fascinates Lloyd Beddoes the most?”

He looked mildly surprised. “You haven’t seen his collection?”

“Ah... well, no, not his recent acquisitions. I’ve been out of the country for a while. On business.”

It was flimsy, but all he said was “What business are you in, Mr. Wade?”

“Oil exploration.”

“Very lucrative, that sort of thing, isn’t it?”

“I do pretty well,” I said.

“Yes, of course. Well, Mr. Beddoes prefers items with homosexual and S and M themes, naturally.”

“Why ‘naturally’?”

This time Littlejohn frowned. “You really don’t know Mr. Beddoes very well, do you?”

“Not really, no. He’s — a friend of a friend.”

“Indeed? May I ask who that is?”