She had graduated from the convent with honors in the biological urge, this eighteen-year-old tropical bloom. She came toward me in the dark wearing nothing but too much perfume.
“Ches-tair,” she breathed. “Kiss me, Chestair.” Chestair Drum, that’s me, the private eye who’d trekked deep into South America with violent, vengeful death on my mind-now squirming in the embrace of a passionate child.
A passionate child whose dictator father ruled with rubber-hose methods that made the Gestapo look like wistful children. Like father, like daughter. They were both my enemies, for in a way they had murdered my best friend.
It was their turn now and I hoped they would suffer. The girl came closer. Her hands drifted over me ….

The Gestapo Were Milkmaids Compared to Duarte
“Where is it?” he said.
I shook my head.
He looked at the fellow in the gray smock. He had bad teeth in a face like, a puckered white raisin. Duarte smiled.
“Rape her,” he said.
The fellow made a noise in his throat. Spittle flecked his lips. He undid the two buttons at Eulalia’s throat. She stood acquiescent, in a world of drugs and dreams. With shaking fingers he pulled down the zipper on the left side of her skirt. She roused herself enough to slap his face.
He laughed. Spittle gleamed on his chin. He started to pull her skirt down over her hips. I got up and staggered toward them. I picked the rubber truncheon off the table and swung it against the side of his face. He squawked like an angry bird and went down on the stone floor.
Something moved behind me. I spun and swung the truncheon at Duarte. The fellow in the smock had lifted himself on his hands. He was trying to crawl toward Eulalia. Duarte blocked the truncheon with a forearm as hard as a baseball bat.
His fist moved eight inches and nearly took my head off.
I went down after the fellow with the bad teeth, but it wasn’t my idea. I thought I heard someone screaming in the dark.
Maybe it was me.

Murder Is My Dish by Stephen Marlowe, published by Gold Medal #658, 1957, Cover art by Lu Kimmel