Oh, you want to know about Herr Hans the Hypnotist? Believe me, I’ve got plenty of questions of my own about that guy. But I can tell you about my own run in with him. It was about five years ago, give or take. My operations were smaller back then, though still respectable; mainly protection, narcotics, gambling, that sort of thing. The trafficking…white slavery stuff was more of a sideline. When we needed to make a pretty policewoman or reporter girl disappear no sense wasting her when we could get a nice price for her overseas, right?

So one afternoon, I’m in my office at this construction yard I used as my usual front in those days. And out of nowhere, in comes this strange little man. It’s like he couldn’t decide whether he was an old timey stage magician or one of those old cliché scientists. He’s got the high forehead, coke-bottle glasses, pointy beard and vaguely German accent, but at the same time, he’s in an old fashioned tuxedo. I mean, the guy had on a top hat, operate cape, gloves spats and a goddamned cane for god’s sake.    

Anyway, so this character comes right up to my desk, as I growl at him to either tell me what he wants to get the hell out and he says, in that stupid accent of his “My good man, I am none other then Herr Hans, hypnotist extraordinary! Master of manipulating minds! I understand you are someone with considerable operations of the less then savory kind and feel my talents would be useful to someone like you.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking, undercover cop, right? Well, you wouldn’t think that if you’d seen this guy. Somehow the last thing that seemed possible right there was undercover cop and I was a little curious, so, while I strongly denied being involved in anything illegal, I asked him how the thought his talents would be useful for an operation like mine.

“Can you make a witness forget they ever saw anything? Or like make a judge change his mind?” I asked, thinking of some trouble I was having at that time. “Or maybe convince a bank manager to just open up his vault for you and your buddies?”

“Alas, no I’m afraid. Or at least not yet.” Hans admitted, though reluctantly. He told me he had developed this new technique, which could make a person do whatever they were told. It worked particularly well on those of the female persuasion, but unfortunately it only lasted a short time, maybe an hour for most people, maybe less if they had a particularly strong will. But after that it wore off and they’d remember whatever they’d been made to do. I gathered he’d discovered this, to his detriment, after trying this out on a female acquaintance back in his home country and thus why he was here now, and in need of a source of income and fast.

Well, it intrigued me, but I had no time for quacks or frauds and there was still a chance he might be a policeman or a detective with a crazy streak after all, so after reiterating that everything I did was on the legit, at least as far as the courts could prove, kindly told him to piss off. He seemed to expect that response, because he simply told me he would prove his story, and soon, then turned and left.

So, not half an hour’s gone by and my office door opens again. In comes this classy dame, and I mean she was a real piece of work; blonde, legs that went on forever and one of the best racks I’d ever saw. I asked her what her name was and what she wanted, a lot more nicely then I’d asked Herr Hans, you can believe it, but she didn’t say a word, instead handing me this folded note. Then, just before I can take a look at it, she starts taking off her clothes!

I’m watching dumbfounded, as this dame goes on stripping until she’s standing there, not  stitch on her, and while my jaws down by my feet, she’s got the same blank expression on her face, standing there with her arms at her sides. Nothing gets a response from her, nothing I said, when I walked around her, giving her a good look over at the same time, I might add, even when I gave her a little pinch here and there.

That’s when I finally remember the note and manage to tear myself away from this gorgeous nude in front of me long enough to look at it. It’s written in this small, neat hand and read something like: “An example of my skills in action. This is Sally Perkins, a singer at the Heart of Oak Club on Third Street. I met her in her dressing room and gave her instructions to take a taxi to your headquarters, give you this note and strip. I would advise you to get her secured quickly though, as it will have taken time for her to get here and the hypnosis will be wearing off quickly…”

Just as I read this, Miss Perkins seems to start to get some awareness of where she is. Her face blushes a bright red and she gasps, covering herself as best she can with her hands. This catches my attention and good thing because I had just enough warning to grab her and get a hand over her mouth before she starts screaming loud enough to shake the building down and while some of the boys here are part of my regular operations, most just thought it was a regular construction company and would probably have had some questions why I was grabbing a naked broad in my office in the middle of the day if they’d come in just then.

Now,  like I said, at that time white slavery was just a small part of our line of work, so it wasn’t like I had coils of rope and tape and gags and whatnot stuffed in every desk drawer and cabinet, but between electrical cords, the cord from the blinds, my tie and some material torn from Miss Perkin’s clothes, I eventually got her secured well enough for the time being and stashed in my closet. I managed to call one of my boys who brought over some more stuff and we managed to ensure she wouldn’t cause any trouble in there until that evening when everybody went home for the night and we could smuggle her out of there and to one of my less legitimate hideouts.

In the meantime, I called some other guys, with a more even ratio of brains and muscles, and sent them to ask some question. For starters, there was a Miss Sally Perkins singing at the Heart of Oak Club and she had suddenly up and left in between acts without telling anyone, about an hour before she’d done an impromptu striptease in my office. Secondly, we were able to confirm a few things about this Herr Hans, like how he’d been run outta Europe for his crazy ideas on hypnosis therapy…and a few scandals involving ladies as well.

So, the next day, I’m back in my office, ready this time, when he comes back, this cheerful grin on his face. He walks up to my desk and asks how I enjoyed his little surprise. “You almost got me arrested for harassing a young lady!” I told him. “We don’t run that sort of operation out of here and if anyone had seen anything…” But for all that, I didn’t lay into him as bad as I might have. I was very interested in what he was offering and we both knew it. For all the trouble she’d given me, Miss Perkins was a choice piece of merchandise. By then, she’d been taken to one of our hideouts by the docks, waiting for a moonless night we could smuggle her out to sea and off to the middle east where she’s easily fetch thousands with her looks and her body. So we started haggling.

His terms were, I must admit, quite reasonable, though I certainly acted like he was robbing me blind. Two thousand dollars a head was peanuts considering Miss Perkins would easily fetch ten times that on the auction block, probably more, along with access to some of the girls before their eventual sale to help him test and refine his techniques. He said he wanted to find out how to make the effect stronger and last longer, maybe even make it permanent. Since it would only help our operations, I didn’t see any harm letting him play with the product, provided he didn’t break it.

With our deal struck, we went to work. I set up a new hideout in the city, centrally located and near a subway terminal, so the girls wouldn’t have to take a cab. We had a devil of a time tracking down the cabbie who’d delivered Miss Perkins and convincing him he’d never driven no young lady to a certain construction yard that day. The entrance was off the main streets, so no one would see the girls go in. Inside, we had a reception room, where me and some of my boys would greet the young ladies, take their coats, as it were and get the ropes and gags on them before they came to their senses. Beyond was the dungeon, with cages and the like to store them until we were ready to ship out another load.

And we had plenty of work to do. Some days, we’d get two or three girls, others they’d show up one after another like clockwork. I don’t know how he did it, stalking nightclubs and cabarets and speakeasies and the like, looking for pretty girls he could get alone for a moment. Waitresses, singers and the like, usually, though any girl he could get to chat with him for a few seconds would do. I saw him do it a few times. He had this ring, with a gem, he said he found it on a trip to the Himalayas. All he had to do was wave it in their eyes for a few seconds and mutter some gibberish and they fell under his spell.

He could then tell them to go to our address, take off their clothes and wait for us to tie them up and escort them to the cages. Some of them, especially the more willful girls would come around during this part and struggle the whole way there. Others would sit quietly in the cages for a while before realizing where they were. Didn’t make much of a difference either way, I guess. Once he’d started making improvements to his technique, we got more and more of the latter. Sometimes we could even get them to help tie themselves up, which the boys thought was a hoot. Seemed a little unsporting, I thought.

It went on like that for about a year, us shipping out girls by the dozen to markets all over the world, even keeping some at home, setting up our own brothels and clubs. Of course, we had trouble every now and again, when an important girl went missing like when the mayor’s daughter secretly went out for a night at the speakeasy with some of her gals and ran into our good Herr Hans. It didn’t help that, much as I told him to, he never changed that stupid stage magicians outfit he wore and wouldn’t introduce himself as anything other than “Herr Hans the Hypnotist.” Still, we had money enough to bribe people to look the other way and when that didn’t work the usual cement shoes in the bay did the trick.

Then, one day he came to me and announced that he’d got enough money to fund his research and had learned enough from the girls we’d been letting him play with, so he was heading off to someplace quiet with a couple of them to continue his research in private. It was a blow, sure enough, since none of his had figured out his technique. Sure, I’d tried, watching him hypnotize dozens of girls, in our dungeon as part of his research and out in the city. I’d had my boys go through his notes, but he wrote them in some kind of code we were never able to crack.

So, we continued as best we could. We’d made plenty of money during that year, and we’d been careful to invest it in other areas besides slaving; booze, drugs, gambling. Of course, we didn’t get entirely out of the white slavery business. Even without his hypnosis, ropes, chloroform, sleeping pills can still get the job done, as you’ll soon find out.

Starting to feel it now, are you? We slipped it into your drink a while back, takes a little while to have an effect so it’s best to keep the victim distracted while it does its work. I wonder, did we grab your sister? Cousin? Or are you just another reporter, looking to finally crack all those strange disappearances. No, you don’t need to answer that. You wouldn’t be able to right now anyway. We’ll have plenty of time to talk before we ship you and the other girls out next week…