Double Identity

by Nick Carter

  Chou said, in a soft voice, “And Segment Two, I believe, is to lure the real Nick Carter? To draw him into following the double, the Turtle, and then kill him? Dispose of Killmaster once and for all?”

  Wang-wei nodded. “That is so. Comrade. At least we hope so. We are counting on the AXE organization’s learning that their precious Nick Carter has a double who is working against them. We think that then AXE will send the real Carter to find the double and dispose of him— only we hope it will be the other way around.”

  Chou smiled. “I hope you are right, Wang-wei. For your own sake.”

  The Buddha type played patty-cake with his fat hands. “That should be amusing— Nick Carter killing Nick Carter! Too bad that it will probably take place in some obscure corner of the world where we cannot watch it.”

  Wang-wei smiled and nodded. Then he pointed down through the glass floor. “They are starting, Comrade Leader. Now you will see my Turtle Nine in action. Four men will try to kill him as he makes love to a woman. My Turtle knows nothing of this, of course. He thinks this is routine, all a part of his privilege day for good behavior. My senior Turtles, you know, have a day off every week for, er, for relaxation.”

  Chou gave an oily chuckle. “You are indeed a great one for euphemism, Turtle Master. And I will tell you something else, my little friend. You are a liar and a hypocrite! You have staged these peep shows many times in the past —and always you pretend to be bored with them. You even seem to disapprove of your own methods, as though they were not quite moral.” Chou lit another of his long cigarettes. “Do you know, Master of Turtles, that I do not believe in your little act? I think you enjoy these little shows—as much, for instance, as I do.” Chou leaned back in his chair, crossed his long legs, and blew smoke at Wang-wei with a crooked smile. “Now—get on with it!”

  Mao, the bland fat little Father of China, gazed from one to the other. His frown was slight but his voice was cold. “Yes—get on with it. And I give you two a warning now— this dissension between you will cease! I do not know the cause of your quarrel, nor do I wish to know, but if it continues I will take steps! The People’s Republic cannot afford your bickering. Is that clear?”

  Chou said nothing. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Wang-wei nodded anxiously to the Leader. He had just realized. It had just come to him in a blinding flash of intuition—Chou coveted Sessi-Yu! What a fool he had been to introduce them . . .

  Mao pressed a button on the table. A servant glided un-obtrusively in to draw the jalousies and turn off the single light. Each man made himself comfortable in the darkened room. Wang-wei shot a furtive glance at Chou and saw him unfasten his collar and wipe his high forehead with a clean white handkerchief. Wang-wei reached to unhook his own collar. He had noticed that he had a tendency to sweat during these peep shows.

  The apartment below was like a brightly lit stage, every detail of which was visible from above. It was much used, this apartment, and the setting could be changed at will. Wang-wei had never been in New York and never hoped to be—even in its most absurd flights the Propaganda Ministry had never suggested that the United States could be physically invaded. But Wang-wei had read the script. The apartment into which he was now staring was supposed to be in an expensive and swank Park Avenue hotel. Small but elegant, with a luxurious decor.

  At the moment the apartment was empty. Then a door opened and a man entered. Wang-wei stiffened with something akin to pride. It was Turtle Nine. His Turtle—his own exquisite handiwork! He leaned forward, his head between his knees, and stared down through the glass floor at this creature which he, and fourteen years of captivity, had wrought. As a schoolboy he had read Frankenstein in translation and he thought of it now. He, and of course many others, had created this thing that now walked to the little bar and poured itself a drink. A Scotch and water, Wang-wei noted. The real Nick Carter usually drank Scotch.

  The man at the bar was wearing a light gray tweed of conservative and expensive cut, made to order in one of the best establishments in Regent Street, London. The shoes were also British, tan, hand-lasted and boned. The shirt was a Brooks Brothers button-down. The tie, a dark wine knit, had cost twenty dollars. Beneath the beautiful suit, Wang-wei knew, his man was wearing boxer shorts of crisp Irish linen. Five dollars a pair. Wine dark socks of Scottish wool—eight dollars. Wang-wei would have made a fine merchant—he had a memory for such details.

  Mao broke the silence. “Your Turtle looks like the pictures I have seen of this Nick Carter, Wang-wei. That I admit. But I cannot see his face closely. Have the surgical scars healed?”

  “Nearly so, Comrade Leader. There is a little pink tissue still—but one would have to be very close to him to notice it.”

  “Such as, perhaps, being in bed with him?” Chou’s little laugh was oily.

  Wang-wei could not help wincing in the gloom. He was thinking of his elderly compatriot, he who had been enjoying Turtle Nine’s favors and paying so well for the privilege. Chou, of course, was not alluding to that. Nevertheless Wang-wei felt a dew of perspiration creeping-out on his forehead.

  But his voice was steady as he agreed. “Exactly, Comrade. But he will go to bed with no one until he reaches Peshawar. Our agent there, the American girl—”

  Mao shushed them. He sounded impatient. “When does this little show begin, Wang-wei? There are a few other matters which demand my attention today.”

  Wang-wei dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “Soon now, Comrade Leader. I wanted you to have a good look at the man alone first.”

  “Then let us be quiet,” said Mao petulantly, “and watch!”

  The man at the bar sipped at his Scotch and water. He snapped open a silver case and lit a long cigarette with a golden tip. An East German agent had salvaged a butt two years before in a Berlin hotel and sent it on. You never knew, in the profession, when little things would prove important.

  The man at the bar sat in an attitude of seeming relaxation, yet his eyes roved ceaselessly and the body beneath the expensive suiting gave the impression of a powerful spring coiled for action. He was a trifle over six feet with not an ounce of fat on him. The shoulders were a great muscular wedge tapering to a slim waist, the legs long and sinewy beneath the well-fitting trousers.

  As the three men watched from above the man at the bar took out an automatic pistol and inspected it with the ease of long practice. He took out the clip, thumbed cartridges onto the bar, and tested the feeder spring. He inspected the clip for Aug and grease, then reloaded it, and snapped it back into the pistol. He put the weapon into a plastic holster which he wore on his belt and buttoned his coat. There was no tell-tale bulge. The jacket had been properly tailored.

  Chou broke the silence.

  “Let me understand this properly. This man we see, this Turtle Nine, is now under hypnosis? He believes himself to be Nick Carter? He really thinks he is Killmaster?”

  “Yes,” said Wang-wei. “He is convinced of it—”

  Mao hissed at them. “Quiet! Watch this—the man is as fast as a snake.”

  The man below, seemingly bored, had left the bar and taken a stance about twenty feet from a cork dart board fixed to one wall. With a barely perceptible movement he lowered his right shoulder, flexed his right hand. Something shiny dropped from his sleeve into the hand. So fast was the throwing motion that Wang-wei could not follow it— but there it was, the little stiletto, quivering near the center of the dart board!

  “Admirable,” chortled Mao. “Very near the bull’s eye.”

  Wang-wei sighed and kept silent. No use telling the Leader that the real Nick Carter would have hit the bull’s eye. His Turtle would have to work a little on the knife throwing. After all, if matters arranged themselves properly, his Turtle would have to go up against the real Nick Carter.

  Below them the apartment door opened and a girl entered. Chou sighed audibly. “Ahhhb—now we can get down to it.”

  The girl was tall and slim and exquisitely dressed in Western styl
e. She wore a chic little hat and suit and her legs were smooth perfection in dark nylons and high heels. Around her slim shoulders was a mink stole.

  There was no audio from the apartment below—it could be turned on at will, but at the moment was inoperative at Mao’s wish. The Leader did not care what was said. Only what was done. This was nothing more than a test of Turtle Nine’s efficiency and readiness for his job.

  Wang-wei could hear Chou’s breathing thicken as they watched the intimate tableau unfold beneath them. He had to admit that it was exciting. He did enjoy these little shows, and not always in the way of duty. Chou was right about that! For a moment Wang-wei permitted himself fleeting thoughts of Sessi-Yu and her Golden Lotus, then he forced himself to pay attention. This love making now going on below them, while exciting to the more vulgar senses, was of no real importance. The real test was yet to come. When Turtle Nine, in a very real sense, would be fighting for his life.

  The girl had taken off her little hat and flung the mink stole on a sofa. She refused a drink. Her slim arms coiled around the tall man’s neck and she pressed her lithe body hard against his. They stood kissing for a long time. The girl had her eyes closed. She raised one neatly shod foot from the floor, then the other. She began to wriggle and undulate against the man.

  “She knows her work,” said Chou in a stifled voice. “Who is she?”

  “Her name is Hsi-chun,” said Wang-wei. “Of no importance. A prostitute we have sometimes used. She is not even Chinese. Half Korean, half Japanese. But you are right—she is most efficient.”

  “Most,” said the fat Leader. “But in a matter of this sort—is she discreet? Can she be trusted?”

  Wang-wei nodded, though realizing they could not see him. “I think so—but it does not signify, Comrade Leader. We take no chances. When this is over Hsi-chun will be disposed of.”

  The couple below had gone into the bedroom. The girl stood laxly, arms drooping by her sides, as the man disrobed her. Her head was thrown back, her narrow dark eyes staring at the mirrored ceiling, as the man slipped off her little jacket, her blouse, and kissed her tawny shoulders as he removed her bra.

  Wang-wei felt a slight pang. She was a lovely little thing, even though a whore. She seemed to be staring directly at him now. Almost as though she knew he was there, knew what was going on, and was begging him to help her.

  Wang-wei sighed. It did not do to get sentimental over whores. Still—maybe he could help her a bit. He would have to see. Perhaps she could be shipped south to the troops along the Vietnamese border. It would, he supposed, be a little better than death!

  The girl stood now in only garter belt and dark stockings. Her long legs were the color of honey. The man kissed her breasts, small and round and firm as little melons. She smiled and ran her slim fingers through his close-cropped dark hair, caressing the well-shaped head. She appeared to be enjoying her work, thought Wang-wei. And why not? Turtle Nine, now the complete double of Nick Carter, would naturally be a fine lover. The real Carter’s prowess as a lover was well known to Chinese Intelligence.

  The man and woman were on the bed now, deeply engrossed in the hot preliminaries of love. The lithe body of the woman contorted in passionate arabesques. Her little red tongue flickered like a lizard’s as she sought to arouse the man further.

  “Part of her instructions,” whispered Wang-wei. “She is trying to make him forget everything but her.”

  “She seems to be succeeding,” said Chou dryly.

  “Not altogether,” said Wang-wei. “Watch!” There was a note of pride in his voice. Turtle Nine had learned his lessons well.

  The man below pulled himself away from the woman’s embrace. His lips moved in a smile. She pouted and sought to hold him, but he shook her off and went back into the living room. He was naked except for the stiletto in a sheath attached to the inside of his right forearm.

  The three watchers saw him try the door, checking the lock. He went to each window and checked it.

  Mao hissed in the darkness. “He is very careful, your Turtle. You are sure he does not suspect what is coming?”

  He suspects nothing, Comrade Leader. These are merely routine, elementary precautions that the real Nick Carter would take in such a situation.”

  Chou said: “Who are the men who are going to try to kill your Turtle? Not good Chinese, I hope?”

  “They are Chinese,” answered Wang-wei, “but not good. They are all criminals who have been sentenced to death. They have been promised their lives if they win.”

  Chou laughed softly in the gloom. “And if they do win— if they kill your prize Turtle? What will you do then, Wang-wei?”

  “Find a new Turtle and start over, Comrade. It only requires patience. You should know that.”

  “I know that I grow impatient with this chatter,” barked Mao. “Be quiet and watch!”

  The pseudo Nick Carter had taken a ball of twine from his jacket pocket. He fastened one end of the twine to the chain pull of a tall lamp near the door. Then, placing a chair in the proper position, he brought the twine down vertically to the floor, beneath the chair legs and across the door to yet another chair where he tied the end of twine. The twine now formed an ankle high trip-line just inside the door. The man tested the trip-line once or twice to make sure it worked, then left the room in darkness and returned to the small bedroom where the girl lay impatiently stroking her soft breasts.

  “Clever,” acknowledged Mao. “But the door is locked. How will your men, the criminals, get in?”

  “They have a passkey, Comrade Leader. Just as a real enemy might have. They will be coming soon now.”

  Wang-wei heard the rustle of linen as Chou mopped his face. “I am glad I am not in your service,” he told Wang-wei. “There are too many precautions to take—how does one ever find time to enjoy anything?”

  “It is necessary,” the little Intelligence man told him. “Otherwise an agent would not live long enough to enjoy anything.”

  They watched as the man sank on the bed beside the woman. He took the stiletto from its sheath and plunged it into the bed near his right hand. The Luger was placed beneath a pillow near his left hand. A radio, which must have been playing on a bedside table, was snapped off. Just before the man covered the woman with his stalwart body he reached out and snapped off the single light.

  Mao moved in the darkness. He pressed a button on the table and the audio came alive. First only a low electronic buzz, then they began to make out the individual sounds.

  Chou cursed softly. “Why did he have to turn out the light!”

  Wang-wei felt a little superior. “It is necessary, Comrade. So if the outer light is tripped on he will be at an advantage in the dark.”

  Mao shushed them again. They sat and listened to the varied sounds coming from a loud-speaker in the wall of the room.

  A gentle twanging of bed springs. A muffled cry from the woman. A sudden high panting sound from the woman, then her long groan of pleasure . . .

  The lamp in the living room went on. Four Chinese, all wearing blue coolie suits, stood for a moment blinking in surprise. Above them Wang-wei felt his own heart give a great leap. This was the real test!

  Not a tenth of a second passed before the coolies, recovering from the sudden shock of light, went into action. They all carried long cruel knives. Two of them had revolvers. One, in addition to his knife, wielded a deadly little hatchet.

  They scattered about the room, calling softly to each other, and began to converge on the dark bedroom. The watchers above saw only a faint shadow of movement in the room. The woman’s scream was abruptly stifled. The Luger spat flame at the coolies from the protection of shadow, the slapping reports loud in the speaker. One of the coolies who had a revolver stumbled and fell sprawling, his blood soaking the carpet. The revolver spun from a dead hand across the floor. A coolie leaped for it. The Luger snapped again and the man fell.

  The remaining armed coolie crouched behind a sofa and sent a fusillade of
lead into the bedroom. The coolie with the hatchet dropped to his hands and knees and, under his companion’s covering fire, began to crawl around the walls toward the bedroom door. These were desperate men, with their lives doubly in the balance, and they were not giving up easily.

  The Luger snapped again and again from the bedroom. Tufts and chunks of the sofa flew through the air but the man with the revolver was not hit. He kept firing into the bedroom. The crawling man with the hatchet was near the door now. He glanced up, saw a light switch, and shouted to his companion as he stood to click it on. The lights flared on in the bedroom.

  Wang-wei’s Turtle Nine came through the bedroom door like a naked bolt of lightning. In his right hand was the stiletto, in his left the flaming Luger. The coolie with the hatchet gave a little cry of rage and triumph and flung his weapon. It glinted in the bright light, spinning end over end. The thrower was an accomplished tong killer—for which he was to die—and had never been known to miss.

  He did not actually miss now! Turtle Nine ducked swiftly and the spinning hatchet passed over him. The girl, her soft mouth wide open in a scream, took the little axe squarely between the eyes. She sank back on the bed, the hatchet embedded in her lovely face.

  Turtle Nine was thinking like the automaton he was. He ignored the hatchet man for the moment and leaped toward the sofa, weaving and ducking. He fired twice and the Luger went dry. The coolie behind the sofa fired once and missed and his gun also clicked empty. He stood up and leaped to one side, thinking to avoid the rushing Turtle Nine.