Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  There was Rita Jameson to consider.

  Damn! He should have thought of it before. Nick reached for his watch and strapped it on as he glanced at the time. Too late to call London now. Max would be out of his office and on the town. If it was true that he had spoken to Rita about Nick, then he would have told her what he thought he knew: that Nick was a private detective, who enjoyed a challenging assignment.

  Rita. Lovely, troubled, in need of help. Or else a clever counter-spy who had somehow discovered that he was more public avenger than private eye. If that was the case, she was either somehow involved with the bombings or had coincidentally chosen Flight 16 to con him into a trap. He shook his head. That would be one coincidence too many.

  Room 2010 slowly darkened as he sat there sunk in thought. The small blue tattoo on his right forearm, near the inside of the elbow, glowed faintly in the gathering gloom. He stared down at it and smiled a little ruefully. When Hawk had organized AXE, the tattoo had come with the job. Along with the phone code, the danger and the fun. One little blue axe, and a man was committed for life to the job of secret agent for the U.S. Government. Hawk's undercover agency had its own unorthodox ideas about "give 'em the axe" to enemy spies and saboteurs. But along with the axe and the code and everything else had come a deep-rooted sense of caution, a suspiciousness that reached out to every wide-eyed bellhop, every garrulous cabdriver and every lovely girl. Certainly it had played hell with romance on more than one occasion.

  Nick rose, snapped on the lights and started to dress.

  A few minutes later he was formally attired in a dark charcoal grey suit, powder blue tie and laceless black shoes. He inspected his face in the bathroom mirror. The scrapes and bruises of the day's misadventure were scarcely visible. Makeup, he thought, can do wonders, and he grinned at his image. He combed the thick, dark hair away from his forehead and told himself to get it cut in the morning, right after he'd talked to Max.

  Back in the bedroom, he pocketed Pierre and slid Wilhelmina and Hugo into their accustomed places. Then he moved to the phone to call Hadway House and Rita Jameson.

  His hand was reaching for it when something happened to the lights in Room 2010. Every one of them went out with alarming suddenness. Silently, swiftly — disturbingly.

  Someone called out in the next room. It wasn't his room only, then.

  A window made a click of sound.

  That was his room.

  Nick Carter stood stock-still in the new darkness, abruptly conscious of a deadly fact: someone else was in the room with him.

  Someone who had not come in through the front door.

  Death in a Dark Room

  Nick Carter held his breath.

  Not in the normal manner. Not with the sudden, sharp intake of sound that would have told the unknown intruder exactly where he stood.

  Yoga has its multiple benefits. One of them is the art of breath control. Nick closed his mouth and stopped breathing. The hush of the room was unbroken.

  Quickly, he adjusted his eyes to the darkness and waited. But his brain was flying, arranging every article of furniture, everything that took up space and held the geometrical pattern it had formed before the lights went out.

  A chair fell over in the room next door. A man's voice raised in a curse.

  Nick's mind raced in the darkness.

  He was between the bed and the bureau. The door was approximately ten feet to his left. Chair and end table to either side of the door. Bathroom to his right, another few feet from the bed. Two windows facing Madison Avenue. The heavy drapes had been closed while he was taking his exercises and were still closed by the time he had finished dressing. No entrance there. The front door had been locked on the inside. The bathroom. The intruder had to be in the bathroom. There was a small window there. Too small for the ordinary man.

  All other possible entrances were accounted for. Where else could the danger be but in the bathroom?

  Nick didn't move. He could hold his breath for four and a half minutes, if he had to. But what would the intruder be doing? Nick cocked his ears, anxious for the slightest sound.

  Now he was aware of the sound of Manhattan. The din of traffic rose from twenty floors below. Twenty floors... Fire escape? Not directly outside the bathroom window but near enough for an agile man. A car horn squalled.

  Still, the silence in Room 2010 was a tangible, living thing.

  His visitor couldn't afford to wait much longer. If other lights were out the guests would be raising hell. The lights would be going on again before anything happened. Fine. That suited Nick.

  A slight, leathery splat of sound ignited him. Tt was too close. He moved from where he stood, still holding his breath, and glided to the wall near the front door. As he did so, he flexed his forearm and Hugo slipped quietly from the leathery breakaway holster and settled coolly in his right palm without so much as a hiss of noise. The ice-pick blade sprang into place. Nick reached out his left arm to feel for a chair. It would offer some protection if he could get it between himself and the hidden menace. His movement was soundless, but the darkness betrayed him. It was as if the someone in the room with him had seen the gesture with X-ray eyes.

  There was a flick of sibilant noise and a tiny, swiftrushing current of air past Carter's left cheek. A slight thuck of contact sounded as a cold piece of flying steel found a target. Nick's split-second reaction was pure reflex, spurred on by sense memory of a thousand combats. His left hand found the hilt of knife jutting from the plaster wall. He shoved his right shoulder just below the hard handle, aimed, and answered back in kind.

  Hugo shot from the balance of his throwing palm with the ease and thrust of a bullet, following the line from which the killer's knife had come. Nick's body tensed, his eyes trying to break the solid blackness into something that could be seen.

  But there was no need for eyes now.

  A strangled cry of surprise broke the silence. Before the sound could blend into a scream it fell to a bubbling gurgle. Something fell, heavily.

  Nick let the air out of his lungs. The killer had paid the price for confidence.

  Somewhere, nearby, a door slammed. An angry voice filtered into the darkness from the hall.

  "What the hell goes on here? Somebody must have been messing with the fuse box or the circuit breaker or whatever the hell you call it. Are they going to let us grope around in the dark all night?"

  Nick found his way to the window and pulled the drapes.

  The dim light of the city's night sky showed a man spread-eagled on the floor, halfway across the threshold of the bathroom, his torso sprawled the rest of the way into the living room. Hugo was poking bloodily into his throat, in grim testimony to the accuracy of Nick's judgment and aim. Nick approached the corpse warily. The man was dead, all right. He turned the body over. There was no mistaking the rigid mold of the face.

  Nick stepped over the body and went into the bathroom. A brief inspection confirmed his suspicions. The single window was open. He peered through. As he'd remembered, there was nothing but a yawning space below, but a fire escape to either side of the frame was within easy reaching distance. All it took was nerve. He went back to the corpse.

  The lights blazed on.

  It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the new brightness. A blank face stared up at him. A voice on the landing said, apologetically: "A kid playing around, maybe. Somebody's idea of a joke. Sorry, folks. Sorry about the inconvenience." The voice and the babble faded.

  Inconvenience was right. He'd have to get out of here.

  The man was about five ten — not short, certainly — but as thin as a piccolo, and dressed like a window cleaner. Denim trousers, sail cloth shirt. He hadn't bothered with the pail. Probably counted on just blending with the landscape and nipping in and out as fast as he could. It didn't work.

  The face was plain and ingenuous even in death. No distinguishing features. There was nothing in his pockets. Not even a book of matches. No labels in the fade
d work clothes. Nick checked the heels of his shoes, the mouth and ears for hidden accessories. Nothing. The killer had come with only his knife.

  The knife was a staghorn-handled destroyer, typical of what you could buy in an Army and Navy Store or those junk shops on Times Square. Nothing there, either. And the nothing left plenty to worry about.

  Someone had sent a killer to Carter's room. Because of the plane incident, or because of something else?

  Nick lit a Player's and thought: One killer?

  Piccolo had come in through the bathroom window, as if on signal, the instant after the lights had gone out. There was no way he could have tampered with the box in the hall. Therefore there must have been a second man. But whoever had killed the lights was probably far away by now. No use looking for him. And no point in waiting around. Nick stubbed out his cigarette.

  Too bad he'd have to leave a corpse for the chambermaid to discover. But secret operatives could have no truck with city police.

  He placed the knife wielder in bed, dumping him unceremoniously under the blankets. He wrapped a hand towel around his ringers and pulled the knife from the wall. Putting the knife into the folds of the towel, he slid it into his briefcase.

  The corpse mustn't be discovered until the next day, or it would serve no purpose at all. Check-out time was three in the afternoon and no maid would disturb a sleeping guest, no matter how badly she wanted to get through work and go home. Not even a guest who didn't answer a knock on the door.

  But the knifer's friends were another matter entirely. If they felt like visiting, an unanswered knock wouldn't stop them.

  Nick wiped off Hugo with almost fond dutifulness. Hugo had done the job well, as usual. Nick decided his suitcase could stay behind. A few items went into the briefcase: towel, knife, razor, book he hadn't finished reading on the plane, half-full flask. The only other things he wanted were on his person. Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre.

  He wasn't worried about his signature on the hotel registration card. The Department had spent two months teaching him how to vary his handwriting to match assumed identities and produce admirably indecipherable signatures that looked like the real thing but spelled nothing and defied analysis. Actually, he had signed in as Willa Gather, but no one would ever know.

  He spent several minutes thoroughly checking out Room 2010, then stepped cautiously out into the corridor and closed the door on the self-locking latch. He had left the keys to the room on the writing table. Then he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and headed for the stairway with his briefcase.

  Piccolo's accomplice, if he were still about, was unlikely to show himself under the bright lights. Anyway, Hugo was ready for him. Nick climbed two flights, eyes alert for any sign of lurking presence, and made his way to the bank of elevators.

  As things stood, the New York City Police would have a difficult case on their hands. Very likely insoluble. There was nothing here that could possibly lead back to Nick Carter. But the knifer's employers would soon know that their quarry was alerted enough to kill and run. That could make for a rather unpleasant future. Pity, in a way, that he had killed the knifer outright.

  Still, there was no use moaning over spilt corpses. Especially ones that weren't your own.

  * * *

  Nick looked through the plate glass of the lobby phone booth, wondering how many of Them there were and what had happened to the second man.

  The phone rang distantly several times.

  "Yes?" Hawk answered with characteristic abruptness.

  "Someone just sent a knife with a fine-honed edge," said Nick. "I refused the delivery."

  "Oh. Wrong address?"

  "No. Right address, I think. Wrong package."

  "That so? What did you order?"

  "An axe."

  "Delivery man still there?"

  "Yes. He'll be around awhile. Could be getting company — somebody to check on the delivery. But somebody else'll have to let 'em in. I think I'd better change hotels. Will the Roosevelt be all right for your package?"

  "Fine for mine, if it isn't for theirs. Don't cut yourself."

  The old man's voice was a little sour. Nick could practically hear what he was thinking. The case was only hours old and already N-3 had provided a corpse to confuse the issue.

  Nick grinned into the telephone. "One more thing. When you send someone regarding this delivery, remember the front door as well as the service entrance. It may be a big thing."

  "Don't worry about my memory." Hawk hung up.

  Nick watched the lobby and dialed again. This time he called Hadway House and asked for Rita Jameson.

  "Hello, Miss Jameson? Nick Carter. Sorry I'm late." Rita sounded strained.

  "Thank God it's you." He could hear a sigh of relief, and her voice lightened just a little. "I thought you'd changed your mind."

  "Not a chance. I was afraid you might have, after the day's excitement."

  "Oh, God. Wasn't this morning awful? I can't get it out of my mind." The voice rose again. "That poor man! And the children and the screams and the blood. I can't bear it!"

  "Easy, now. Take it easy." Nick was alarmed by the familiar, siren-like sound of hysteria. But "I can't bear it" seemed a funny thing to say. Well, maybe not. The horror of it was pretty hard to take. He hardened his own voice.

  "Do you intend to fall apart, or are you going to pull yourself together? Because if you disintegrate, you do it alone. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's an hysterical female."

  He waited. They usually nibbled on that line.

  "If there's one thing / can't stand," Rita answered coldly, "it's a man who thinks it matters worth a damn what he can stand, and tops it off by pouring pompous clichés into my ear and..."

  "That's better." He laughed aloud. "Those old hackneyed phrases nearly always do the trick."

  There was a brief silence, then: "Oh." And a little laugh.

  "What time shall I pick you up?" Nick asked briskly. "Let's see... it's now eight-thirty, and I'm afraid I still have one or two things to do. Do you think you can hold out until about nine, or nine-fifteen?"

  "If you're thinking of food, I've never been less hungry in my life. But I'd just as soon you didn't pick me up at this place." She thought out loud. "We could meet at the Cafe Arnold, or at... no, I don't think I want to wait in a restaurant."

  "A bar?"

  "Or in a bar... I know — let's meet at the Plaza Fountain at, oh, nine-fifteen. I need a little fresh air. Do you mind?"

  "No, of course not. See you at nine-fifteen."

  He hung up. There was one more call to make. His finger traced out the familiar numbers.

  "Frankie? Nick."

  If he had been tailed from the airport it seemed only fair to warn Frankie that someone might have an eye on his house. It was unlikely, but possible. He told him what had happened.

  Frankie Gennaro cackled.

  "Don't worry about me, kid. If I was a sitting duck for any tail I'd a been dead a dozen times over. And I don't mind a little action. Still got some gadgets need trying out. You know, like under real-life conditions, as you might say. But, you, fella! You need lessons. Good thing you're only working for the Government. You'd make a no-good hood!"

  He cackled again and hung up.

  Nick looked out into the lobby. A middle-aged man with a prosperous-looking executive paunch was settling himself into an easy chair. A youngish man with a crew cut waited for the express elevator. He carried a bag that looked as though it might contain sales samples. Nick knew that it was filled with the delicate tools of his specialized trade. Agents K-7 and A-24 were on the job.

  * * *

  Nick spent what was left of the short time before his appointment checking in at the Roosevelt. He bought a cheap one-suiter at Liggett's and walked to the hotel keeping an eye peeled for trailing shadows. If they had found him once, they could find him again. But if they had picked him up as he left the Biltmore, K-7 would have spotted a tail and they would have formed
a neat little procession of three. As far as he could make out, though, he had drawn no tail.

  A late edition of the New York Post shouted out the headline: MYSTERY EXPLOSION AT IDLEWILD. Nick bought a paper, checked in at the desk with an inscrutable scrawl, and settled down to a few moments of reading in the privacy of a comfortable seventh-floor room.

  It was just a skeleton story, breathing unsolved mysteries and suggesting no official unraveling of the bizarre event, but it did offer one scrap of worthwhile information:

  "...has been identified as Pablo Valdez, secretary of the cabinet of Minirio. The flight was not official in nature, authorities disclosed here today. Minirio, even more than its neighboring Latin American nations, has been a world problem in recent months because of Red Chinese efforts to infiltrate the country with designs toward satellization..."

  Bullseye for Mr. Hawk, again.

  Burns of Great Britain, Ahmed Tal Barin of India, La Dilda of Peru and now Valdez of Minirio. Something was in the wind when four diplomats all died in similar ways. How in hell could the insurance companies go for such a weak cover-up as murder for insurance? Or was that just the official lie to keep the enemy hoodwinked while the FBI poked around for further information? Oh, yes. One exception. Pilot error. Perhaps it was a genuine exception.

  It was turning out to be a real international soup, all right. And Mr. Hawk was just the chef to stir the pot.

  Valdez's steel hand... The possibility of a bomb device was fascinating and horrible. It would be interesting to see what CAB and all the other authorities would make out of the one explosion which hadn't occurred on the plane. It was a break, in a way — it narrowed the field of inquiry.

  Carter wondered why Rita had chosen to meet at the Fountain. The ever-present doubt swelled in the back of his mind. It would be a dandy place for anyone who wanted to pick him off.

  Don't jump the gun, he told himself. It may just turn out to be a very pleasant night on the town with an extremely lovely girl who has turned to you, trustingly, for help.