Run, Spy, Run

by Nick Carter

  The cellar became a jungle.

  Braille's blurt of maddened pain erupted in the new darkness. Another of Wilhelmina's bullets had thudded home. But the impetus of his forward charge carried him like a runaway barrel into Nick's body. Nick went down, tenpin style, with Braille's lumpy fingers clawing at his throat. The big one was going to die hard.

  His mind half-registered scuffling noises at the far end of the room. There was a thud, a high-pitched snarl, the clatter of a falling body, and a feminine squeal. Something clanked and slammed. Julie.?.. Judas.?.. The cellar was strangely silent. But there was no time to count noses. Braille's powerful fingers were scorching Nick's throat.

  Nick dropped Wilhelmina on the floor and spat Hugo into one hand while the other clutched at Braille's thick throat. Nick squeezed and pushed upward. Hugo dug into Braille's abdomen. The gorilla barked. Nick made a ripping motion with deadly Hugo across the bulge above him. It sagged.

  There was a bubble of sound, a hoarse dying rattle, then a surge of hot, fetid breath.

  The big hands relaxed. Nick turned his head to draw breath, then heaved himself from under Braille's dead bulk. A hush hung over the cellar.

  He saw Julie's head framed in the glow of his own cigarette lighter.

  "He's gone," she whispered. "Tried to stop him. He pounded out of here in a helluva hurry. Maybe we'd better, too."

  Nick reached for her and touched her cheek. "Julie, Julie, Julie... Are you all right?"

  She nodded, and suddenly clutched his arms. A tremor ran through her. Then she said: "Never felt better in my life. Now can we get out of here?"

  The flickering light showed a trail of blood leading to a street-level trapdoor.

  Nick stopped suddenly. "My God! Where did the bastard put our clothes?"

  Two after One

  Lyle Harcourt woke late the next morning in his expensive three-room suite at the exclusive Royal Crown Hotel. He had brushed off all offers of company or protection the night before, and had retired after leaving strict instructions that all callers were to be identified and announced before disturbing him.

  He sat up in bed, determined to read the London Times from front page to last before even thinking of ordering breakfast.

  He enjoyed reading the morning paper. One of the luxuries of being a prominent public official was the amount of time and attention one could lavish on Current Events. It was part of the job, and a very pleasant part.

  He didn't get anywhere near the last page.

  Harcourt forgot all about breakfast when he saw the morning headlines. The news brought back all the terrifying details of his own strange experience aboard the Jetliner from New York to London.

  TRAGIC ACCIDENT TO U.S. CONSUL

  JUDSON DROWNS IN BATHTUB

  Harcourt bounded out of bed and phoned the Consulate. A stiff voice answered, identifying itself as the property of a Scotland Yard Inspector.

  Ambassador Harcourt announced himself. "But why Scotland Yard? Wasn't it an accident?"

  The voice unbent a trifle. Harcourt was Somebody. So was Judson, and that was why they were there. No stone would be unturned, no doubts left dangling. The voice stonily related the scanty information concerning Judson's death. Lyle Harcourt was irritated. Why hadn't he been informed? The Inspector was sorry. Harcourt understood. He would be at the Royal Crown should anyone care to contact him. He hung up. A little while later the phone rang, and the Vice-Consul apologetically told him the little he knew. The only odd thing was that Judson usually took his bath in the morning. It appeared that he had drowned some hours before the day began. Very late last night, in fact.

  Harcourt spent the next hour calling the United Nations' London Headquarters trying to get a circuit to the States for a call either to the U.S. Mission in New York or the home office in Washington. Finally he cancelled the calls and drafted a pair of cables.

  Peter Cane, that Security fellow on the plane, had certainly known what he was talking about. In fact, the Secret Service man who had seen Harcourt off at Idlewild had urged him to be on guard against any overt move by anyone on or off the plane. He had even been wary of Cane.

  Between calls, Harcourt showered and dressed.

  Peter Cane. Let's see... He and the girl were staying at the Rand.

  He picked up the phone. There was no answer from Cane's room, or Miss Baron's.

  He called Room Service for his belated breakfast.

  Later, the reception desk called to announce visitors. Harcourt was surprised to find his pulse quickening, his heart pounding. His fingers trembled slightly as he spoke into the mouthpiece.

  "Who is it?"

  "The name is Cane, Mr. Harcourt," the Crown's desk announced. "Peter Cane. And a young lady. A Miss Baron."

  "Ah." Harcourt was relieved. "Let me have a word with Cane." That's the way to do it, he assured himself. Never take anything on trust.

  A lively, cultured American voice came on the line.

  "This is Cane. May we see you, sir?"

  "Ah, Cane. I've been trying to contact you. Yes, please come up. Oh, let me tell the Desk. Hello? Reception? Send them right up. Thank you."

  His doorknocker clacked decisively a few minutes later. He heard a woman's laugh and the low rumble of a male voice. Tucking a white handkerchief into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit, Harcourt strode through his sitting room toward the door. The prospect of seeing two government agents was more than a relief. Harcourt was an intelligent, courageous man, but he had no flair for espionage. His own extremely complex job was quite enough for him. He believed in experts, as he believed in himself.

  He had only a second, after unlatching the door and pulling it back, to recognize his callers. Only a second to see a tall, good looking man and the attractive woman. They were not Peter Cane and Julia Baron.

  He could not even protest, much less think of shouting for help. The door closed and a hand clamped over his mouth. Harcourt suddenly realized that he had no idea what Peter Cane sounded like on the telephone.

  The Ambassador toppled without a murmur as the tall man sapped him swiftly with a weighted black instrument.

  After that, Harcourt felt nothing.

  * * *

  "There's no answer," said Julie. Her face was puzzled as she put down the phone. "The line was busy only a few minutes ago — it's been busy all morning."

  "Damn!" said Nick. "He's gone out and we've missed him. Try the U.N. office."

  He paced the floor of the room. They had checked in, after Mr. Judas' near-fatal waterfront party, at a rambling old hotel in the Strand section, registered as Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Slocombe of Philadelphia. The assistant manager's reluctance to accept two disheveled people unaccompanied by luggage had been dispelled by the sight of a wallet bulging with American dollars.

  "Peter Cane's" cash had been lifted — no doubt by Braille. The money belt had been tampered with, but not emptied. No doubt Braille and Judas had counted on absconding with it intact. Pierre and Junior were lost forever, but Hugo and Wilhelmina had settled comfortably back into their accustomed places. Julie's torn clothes were still wearable. The warehouse cellar had yielded none of its secrets to a rapid search.

  "Well? What do they say?" he demanded. Julie had cut the connection.

  "He called them this morning, but they haven't seen him. They suggested his hotel."

  "Try his room again and then call the Consulate. Perhaps he decided to go there after he talked to them."

  Nick had called the Consulate himself earlier. He was not surprised to learn from Harry Byrnes that Judson had been found drowned in the bathtub after "fainting and striking his head." The chauffeur? Well, it hardly mattered at the moment. There had been a brief message for Nick from Hawk. It said: RECEIVE PACKAGE AT JOHNSON & CO. WAREHOUSE 283 DOCK ROAD. REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF FATAL ILLNESS YOUR FRIEND BROWN. REPORT SOONEST. BIRD.

  He already knew about the abandoned warehouse — only too well. It was unlikely that Judas would be using it again, even if he had s
urvived. So "Brown" was dead. Too bad.

  Nick looked at Julie. She was putting through another call.

  After getting Hawk's message Nick had gone out to find the nearest Post Office and a branch of the Cable and Wireless Company. Perhaps the Consulate's wires were safe now, with Judson gone. Nick wasn't going to take a chance. In a carefully worded cable to ACTION, WASHINGTON, he gave a full report to Hawk asking what he was supposed to make of WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO.

  Julie was trying to contact Harcourt, only to run into a barrage of busy signals.

  Nick closed his message with a request for all future cables to be addressed to the Cable Company's branch office. He signed it "Max P. Cane." The "Max" was for Hawk and the "Cane" for the Cable Company, in case they required identification.

  "What did they say at the Consulate?" Julie was jiggling the telephone hook.

  "They haven't seen him. I thought I'd call the Royal Crown and find out if he's had any callers."

  "Yes, that's a good idea," Nick said thoughtfully, and frowned. "Better sound official — say you're calling from the Consulate to find out if his messenger came or something. Otherwise they won't give anything away."

  Nick tried to figure out a possible next move. Judas had been badly hurt. Frankie Gennaro's little grenade had not been quite as powerful as he'd hoped. On the other hand, if it had been any more powerful, it might have been the end of him and Julie. It had ripped that silver hand off and dug deep gouges into Judas' face and arm. He must have lost a dangerous amount of blood.

  "I see," Julie was saying. "Two callers?"

  Nick stopped and listened.

  "Would you mind telling me their names? He made an appointment through us a little earlier, you see, and I just wondered if... Oh. Yes, those would be the people. Thank you very much."

  She hung up and turned to face him.

  "He just had two visitors. Us."

  "What!"

  "About ten or fifteen minutes ago Miss Baron and Mr. Cane went up to his room. They haven't come down and neither has Harcourt."

  "Christ! Give me that phone!"

  He got through to one of the Security officers he'd talked to at the Airport and swiftly outlined his suspicions. They'd have to work through the Police, they said, but they'd get on to it right away. A call to the house detective and a few enquiries... Where could they reach Mr. Cane if they wanted him?

  "Hotel Emerson — ask for Slocombe. But I won't be here for long. Check with you later."

  He hung up and started cursing. "Could be dead in his room, for God's sake. I should've gone over there first thing this morning. I'm getting over there. You stay here."

  "Peter." Julie's voice was dangerously quiet. "You're letting your hot head run away with your brains. The Police are going to be there. How're you going to explain yourself? Oh, I'm Cane, you say, of AXE. Or Army Intelligence. Oh, yes? they say politely. Well, just come along with us. But you can check me with Security, you say..."

  "All right, I get the picture. I hadn't intended to be quite as obvious as that." He grinned suddenly. "But at least I can find out if he's still there."

  "We'll find out by waiting here. Why did you call Security in the first place? Because you knew damn well you wouldn't get anywhere if you tried to snoop around and question people."

  "Okay. You win. Let's eat. I'm hungry."

  The phone rang an hour later.

  The clipped voice of British Security informed him that there was no sign of Harcourt or the tall young couple. The bound and gagged figure of the freight elevator operator had been found in the first-floor storage closet. An attendant in the basement garage had told how two young people and a man in chauffeur's uniform had stepped out of the freight elevator supporting a middle-aged man. They had explained that he was very ill and had to be rushed to a hospital. The car was a Rolls. The attendant couldn't remember the license number. The party had driven off some twenty minutes before the police arrived. That was all. There was no need for Cane to involve himself in the inquiry, but if he should run into anything — the clipped voice gave him a number. Every effort was being made to find Harcourt.

  "Abducted from his hotel suite in broad daylight!" Nick had started pacing again. Then he stopped. "Wait a minute. Why didn't they kill him then and there?"

  He flung himself at the telephone and called the desk. Mr. and Mrs. Slocombe were checking out. Could their bill be ready, please?

  "Peter, what are you doing?"

  Smiling, he pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, let's get out of here. We're going back to the Rand."

  The cat eyes widened. "Why the Rand?"

  "Because Judas is still busy. I didn't hurt him enough. Right?"

  She nodded, puzzled.

  "And why would Harcourt be kidnapped instead of killed outright?"

  "Because... well, because maybe they thought he'd be discovered too soon. He's probably lying dead some place right now."

  "Uhuh. He's not. They took more risk getting him out than leaving him there. No, Judas could've had him killed right there. He's alive, and there's just one reason for it Us. To flush us out of cover. Remember last night?"

  She shuddered. "How could I forget?"

  "Judas said we were the only people alive who knew what he looked like. Which means that even his hired hands couldn't describe him to anyone. Certainly not Braille. Maybe Judas deals with the chauffeur through a mail-slot — I don't know. But I do know this: he showed his face to us only because he was ready to kill us. Now he has to. But first he has to draw us out. He wants Harcourt, sure. But he wants us, too. We know his face. He's got to get us."

  "I suppose he has to," said Julie, her eyes thoughtful. "But Harcourt can still be dead. If you think Judas is going to try to arrange some kind of hostage swap, don't think we're going to get a bargain."

  "If I don't talk to Harcourt myself, then we don't bite. That satisfy you?"

  "I guess so," she said reluctantly. "But don't you think he'll figure we'll have left the Rand?"

  "Very likely. But still, he'll try us there. So we'll play at sitting ducks again."

  * * *

  Hours later and many miles away, Mr. Hawk sat in a well-known Washington building and looked across the desk at a man he had learned to admire, a man of intelligence and courage. A pile of dispatches, cablegrams and teletypes lay on the polished surface between them. Three messages from Carter lay among them: a TELEX from the Consulate relating the story of flight 601; a cabled message detailing the story of Judson and Judas; a shorter cable describing the physical characteristics of the man called Judas.

  "All right, Hawk," said the man, "I'll change the Wednesday flight time. I won't let it be known — on one condition — that Harcourt's found before then. Otherwise I'll fly as planned and see what happens."

  Hawk bristled. "Sir, for a man in your position that would be nothing short of criminal bravado." He was one of the few people in the country who could address his chief like that. McCracken of the CIA had leapt up from his corner and said "Good heavens, sir, you can't!" but the man's eyes remained on Hawk. He smiled.

  "What can happen? I'll use the private plane. You know I'll be surrounded by Security men."

  Hawk shook his head. "No, sir, I can't let you do that. There's no limit to this man's resources. Change your plans. Or you'll be playing right into this maniac's hands."

  "Hands, Hawk? I understand the man's disabled. I can't just not be there. The whole disarmament plan will fall through by default. Find Harcourt and find Judas. I don't like to issue ultimatums, but you have until tomorrow afternoon. I hope your man can do the job."

  "If anyone can, he can. He's an extraordinary agent."

  "I know that. I hope our Mr. Judas finds out, too. Let me know tomorrow, Hawk."

  He was dismissed.

  Twenty-four hours, at best.

  Hawk went back to the Georgetown brownstone that served as his Washington headquarters and drafted a cable to Max P. Cane. All it said was: PILATE
WANTS HARCOURT FOUND JUDAS CRUCIFIED 2400 FAILURE MEANS PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF WEDNESDAY ACT IMMEDIATELY.

  Harcourt to Judas to Cane

  It was a restless Tuesday. Late in the afternoon Nick picked up the cable from Hawk at the Strand branch office. Twenty-four hours to go. Less, by now. PILATE CRUCIFIES SELF! Unthinkable!

  He and Julia waited in their rooms at the Rand. And had heard nothing.

  Nick called the Consulate to remind them where he was and that he was expecting a message from the States. Sorry, no message. Of course there wouldn't be.

  The call came after the sun had gone down and lights were trimming the streets.

  "We will not spar, Mr. Cane," said the metallic voice. It sounded even thinner, less real than before. "This is J. I have H. If you wish to see him alive, you will listen carefully."

  "J. for Judas, this is C. for Cane. So you have H. for Harcourt." Nick took an almost childish pleasure in repeating the names. He waved to Julie and she picked up the extension phone. "Go ahead, Judas."

  The voice sounded pained. "There is no need to broadcast all these names. If anyone is listening..."

  Nick cut him short. "I'm listening. What do you have to say?"

  "Do you know Piccadilly?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. At nine this evening, you and the lady will be standing on the northeast corner of the square. My car will pick you up."

  "Indeed it won't," said Nick. "No more gas rides, thank you."

  Judas chuckled without humor. "Open touring car this time, Cane. No tricks."

  "Just give me the address. We'll get there by ourselves."

  "You don't care to see Harcourt, then?" The voice was almost a whistle.