The Living Death

by Nick Carter

  I unzipped the coverall and looked for identification. There was none, as I'd figured. But under the coverall he had a transistorized walkie-talkie hanging by a leather belt It was becoming increasingly clear that they, whoever «they» were, hadn't missed any bets. The man had been covering the woman all along, while the others were out trying to nail me. When I showed up, he knew something had gone wrong. No doubt he radioed his central immediately and was told to go into action. This was a professional outfit and their methods smelled of the Russians. The Russians had learned a lot about espionage since World War II, and while they were still pretty heavy-handed with anything that called for imagination, they were efficient enough at this kind of operation. The fog had lightened enough for me to see that both rowboats had drifted onto the far bank. I raced across the bridge and hurried to the woman. She was dead, of course. I knew that the minute he'd gotten off that first shot. I climbed into the rowboat and lifted her to a sitting position. She had on a light brown coat over a simple print dress. her face, wide and Slavic, was framed with gray-streaked brown hair. She was a woman of about forty-five, I guessed. There was no purse, nothing to identify her. Then my eye fell on the lining of the coat that had come open. A name tag was sewn into the inside. Maria Doshtavenko, it read. The name imprinted itself on my memory. I lowered her body gently to the bottom of the rowboat. I suddenly felt sorry for this woman. She had been disturbed about what she wanted to tell me. She was a woman who had been trying to do what she felt was the right thing. There weren't too many like that.

  I felt the anger rising inside me. As I rowed back to where I'd left the Sunbeam, my mind raced and my plans crystallized. I wouldn't contact Hawk and tell him what had happened. Not yet, not until I had something more. I could just see the severe, disapproving set of his face, those steely eyes, if I reported in now. They'd nearly killed me, they'd shot the contact out from under me, and I still hadn't the faintest idea what the hell this was all about. But I did have a little blonde dish waiting in my hotel room. She was my one remaining lead, she and her boyfriend. I gunned the Sunbeam back toward London as the day lightened and the morning traffic began to crowd the roads. Anyone watching the Sunbeam would figure I was awfully late for work.

  III

  Vicky was still there, neatly trussed up. I left her that way while I shed my watersoaked clothes, letting her watch as I stripped, enjoying the appreciative look in her eyes. After I dried and changed into a fresh suit, I untied her. From the condition of the stocking, I saw she hadn't just sat there quietly.

  "Blimey, I hurt," she said, rubbing her wrists. "And my mouth feels like it's full of cotton."

  "Go into the bathroom and freshen up," I told her. "Run some cold water over your wrists. It'll bring back the circulation. Then we're going to visit your boyfriend, Teddy."

  "He'll be asleep at this hour," she protested. "Teddy always sleeps in the mornings."

  "This morning will be different," I said laconically.

  She stood up and I watched her unzip the red dress, tossing it over her head with a quick motion. She had the round, young figure I'd expected, with that unvarnished sexiness to it, round breasts pushed high by her bra, rounded belly and a short waist. She walked toward the bathroom, throwing me a glance that asked if I were more interested. I smiled and watched her as she reached the bathroom door. She saw the smile was both hard and cold and the beckoning look in her eyes faded. She closed the bathroom door.

  I sat down and stretched out in the stuffed chair, moving my muscles in cat-like fashion, using a system of muscular relaxation I'd come upon years ago in India. There was a knock on the door. It was probably room service but my hand was positioned to draw Wilhelmina as I opened. It wasn't room service. It was a tall girl with deep red hair, a gorgeous face and body to match, a girl called Denny Robertson. She wore a sheepish half-smile that would have melted an iceberg in seconds.

  "I was on my way to work but I had to stop by and apologize for last night," she said, entering the room. "You told me you were here on business but I guess I just saw red, that's all. You know that damned temper of mine."

  Her arms were around my neck and she was hugging me, her body soft, her breasts, even through the tweed jacket she wore, excitingly sensuous against my chest.

  "Oh, Nick. It's unbelievably wonderful to see you," she breathed in my ear. That's when Vicky decided to walk out of the bathroom in bra and panties. I didn't have to see her. I knew it by the way Denny stiffened. When she stepped back her eyes were blazing pinpoints of dark fire.

  "I can explain," I said quickly. She swung, fast, hard and on target. My cheek stung but she was already out the door. "Bahstad!" she flung back at me, making it sound as only the English can make it sound. I thought of going after her but I cast a glance at Vicky. She had the dress on and I knew she'd take off at the first chance. Once again I knew what I had to do and what I wanted to do. I swore under my breath at Vicky, at Denny, at bad timing, at everything in general.

  I took Vicky by the arm and pushed her out the door.

  "Let's move," I growled. "Let's get the show on the road." Once again that fleeting expression of smug satisfaction crossed her face but this time I got the impression that it was my discomfort she was enjoying. Her smugness did a fast fade as, some twenty minutes later, we neared her boyfriend's flat in the Soho district. She was back to the nervous, hand-twisting stage as we entered the narrow streets of Soho. Behind the night glitter, behind the strip joints, the betting shops, the mod centers, nightclubs and pubs, Soho was a grimy district of one-room flats and transient boarding houses.

  "Can't we wait?" Vicky asked nervously. "Teddy's a sound sleeper and he doesn't like his mornings disturbed. He'll be smashingly mad, you know."

  "I'm all upset," I answered, catching the flash of anger in her eyes. I knew damn well what Teddy would be smashingly mad about; her fingering him, that's what. It turned out that Teddy lived on the third floor of a run-down tenement, a dingy, gray building.

  "You knock and you answer," I said to the girl as we stood outside the door of his flat. She was right about him being a sound sleeper. She was practically pounding on the door when a sleepy male voice answered.

  "It's me, Teddy," she said, casting nervous glances up at me. I remained impassive. "It's Vicky."

  I heard the lock being turned and the door opened. I shoved, pulling Vicky along with me into the room. Teddy was wearing pajama bottoms only, his hair long, curly and disarranged. There was a surly handsomeness to him and a cruel set to his mouth. He was pretty much what I'd expected him to be.

  "What's all this?" he demanded, looking at Vicky.

  "He made me come," she said, gesturing to me. "He made me bring him here, that's what." The alley cat in her was coming out quickly. The glower which I suspected was a part of Teddy grew deeper. A little sleep was still clinging to him but he was trying to shake it.

  "What the hell's this all about?" he growled. "Who's this bloke?"

  "I'll ask the questions, Teddy," I cut in.

  "You'll get the hell out, that's what you'll do," he said.

  "Careful, Teddy," I said evenly. "I just want a few answers and I'll leave. Be smart and you won't get hurt."

  "I told him you'd be smashingly mad, Teddy," Vicky threw in, still bent on protecting herself.

  A practiced glance had taken in the dingy room. The large double bed took up most of it There was also a dresser, with a porcelain dish, a water pitcher and an empty ale bottle on top of it. Teddy's clothes were carefully hung over the straight back of a wooden chair that stood beside the dresser.

  "You get the hell out," Teddy said directly to me, an ugly note in his voice. It wasn't his fault that I didn't scare easily.

  "The men you introduced Vicky to last night," I said, "who were they?"

  A subtle change came over Teddy's eyes, a dangerous glint, immediately masked. He began to back away from me, at the same time snarling defiance.

  "You've got three seconds to get out,"
he said. He was up against the dresser and I watched him reach back and pick up the porcelain dish. Though I was watching him, he still surprised me as with one quick motion he sent the dish skimming across the room. The dish became a wicked missile, skimming through the air viciously and accurately. I just managed to duck away, the hard, flat edge of it grazing my head to smash into the wall behind me. Teddy followed the dish with his body, diving across the room at me, leaping like a jaguar. The skimmed dish was a good, unexpected move that almost paid off. The follow-up was a mistake. I was in a crouch and he expected to take advantage of that. Instead, I came up on fast on my legs to meet his leap with a hard right. I heard the crack of his jaw, his cry of pain, and he arched backwards to land atop the big, double bed. I reached for him but he rolled off the other side.

  Vicky had pressed herself into a corner of the room, but I kept one eye on her. Self-centered little alleycat that she was, I couldn't be sure how deep her loyalties ran. Teddy was on his feet again, his jaw swelling like a balloon. The knowledge of it seemed to infuriate him and he came at me like a windmill. He fought out of a crouch and he was quick, cat-like in his movements. Speed was his greatest asset and even that wasn't too great. I parried his blows, sneaked a hard left in that rocked him and brought through a sharp right to the gut. He doubled over but managed to half avoid a chopping right that nonetheless caught him hard enough to send him crashing into the dresser. Clinging to the dresser, blood trickling from his mouth, his face now swollen and misshapen, he looked back at me, eyes dark with hatred.

  "All I want is some answers, Teddy," I said quietly. "Are you ready to give them to me?"

  "Sure, cousin," he gasped, breathing hard for someone as young as he was. "I'll give you yer bloody answers." He grabbed the empty ale bottle from the dresser top, smashed the end of it against the wall and came at me, the jagged half in his hand. It was an old barroom brawl technique and made one of the deadliest of weapons, far worse than the ordinary knife. The jagged glass could slash equally well in any direction, leaving a much uglier wound than the sharpest knife.

  "Put that down, Teddy," I said quietly. "Put it down or I'll cut your damned head off with it."

  He was grinning, or trying to anyway, and his eyes were cold and cruel. His willingness to kill told me one thing, at least. He was more than casually involved. I backed away as he slowly came toward me. I could blow his head off with one shot, I knew, but I didn't want that. I wanted him alive, or alive enough to answer questions. But I was trying to walk a very dangerous road. I didn't want to kill him but he sure wanted to kill me. He swiped out at me in an arc, fast, almost too fast for the eye to see. I jumped backwards and felt my legs hit the edge of the bed. He laughed and drove forward with the bottle. I did a back-flip onto the bed, somersaulted and landed on my feet on the other side. I yanked the top sheet off the bed and held it before me, quickly pressing it into three folds. As he came around the end of the bed, I met him, tossing the sheet over his hand and the bottle. He ripped upwards and the sheet tore apart. I jumped back in time to avoid my stomach taking part.

  I could have skewered him with Hugo, and my hand itched to let the pencil-thin shaft of the stiletto drop into my palm. I resisted the impulse. I still wanted the bastard alive, though it was beginning to look more and more like an impossible goal. Teddy feinted to the left, once, twice, and then slashed out from the right. The jagged glass ripped the button from my jacket. I grabbed for his arm at the end of its arc but he swung the bottle backhanded and I had to twist away again. This time I retreated fast to put some air between myself and the wicked, slashing weapon. The wooden chair with Teddy's carefully draped mod outfit on it stood in the corner. I grabbed it, dumping his clothes on the floor. I saw him stop in the center of the room as I advanced with the chair upraised.

  "That's it, mate," he breathed. "Come on, now. Sock it to me." Of course the sonofabitch wanted me to swing the chair at him. One swing and I'd be ripped apart. He'd duck from the swing and come in on me before I could recover position. I let him think that was just what I was going to do. I moved toward him, the chair upraised, holding it with both hands. He waited on the balls of his feet, ready to duck away and counter. I came at him, and then, dropping the chair halfway, I drove forward, using it as a battering ram, putting all my strength and weight behind it. The four legs hit Teddy full face, driving him halfway across the room and into the wall with such force the whole flat shook. I had lowered my head, putting my shoulder behind the seat of the chair. When we hit the wall I looked up to see the blood spurting from Teddy s mouth. One leg of the chair had driven halfway into his throat. I pulled back and he slumped to the floor, his eyes open in the staring sight of the dead.

  "Damn the luck," I growled. I was conscious of Vicky moving over, one hand on her mouth, eyes wide in horror.

  "He… he's dead," she breathed. "Teddy's dead. You killed him."

  "Self-defense," I said automatically. While she stood there transfixed, looking down at Teddy's lifeless form slumped on the floor, propped up against the wall, I went through the pockets of his clothes. They contained the usual trivia, money clip, loose change, driver's license, credit cards. Inside the inner jacket pocket I came upon a small, white card with a single name handwritten on it: Professor Enrico Caldone. It rang an immediate bell. Professor Caldone was an Italian, an expert on space biology. He'd recently gotten some award, I recalled, for his work on protecting astronauts from possible microorganisms in space and the possibilities of man contaminating other planets. What was a two-bit punk like Teddy doing with Professor Caldone's name on a card — handwritten, yet? I held it out to Vicky, who had finally torn her eyes from Teddy's inert form.

  "What do you know about this?" I asked sharply. "Who was he dealing with? If you're holding out on me I'll find out, honey. I've had it with you."

  "I don't know anything more… hardly," she said.

  "What's 'hardly' mean?"

  "Teddy told me about being paid to take messages back and forth," she half-sobbed. "He was paid real well by these people. He said there was someone else on the other end and that's all he ever told me. Teddy wasn't a bad sort."

  "A matter of opinion," I said. I pocketed the card and opened the door. She called after me.

  "What do I do now, Yank?"

  "Get lost and find a new boyfriend," I flung back at her as I took the stairs three at a time. The little card with the name on it burned in my pocket. Maybe I had something at last. Maybe I had nothing, but I'd reached the end of the line here. It was time to dump this collection of bits and pieces into Hawk's lap. A woman with an important message to deliver. I had her name, Maria Doshtavenko. That much was to the good. I also knew that someone didn't want that message delivered. The last thing was a cheap punk with the name of an important scientist on a card in his pocket, handwritten by someone. Maybe Hawk had something that could make a picture out of the pieces.

  I called Denny from the airport but there was no answer and I felt really sorry about that. The unfinished symphony would stay that way for us, for a while longer at least. I boarded the airliner and sat back. It had been a frustrating two days with bad luck and bad timing all around but I was onto something damned important. Too many people had taken too much effort for it to be anything else but important.

  * * *

  Not too many hours later I sat across the desk from Hawk, watching those steel-gray eyes as he listened to my briefing. He was digesting what I'd laid out before him, his face impassive. He hunched low in his chair, studying the little slips of paper on which he'd noted each item separately. He shifted them around as one shifts the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. He had already called Vital Statistics for a check of the woman's name, Maria Doshtavenko. Vital Statistics kept a fantastic file of names on all known personnel employed by foreign governments in any capacity. Most of the major intelligence outfits keep a similar one on us. On some people, of course, they have quite a dossier of information. On others, nothing more than a name. As
I watched, Hawk picked up the index card I'd taken from Teddy's pocket.

  This could be the key item, Nick," he said. "This could be a light in the dark, a connection we'd never have made otherwise."

  "Light it up a little more," I said. "I'm still in the dark."

  "We don't know what this Maria Doshtavenko wanted to tell us," he answered. "But from this, we might deduce what it was about."