by Nick Carter
I used a password to gain access to the off-limits top floor of the Travel Association building and was met by a two-man military guard in spit-and-polish British Army uniforms. I identified myself.
"Follow us, sir," one of them told me, deadpan.
We moved down a corridor in close, brisk formation, the guards' boots pounding in hard rhythm on the polished floor. We stopped before a large paneled door at the far end of the corridor.
"You may enter, sir," the same young man told me.
"Thank you," I said and opened the door into a small reception room.
I closed the door behind me and faced a middle-aged woman seated behind a desk, evidently Brutus' secretary. But my eyes traveled quickly past her to a truly lovely sight. A girl in a very short leather dress, her back to me, was leaning over a window seat to water a plant in a box outside the window. Because of her position, the dress revealed every inch of her long milky thighs and part of a well-rounded, lace-covered little behind. I liked Brutus's taste in office help.
The older woman followed my glance. "Mr. Carter, I presume," she said, smiling.
"Yes," I said, reluctantly shifting my gaze. As I spoke, the girl turned toward us, holding the small watering can.
"We've been waiting for you," the secretary said. "I'm Mrs. Smythe and this is Heather York."
"My pleasure," I said to Mrs. Smythe, but my eyes returned to the girl. She was blond, her hair cropped short. Her eyes were large and blue, the most vibrant blue I had ever seen. Her face was perfect: a straight, finely-shaped nose over a wide, sensuous mouth. The micro-mini she was wearing barely covered her even when she was standing straight. The brown leather swelled out over a well-rounded bosom above a narrow waist. Her calves were sheathed in brown boots that matched the dress.
"Brutus will see you immediately, Mr. Carter," said Mrs. Smythe. "The paneled door on your left."
"Thank you." I gave the blonde a smile, hoping to see more of her later.
Brutus got up from behind a big mahogany desk as I walked in. "Well, well! Mr. Nick Carter! Good! Good!"
His hand swallowed mine and pumped it. He was a big man, as tall as I, and had one of those square British army faces that is all jaw. There was gray in his sideburns and there were wrinkles around his eyes, but he looked like a man who could still lead a military assault force and enjoy it.
"I'm glad to meet you, sir," I said.
"My pleasure, my lad! Distinctly my pleasure! Your reputation precedes you, you know."
I smiled and took the chair he offered me. He didn't go back to his seat but stood at one corner of the desk, his expression suddenly somber.
"We've got a big one here, Nick," he said. "I'm sorry to get you involved in our problems, but you're not well known here for one thing and, frankly, I wanted an experienced man who would have no hesitancy about killing, if it becomes necessary. Our only man of your caliber is inextricably involved in a problem at Malta."
"I'm glad to help," I said.
I gave him the details of all that had happened in Egypt, then surrendered the photograph. He studied it for a while, then agreed with me that whatever Fergus wanted to tell us had something to do with one or several of the men in the snapshot.
"It will take time to track all these men down," he said. "Meanwhile, there is still Novosty."
Brutus began pacing beside the desk, his bands behind his back. "We don't know whether this is the Commies or not. We know Novosty is here for some sinister purpose but it may have nothing to do with the assassinations. We have to check him out, though, and time is vital If you get any other ideas, explore them. Just be sure to check with me regularly."
He reached over his desk, picked up two slips of paper and handed them to me. They were the original notes left by the assassin or assassins. I studied them.
"You'll notice they're both handwritten and by the same person," Brutus pointed out.
"Yes," I said pensively. "Have you had the writing analyzed?"
"No," he said, "but I can arrange it if you like."
I nodded. I was no expert but the scrawling style didn't suggest a cool professional agent to me. Of course, that could be part of the smokescreen. "Hawk said the killings were bloody."
Brutus sighed and dropped into the leather chair behind the desk. "Yes. You understand, we've tried to keep the messier details out of the papers. Wellsey had the back of his head blown off with a high-powered rifle. He was shot through his office window by an expert marksman at some distance. Almost suggestive of a professional hunter."
"Or a professional killer," I said.
"Yes." He rubbed his chin. "The Percy Dumbarton killing was quite nasty. He was stabbed while out walking his dog. The dog's throat was cut too. The note was pinned to Dumbarton's coat. The first note, by the way, was found in the unopened mail on Wellsey's desk."
"Maybe you should just pay the money and see what happens," I suggested.
"We've thought of that. But twelve million pounds sterling is a lot of money even to the British government. I'll tell you frankly, though, there is considerable pressure from the cabinet people and the ministry to pay, nevertheless. We may wind up doing just that. But, for the moment, you have at least a week to develop something."
"I'lll do my best, sir."
"I know you generally prefer to work alone," Brutus said, "but I'm going to assign an agent from my SM Division to work with you on this. The two of you will report only to me. There are other agencies working on this, naturally — MI5, MI6, the Yard and others. They are not to share in any information you develop except through me. Is that understood?"
"Completely," I told him.
He smiled. "Good." He pushed a button on his desk. "Send York in. Miss Smythe."
I frowned. Wasn't that the name of the blonde I'd been introduced to in the outer office…? The door behind me opened and I turned. The lovely creature in the leather micro-mini moved briskly into the room, giving me a big smile as she walked past me to the mahogany desk. She sat on the edge of the desk as if she'd perched there many times before.
"This is Mr. Nick Carter, Heather," Brutus said, smiling at her. "Nick, Miss Heather York."
"We met outside," she said, not taking her eyes off me.
"Oh, good." He looked at me, "Heather is the agent you'll be working with, Nick."
I looked from the girl to Brutus and back to her. "I'll be damned," I said softly.
After filling Heather in about the photograph, Brutus dismissed us. As I reached the door, he said, "Keep in touch. We should have something on the men in the picture in a day or so."
* * *
I took a cab to a small hotel near Russell Square, having recovered slightly from the pleasant shock of finding I was to spend the next week or so with a bundle of goodies like Heather York. Actually, I had mixed feelings about her. Women and espionage don't mix, not the way I play the game. And it was difficult for me to believe that such an exquisite package as Heather could be of much real help finding an assassin. But Brutus was the boss during this lend-lease assignment and I wasn't about to question his judgment.
My orders were to stick pretty close to the hotel during the next few hours while Heather made preparations for us to drive to Cornwall later in the day. The cab driver took me along Pall Mall, past the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square where the tourists were feeding the pigeons at Nelson's Column in the sunshine.
We were coming to the park at Russell Square. The hotel was only a couple of blocks away and I felt like walking a little.
"I'll get out here," I told the driver.
"Right, governor," the man said, slowing the cab.
I paid him and he drove off. I walked past the park, enjoying the autumn sunshine, and finally turned down the side street toward my hotel. A lone black Austin sat at the curb up ahead. As I came up to it, I saw there were three men in dark suits inside. Two of them got out and confronted me, blocking my way.
"Excuse me, old chap, but would you be Mr. Carter,
by any chance?"
I studied the man. He was a square, blocky young guy. He looked like a cop… or a security agent. So did his buddy, especially with his right hand snuggled in his jacket pocket.
"What if I am?" I said.
"Then we would be wanting a chat with you," the blocky young man said with a tight grin. "Come along, we don't want to worry anyone, do we?"
I glanced around. There was always someone around the park at Russell Square, but the side streets were often deserted. Right now there were only a couple of people on the street and walking in the opposite direction. No help there.
"Get in, Mr. Carter." The order came from the third man, the driver, and I felt something hard shoved into my back. "Search him first," he told his pals, leaning out of the window.
The first man reached inside my jacket and removed Wilhelmina from her holster. He stuck the Luger into his belt, then he patted me down. He did a sloppy job, missing both Hugo on my right forearm and Pierre, the cyanide gas bomb, taped to my inner left thigh.
"Get in the car, Mr. Carter," he said. "We want to know what dealings you had with Augie Fergus before he died."
"Who is 'we'? "
"A man named Novosty," the first one said.
"So that's it," I said.
"That's it, Yank," the second man told me, speaking for the first time.
"Take me to him, then," I said. I don't argue with guns staring me in the face.
The second man uttered a harsh laugh. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? But it is not going to be so easy. You'll just come with us, tell us what we want to know, then take the next plane back to America."
I climbed into the back seat and they got in after me, one on each side. They were taking no chances. We pulled away from the curb.
We were heading along Oxford Street now, toward Marble Arch. If they stayed on that main street, it would complicate things. Just before we reached Hyde Park, though, the driver turned into a narrow side street, heading toward Grosvenor Square. This was my chance, if there was ever going to be one.
The man on my left was watching the progress of the car, but his buddy with the gun hadn't taken his eyes — or the gun — off me. So I had to encourage him a little.
"Look out!" I said suddenly. "In the street there."
The driver slowed automatically and the two men in the back seat looked forward for a split second. That was all I needed. I chopped down hard on the gun arm of the agent on my right and the gun dropped to the floor of the car. I followed that up with a quick, hard chop to his throat that left him gagging.
The other agent was grabbing for my arm. I jerked free and rammed the elbow savagely into his face, breaking his nose. He grunted and collapsed into the corner.
The Austin careered wildly along the narrow street as the driver tried to steer with one hand and point his gun at me with the other. "Stop it. Carter! Stop it, you bloody bastard."
I pushed the gun toward the roof of the car, twisted the wrist and the gun went crashing through a side window, splintering glass. I felt a sharp pain in my right cheek where a piece of flying glass stabbed me.
The driver had completely lost control of the Austin now. It skidded from one side of the street to the other, passed gaping pedestrians, finally going up over the right curb and crashing into a utility pole. The driver's head struck the windshield and he collapsed against the wheel.
Retrieving Wilhelmina from the man on my left, I reached over the agent on my right and kicked the door on that side. It sprang open and I threw myself over the man and through the door, hitting the pavement on my shoulder and rolling with the impact.
I got up and looked around at the Austin, at the two dazed men in back and the unconscious driver slumped over the steering wheel.
"Don't bother to drive me back," I said.
Three
"Since time is so important," Heather York was saying across the intimacy of a table for two, "Brutus insisted we leave for Cornwall this evening. Actually, I rather like driving at night."
She was wearing a short, very short, green dress with shoes to match and an auburn wig styled in a shoulder-length hairdo. I told her when she picked me up at the hotel, "If that wig's supposed to be a disguise, it won't work — I'd know that figure anywhere."
She laughed, shaking her head. "No disguise, a girl just likes to change her personality once in a while."
On the way to the little restaurant on the outskirts of London, where we stopped for dinner before proceeding south to the coast, I described my run-in with Novosty's boys.
She chuckled. "Brutus must have loved that… you did call him?"
"I did."
The restaurant was charming, very Old English. The waiters had just brought our order when a man approached the table. He was tall and square with blond hair and a rugged face. Along the left side of his neck, almost hidden by his shirt, was a thin scar. He had hard dark brown eyes.
"Heather — Heather York?" he said as he stopped at the table. "Yes! I almost missed you with the wig. Very flattering."
Heather responded with a strained smile. "Elmo Jupiter! Nice to see you again."
"I was going to ask you and your friend to join us," he motioned toward a dark-haired girl at a table in the corner, "but I see you've been served."
"Yes," Heather said. "This is Richard Matthews… Elmo Jupiter, Richard."
I nodded. "My pleasure."
He studied me for a moment and the hard eyes were definitely hostile. "You're an American."
"Yes."
"Heather does have exotic tastes." He grinned, turning back to her. "In men and motorcars. Well, I must get back to my black ale. I'll see you about, Heather."
"Yes, of course," she said, still wearing the tight smile. "Have a good evening."
"I always do," Jupiter said, turning away.
As he walked back to his table. Heather glanced at the girl waiting for him there. "I don't like that man," she said abruptly. "I met him through a friend who's a clerk at SOE. He thinks I work in public health. He asked me out but I made an excuse. I don't like his eyes."
"I think he's jealous," I said.
"He probably resents my turning him down. He's used to getting what he wants, I hear. Makes automobiles, I believe. He'd be surprised to learn about the girl he's with. She has a long record for selling drugs."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"I worked at the Yard for almost a year before SOE offered me my job."
She said it casually, as if it were of no importance, but I was impressed. Lovely Heather, I suspected, was full of surprises.
We drove all that evening and into the night along winding, shrub-lined narrow roads at first, passing through villages with such names as Crownhill and Moorswater, then along the seacoast for a while. Heather drove her dated but custom-made S.O.C.E.M.A. Gregoire.
"It has a Ferodo type I'll clutch," she told me proudly as we roared around a tortuous curve in the blackness, the headlights scything two swaths of yellow through the night. She had abandoned the wig and her short blond hair was mussed by the wind. "And a Cotal type MK electromagnetic gearbox."
We stopped at a bed-and-breakfast inn long after midnight when Heather finally tired of driving. She asked for separate rooms. When we were given adjoining rooms and a wink by the old Scottish landlord, Heather offered no objection but no encouragement either. So I fell asleep in my own bed, trying not to think of her so close.
We arrived very early in Penzance where Novosty was reported to have been seen a couple of days before. Brutus had given us a detailed description of him and what was known of his cover. He was going under the name of John Ryder and his English was supposed to be flawless.
After some discreet inquiries at the local hotels and pubs, we learned that a man answering Novosty's description had indeed been in Penzance, at the Queens Hotel, with another man. He and his companion had checked out of the hotel the previous morning, but the desk clerk had overheard Novosty mention Land's End, the
tip of Cornwall jutting into the sea.
"It's Land's End then," Heather said as we drove out of town. "A perfect place to hide and plot."
"Maybe," I said. "But we go slow from now on. Novosty probably knows we're looking for him."
"You're the boss." She smiled.
The road to Land's End was a bleak one, winding over rocky terrain dotted with heather and gorse, and passing through gray stone villages. About five miles from our destination, we stopped a fanner driving a wagon in the opposite direction and asked about visitors to the neighborhood.
He rubbed his ruddy cheeks with a thick hand. "Two gentlemen took up in the Heamoor cottage yesterday. The one chap give me a fiver for priming the well. Seemed nice enough gents."
The stench of manure rose from the wagon. Heather wrinkled her nose and gave me a smile.
"That wouldn't be our chap," I lied. "The man we're looking for is here with his family. Thanks, anyway."
The farmer flicked his horse into motion and we drove off slowly. When the wagon was out of sight, we took the first turn in the direction the farmer had indicated. About a hundred yards along the dirt road, I motioned for Heather to pull over to the side.
"The cottage can't be far," I said. "We'll walk the rest of the way."
A bird called out in irritation from the field beside us as we got out of the car. Otherwise the morning was sunny and silent. We followed the winding road for a couple hundred more yards before we saw the cottage.
I pushed Heather down behind some tall grass. "That must be it," I whispered.
The brown stone cottage squatted on a low hill covered with gorse, the yellow blossoms giving some relief to the stark scene. Parked beside the cottage was a small blue Sunbeam sedan. There had been no attempt to hide the car from the road. Apparently Novosty thought he was safe — from observation or else he wanted others to think he did.
