Dragon Flame

by Nick Carter

  Swee Lo was awake. She gave him a sleepy smile over covers pulled to her chin. "Good morning, my sweet Nick. Perhaps you have made coffee, since I have no servants today?"

  Nick stooped to kiss her lightly. Her breath was clean and sweet. If she noticed the spot of blood on his shirt she gave no sign. She wound her soft little arms around his neck and tried to pull him down on the bed. "Forget the coffee. Make love to me now, please!"

  Nick forced himself to pull away. Passion in the morning was one of Lo's sexual idiosyncrasies.

  He detached her tender tentacles with a wry grin. "Not this morning, honey. I just came in to say goodbye. I've got to cut out. Something has, er, come up." He wanted her just then, very much, but he dared not risk it. Love, with its aftereffects of inertia and tristesse, could be dangerous. He had a nasty feeling that, for the immediate future, he was going to need every bit of alertness he could muster. What a weird life he lived; in what a strange ambiance he moved! At times he had the odd sensation of living several lives in parallel. For a moment he was tempted to tell Lo he had just killed a man — to see how it would affect her throbbing little libido.

  Probably not at all. She would still want to make love.

  For a moment Lo persisted. Nick kept out of reach and went to perch on a ye-ye chest. Lo sought to entice with a show of her delectable small breasts. "I have found a new way," she challenged. "It is called the monkey seat. You, as a great hulking roundeye, would not know it. But it is beyond the seventh paradise." She giggled and even reddened a bit.

  Nick eyed her over a cigarette. It was a familiar bone of contention with them. "You are an oversexed little wench," he told her. "Worse than that, you are a racial snob. You think only Orientals know the proper ways of making love."

  Swee Lo sat bolt upright in bed, her little breasts quivering. "It is sol Occidentals do not know how to make love — not until an Oriental teaches them. Then, but only then, some of them are very good. Like you, Nick." And she broke into a series of giggles.

  Nick went to a window and opened it. The mist was lifting fast now. He heard the distant sound he had been waiting for. The trams were running down the peak. From half a mile he could hear the growling clink of the funicular.

  He kissed Lo again. This time she did not cling to him. "I'll be in touch," he said as he started for the door. It occurred to him, as he touched the doorknob, that it was the same thing he always said to her. Had always said, over all the years.

  "Nick."

  He turned. She was not smiling now. Her dark eyes were somber and she was frowning, a thing she did not often do. Nick realized, with a small sense of shock, that he did not really know much about Swee Lo any more. He knew nothing of her recent life. Something moved in his mind which, at the moment, he did not trouble to examine. He did not trust her, of course. He trusted no one — with the possible exception of Hawk and God. But trust had never entered into their relationship. Lo never asked questions and never saw anything she was not supposed to see.

  Now she said, "I do not think you had better come here again, Nick."

  His gaze was quizzical. "The bird of love has flown?"

  "No, you big fool. I will always love you! But my — my protector is very jealous. If he knew about you he would be very angry and he might do bad things."

  She saw his amused smile and hurried on. "I mean it, Nick. This one is different, not like the others. He is a very powerful man and, in many ways, he is a vicious man. I–I am afraid of him."

  What was she trying to tell him? On the surface it was only warning, implementing a decision already made by her. Yet there seemed something more. Based on what she knew — or did not know — about Nick himself?

  "If you are afraid of him," Nick said, "why do you stay with him?"

  Lo waved a tiny hand around the luxurious room. It was answer enough, but she added, "He is very rich. Immensely. He gives me everything. He is going to make me a movie star. It is what all my life I have been fighting for, my Nick. Ever since I understood that you do not return my love. That you would never take me to the States with you. But none of that matters now. I only wish that you will not spoil this for me, please."

  Through the open window he heard the clanking of another tram car. Caution urged him to hurry.

  "I'll try not to," he promised. He turned toward the door again. "Maybe you're right. I won't bother you again."

  "I did not mean that." He was surprised to see tears glinting in the dark eyes. "I will see you, Nick. Only I must make the plans, must come to you when it is safe. Okay?"

  "Okay." He blew her a lass and was gone.

  He walked the half mile to the tram, keeping in the middle of the road, expecting no trouble and finding none. There would be a short respite now, he thought, while things simmered a bit. New plans would be laid and new intrigues hatched. By whom, and for what purpose, he had no idea — except that they must in some way tie in with Ludwell's mission into Red China.

  Nick cursed cheerfully as he caught a down-going tram. How in hell had he allowed himself to become embroiled in this?

  At the moment, he thought, he had little to fear from the police. He had just killed a man, but it was unlikely that the spy's employers, whoever they might be, would kick up a stink, if nothing else, the man had been trespassing. He had tried to kill Nick. It was clear self-defense, if worst came to worst.

  But it mustn't come to that. Nick was a very small mouse at the moment and he did not want to come to the attention of the big police cat.

  He caught a walla-walla at the ferry pier and was rowed out to where Corsair glistened in the weak sunlight beginning to leak down through the clouds. He noted a small sampan tethered to Corsair's bow. The Filipinos did have girls aboard, then, and it was still none of his affair. Later, after he decided what he was going to do, he might have to roust them out.

  He paid the sampan woman and went aboard. No sign of Boy, though the kid must be back by now. Nick wanted to get out of his clothes and take a long hot shower. He went lightly down a companionway and along a corridor to his bedroom. He opened the door and stopped short. He stared. He felt as though someone had struck him a terrible blow over the heart. Sweat was like ice on his brow and for that long awful moment he stood motionless, drained of action by the sight of Boy's body. Never had the child seemed so fragile as he looked now in death.

  Chapter 5

  Claws of the Tiger

  There is an attitude of sleep — and there is an attitude of death. Poets tend to confuse the two. Nick Carter never had. He was an old hand at death, could smell it on the freshest wind, and knew it instantly when he saw it. Boy was dead, strangled with a thin cord which was still imbedded deep in the tender child's flesh of his throat. His hands and feet were bound. He lay on the huge bed, face up, his dark eyes rolled back to show the whites. There was a sheet of paper on his chest. An ordinary sheet of cheap typing paper, 8 1/2 by 11, and there was typing on it. A brief message.

  N3's first move was entirely typical of him. He dropped to his knees and searched beneath the mattress for his weapons. They were still there, the Luger and the gas bomb, safe in their oiled silk. Rapidly Nick stripped off the stiletto and sheath and placed them in the silk with the other weapons. He shoved them away again, Boy's small body moving in simulation of life as he tilted the mattress.

  Nick went to the bedroom door and locked it. He clanged the porthole covers to and screwed them tight. Then he went back to the bed and picked up the note. It had been crisply typed with a fresh ribbon.

  Mr. Harrington: You have become mixed in something which does not concern you. You have killed one of our people. We have killed one of yours. This is of no real importance, but let it serve as a warning. We do not want to kill you. Dispose of the body secretly and leave Hong Kong by sundown and you will be safe. Say nothing. We will be watching. Disobey, or go to the police, and you will die. Obey and the matter will be forgotten. This is the will of — The Society of the Red Tiger.

&nbs
p; Beneath the last sentence was a «chop» mark, a round red ideograph made by a wooden or rubber stamp. The old Chinese character for tiger.

  Nick stood at the foot of the bed gazing at Boy and felt the rage building in him. It was wrong. It would do no good now, and he couldn't afford the luxury of rage, but this time he lost the battle. He felt sweat trickle on him and was convinced that he was going to vomit. He went into the bathroom but did not throw up. Instead, he looked at himself in the mirror and hardly knew the face there. He was absolutely livid and his eyes were staring and seemed much larger than usual. His pallor was tinged with green and the bones of his face were thrusting through the hard flesh. His eyes were hot and rough in his skull, sandpapery, and for a moment he wished he could find a tear. There were no tears. For years now there had been no tears.

  It was a full five minutes before he went back into the bedroom, over it now, the rage still there but tucked away for use when wanted. He partitioned off the softer part of his mind and put the rest to work like the fine computer it was.

  He held a match to the note and watched it burn to carbon in an ashtray. He lifted the little body and put it under the bed, then pulled down the brocade coverlet so it swept the floor. He smoothed out the small indentation. He unlocked the door and opened the ports again. Then he built himself a drink and sat down to smoke a cigarette. The yacht was quiet except for the normal ship's noises as she swung gently in the tide. There was no sound forward. Presumably the Filipinos and their girls were still sleeping, or…

  Nick brushed the thought away. They did not matter. He was sure of it. They would not have heard or seen anyone come aboard in the early mist. One or two men at the most, he supposed, in a silently moving sampan. It must have been so easy. No task at all to strangle a child.

  Rage began to claw at his brain again and he fought it back. He must save that for later — when he had found the men who had done this thing. If he found them. If he even tried to find them. He was not, after all, a free agent. He was an AXE agent and personal revenge was a luxury he could seldom afford.

  Revenge. Vengeance. They were strange words in the vocabulary of a professional. Yet Nick looked at the bed, seeing what was under it, and the veins in his forehead knotted into little purple snakes. Again, with the rare discipline that was his, he forced his mind back to the barren cold facts.

  One thing stood out. He was not yet blown as Nick Carter. The note was trying to frighten him out of Hong Kong. If they knew his real identity they would not have bothered to make the effort. Too, the note had been addressed to Harrington. So to the Tiger Tong he was still Clark Harrington, playboy and international loafer.

  Yet with a difference. He had killed one of their men. Playboys didn't usually carry stilettoes or know how to use them.

  Could they have found the body of the ricksha coolie so quickly? Could there have been another watcher? A third man whose presence Nick had never suspected? Spying as silently as a bird from a tree, watching Nick examine the body and dispose of it? Nick frowned sourly. That had to be it. He had fluffed that one!

  So they were an efficient crew, these Tigers. Efficient and speedy and deadly as serpents. Nick began to pace the room, glancing out a port at the weak, mist-filtered sunshine. His grin was hard. This was, after all, the Year of the Snake in China. Aptly named.

  They were not sure just who he was. Or what. That was their problem. Perhaps, by association with Bob Ludwell, they had him tagged as CIA. Nick could find it in his heart to curse Ludwell bitterly. The man, by his own admission, had goofed badly on this job, this mission, whatever it was. And this whole mess had started with the chance encounter with Ludwell.

  Nick took the brown envelope from his breast pocket and looked at it. The hatchet had slashed entirely through the thick, tough paper. Nick fingered the rent in his shirt front. Beneath it the skin was turning purple and green. There was a red line of broken skin across his left nipple. The damned packet had saved his life!

  He thrust the envelope beneath the mattress with the weapons. A week, Ludwell had said. Nothing to do with the CIA. Strictly personal. The wife and lads. Nick straightened the mattress again and cursed his friend yet another time, though not so bitterly. How he wished he could yank Ludwell out of Red China at the moment and have five minutes' conversation with him! Provided, of course, the man had gone in this time. Shortly after introducing Nick to Miriam Hunt last night, Ludwell had kept his promise and vanished as quietly as a ghost.

  Nick began to strip off his clothes. Enough of speculation. He had things to do. Get rid of the body, for one thing. Going to the police would be sheer madness. He might be tied up for weeks, even jailed, and his cover blown from Hong Kong to Moscow. Hawk would disown him.

  As he stood beneath the hot shower Nick admitted the cleverness of the Tiger Tong. They weren't sure of him, didn't know just who he was or how he tied in with Ludwell. So they had led from strength, gambled that he was only a friend and they could frighten him off. The fife of one small refugee child meant less than a Hong Kong penny to them. They wanted Ludwell's friend out of Hong Kong and they were giving him his chance.

  At least now they would know, Nick thought as he soaped. If he ran scared he was Clark Harrington. If he stayed to fight he was something else, perhaps CIA, and they would know and try to kill him as quickly as possible. Why? He hadn't the faintest idea. Only Ludwell could have answered that at the moment.

  He put on clean slacks and a fresh white shirt and a tweed sports jacket. He could not find the socks he wanted for a moment, and nearly called for Boy, but remembered in time. Habit was a funny thing. Odd that he had grown so accustomed to Boy, had grown to like the kid so much in so short a time.

  When he finished dressing he went quietly forward. The little covered sampan — the rice straw matting used to conceal the girls — still nibbled at Corsair's bow. The Hong Kong police didn't care about the girls, per se; it was what they might smuggle ashore that bothered the police.

  Nick went softly down iron stairs to the crew's quarters. The door was half ajar. Even before he reached it he could hear the raucous snores. He peered in. There were only the two Filipinos who had remained on watch, each sharing a bunk with a girl. Both couples slept naked under sheets. On a table was a litter of greasy plates and full ashtrays and empty bottles that would have contained rice wine of the first distillation. Nick grimaced. Those boys were going to have some heads!

  He closed the door softly and went back up the companionway. No use disturbing them now. It was early; they would awaken and get rid of the girls in their own time and way. He would pretend not to see. Not that any of it mattered; he had to figure a way to get rid of Boy's body. It could hardly be done in broad daylight, so that meant waiting for darkness. It came early in December in Hong Kong.

  Tiger Tong, like Big Brother, would be watching, waiting to see what he would do.

  Nick Carter allowed himself to think a few very nasty things about Tiger Tong. Then he allowed himself to grin faintly. They might have a long wait, because at the moment even he did not have the faintest idea what he was going to do. He only knew what he wasn't going to do. He wasn't going to run!

  It might, however, be good tactics to make the Tigers think he was running. Maybe…

  He broke off his thoughts as he noticed the police patrol boat throbbing toward Corsair. It was coming fast, its sleek bow kicking up a wave in the harbor chop. A Union Jack fluttered from a stubby mast. Nick could see the two Chinese ratings manning a machine gun in the bow. His heart stepped up a beat and then turned a little cold. There was something deliberate about the patrol boat; from the first moment he had never doubted that it was coming to Corsair. He stepped to the rail amidships and waited. A fine time to get a visit from the Limey cops. And him with a body under the bed!

  With a muffled roar the patrol boat came alongside. The engines were rung down and foam swirled yellow at the stern as the big diesels reversed. The patrol boat drifted toward Corsair. Three ratings
with boat hooks stood ready to fend off.

  A British officer wearing crisp blues and a peaked cap came out of the wheelhouse and peered up at Nick. He had a round, fattish face, shiny from a recent shave, and his eyes were slightly pouched. He looked tired but his smile was bright as he shouted up at Corsair.

  "Permission to come aboard, sir? I want to talk to a Mr. Clark Harrington. Official business."

  Nick tapped his chest. "I'm Harrington. Come aboard."

  He walked to where the gang steps led down to water level. The patrol boat was backing water, sidling skillfully in to the platform.

  Now what the hell? The officer's smile was reassuring, but not much. The British were always courteous, even when they were conducting you to the gallows.

  The officer came up the stairs with a sprightly step. His face looked fat but he was not. He was carrying a swagger stick and as he came on board he touched it to his cap. "Senior Inspector Smythe, sir. Hong Kong Harbor Police. You say you're Mr. Harrington?"

  N3 nodded. "I am. What's it all about?"

  Inspector Smythe had clear light-blue eyes above the faint pouches. He surveyed Nick for a moment, a cold impersonal glance of appraisal.

  "Do you know a Mr. Robert Ludwell, sir? I believe he was a clerk at the American Consulate here."

  Was? Nick kept his face impassive. "I know Bob Ludwell, yes. We're old friends. I saw him last evening — in fact I went to a dance with him. At the Cricket Club. Why?"

  Inspector Smythe took off his peaked cap and rubbed at his balding forehead with a forefinger. It was a mannerism that Nick would come to know.

  "I'm afraid, sir, that I have some rather bad news for you. Mr. Ludwell is dead. He was murdered last night." Nick stared at him. This really did it! He had the sensation of sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. He was not, really, much surprised at the news. But he knew he must put on an act, play for time, stall until such time as he could begin to make sense out of this crazy, bloody mess. Three men dead now. Correction — two men and a little boy.