by Nick Carter
"This Jim Pok," Nick asked. His tone was soft. "I suppose you know where he lives, Inspector?"
Wariness was more apparent in the inspector's glance now. His tone was curt. "Of course I know. And you don't, sir. Best keep it that way. You've nothing to do with Jim Pok, nothing at all. He's our problem."
"Of course," said N3. "Of course, Inspector. I was just being curious. Sorry."
Rather wearily the inspector put down a cigar he was about to light. His voice was cold when he spoke. "Mr. Harrington! I want you to understand something quite clearly. I don't know much about you yet — I'll find out more — and maybe this warning isn't needed, but I'll give it. I don't want anyone interfering in this matter. I don't think, from what I've seen of you, that you would be so brash and foolish as to take any personal interest in avenging your friend. But if that is what is in your mind — don't! I'll throw you into the deepest dungeon I've got.
"We have rather peculiar problems in Hong Kong, Mr. Harrington, and we have a lot of them. We have an illicit gold problem and a narcotics problem and one hell of a refugee problem. We have more than our fair share of problems, believe me. I shouldn't like to think, sir, that you are going to add to them. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Harrington?"
"Very clear," said Nick Carter. And left.
On his way to the ferry landing Nick did not bother to check his back trail. Smythe would have a man on him, of course, and he would no doubt be a good man. In all that throbbing humanity it wasn't worth the effort to try to spot him.
A ferry was about to leave. Nick loafed on a rail-side bench next to an ancient Chinese gentleman and speculated on the rushing tide of late arrivals. Which of them was Smythe's man? Which was the Tiger's man? They also would be having him dogged. One more, he thought, and it will be quite a parade. He wondered if they would know each other, the tong spy and the police spy. Would they know they were both following the same man? Nick grinned. If they could agree to cooperate they could both save a lot of shoe leather and wind.
As the ferry pushed out into the yellow waters of the harbor, threading through a frenetic scurry of walla-wallas and junks and tugs and sampans, Nick admitted that his position was a little ambivalent. Tiger Tong said get out by sundown. The cops said don't leave Hong Kong. What was a man to do?
Vanish. Fade away like the old agent he was. Fold his tent and silently steal away. There were plenty of hiding places on the island, or in Kowloon, or out in the New Territories for that matter. It shouldn't be too hard. But the timing would have to be right. Exactly right. When the ferry docked he walked to the American Consulate and asked to see a certain personage. To this man Killmaster muttered a word and a number. There was a short wait while the man looked through a code book. Then the man nodded and smiled and ushered Nick to a very small room with no other furniture than a table, a chair, and a red telephone. There were half a dozen pencils on the table, sharpened to lancelike points, and a «one-time» pad. The wastebasket beneath the table was fited with a slotted top and an electric shredding machine.
The man pointed to a bell near the door. "Ring when you've finished." He went out and locked the door from the outside.
N3 sat in the chair and stared at the red scrambler phone for a long time before he picked up the instrument. He was taking a chance and he knew it. Hawk might not go along. His chief could be most irascible and trying at times, and he was dead set against any overlapping of the services. Hawk might just give him a direct negative order.
In which case, Nick told himself, he would just have to disobey said direct order. He had made up his mind now and not even Hawk was going to stop him.
N3 sighed and began to dial. It would be a direct scrambler line into Hawk's office.
More than Hawk's permission, Nick thought, he needed information. Information that only Hawk could get for him — if he would. His boss had a short way with red tape when it interfered with him, and he knew all the angles.
He finished dialing and waited. He must remember to ask Hawk to put a check on Miriam Hunt. Better not to mention Swee Lo. He doubted there was anything on Lo in Washington anyway. Probably nothing on Miriam Hunt, but he couldn't overlook it.
Nick glanced at his watch. Still early. Plenty of time, if nothing went wrong aboard the yacht. He couldn't move until dark anyway, couldn't get rid of Boy's body until then. But he would have to hang around, be close at all times, to keep an eye on matters.
Killmaster hummed his little French tune. The hot rage had left him now. It had been replaced by a cold fury that was more patient, more deadly, than his rages ever were.
Chapter 7
The Strangest Mermaid
Nick Carter took a walla-walla back to Corsair. It had been a damned rough fight, but he'd won. Hawk protested mightily at pulling CIA's chestnuts out of the fire. CIA, he said, was capable of burning its own fingers. Let them handle it. In any case something was about to flare in Italy and Nick had better get back and…
N3 exercised what was, for him, monumental tact and patience. He didn't think CIA could handle it. Not just at the moment. Really, he insisted, he had better take over and finish matters up. It was of utmost importance and urgency. He pledged his professional honor on that. He did not, of course, obscure matters by telling Hawk the entire and exact truth.
His boss, very much the reluctant dragon, finally gave permission. He was a canny old man and he knew his number-one boy well. He sensed that Nick was going to do the job anyway, permission or not. He promised to set the wheels in motion and to garner what information he could. He would call Nick on Corsair, in clear, as soon as possible.
As the walla-walla approached Corsair Nick was relieved to see that the sampan was gone. The watch had sent their girls ashore at last. There was no sign of any activity on the yacht. Good. The Filipinos had probably gone back to sleep and it was doubtful that any of the rest of the crew would return before sundown. The captain, a Swede named Larsen, was probably drunk somewhere in Wan Chai. Ben Mizner had warned him about the captain.
Nick paid the sampan woman and climbed aboard. He glanced only casually at the junk moored about 200 yards astern of Corsair. A casual glance was all he needed and, in any case, he had been expecting it. Tiger Tong was on the job. Jim Pok might be in Red China, as the inspector claimed, but his boys were carrying on.
With a great air of nonchalance Nick went about his business. He made himself a cognac and soda and lounged on the afterdeck, smoking his long cigarettes and giving the impression of a man deep in thought. Which he was. Now and again he caught a glint of sunlight on glass from the junk. They were keeping careful watch. In a way, Nick mused, that might work out to his advantage.
Covertly he studied the junk. It was shiny new, and obviously not a working craft. It looked like one of the junks built for export to the States. They sent them over in cargo ships. It would have all the comforts demanded by Americans. It would also have a powerful concealed engine. Made of Burma teak, she probably had cost a small fortune. Jim Pok could afford it, Nick thought as he watched a scarlet tiger banner flutter from the junk's single tall mast. Nothing subtle about Jim, either. He believed in flaunting his chop mark!
Nick dallied over two drinks, then went below. He went forward and checked on the Filipinos. Both were asleep and snoring, exhausted by their binge. The quarters smelled in equal parts of cheap perfume, cheap rice wine, cheap cigarettes and cheap women. Nick sighed and went aft. At least they were alive.
He checked beneath the bed. Boy slumbered undisturbed. Rigor was just beginning to set in. The small body had settled in death, the meager flesh appearing to collapse on the tiny bones. He looked infinitely frail and pitiful. Nick had not closed the boy's eyes. He did so now.
After locking the door and the ports, he checked over his weapons again. This time he kept them ready to hand. He did not think he would have to shoot his way off Corsair, but it was best to be ready.
A glance at his watch told him it was going to be a long dull afterno
on. Barely twelve now. He was conscious of a terrible impatience, of a nagging restlessness. Once Killmaster started a thing he was anxious to come to grips, to get it over with. But now he must wait until just before dark. He would make his final preparations then.
He stripped to his shorts and stretched his big frame on the bed. It was safe enough for the moment, in the locked bedroom. He had until dusk, if Tiger Tong kept their word, and he thought they would. They didn't want any more trouble. They just wanted him out.
Nick's smile was very faint, very cold. He'd show them trouble!
He had neglected his Yoga for the past few days and now he began the preliminary deep breathing, sinking gradually into the savasana pose of complete relaxation. He did not wish to achieve trance — though he had advanced that far in Yoga — but merely to rest his body and cleanse his mind for the ordeal ahead. Gradually the movement of his huge chest slowed, his lean features relaxed without softening, the lids dropped to conceal eyes that could be either cruel or tender. Hawk, long ago in an emergency, had come upon Nick Carter in this state. He had, Hawk swore, looked like a dead knight in an ancient Norman cathedral.
It was after four when Nick awoke without hesitation, instantly alert, knowing what he had to do. He stood beneath an icy shower for five minutes, but did not dress. Instead he pulled on a pair of black swim trunks, thinking that he could have done with an aqua-lung outfit, but there was none available. It troubled him little. He could swim 20 miles without tiring. He could stay under water for over four minutes. The swim to shore was going to be the easiest part of this affair; it was the timing that was important. The timing and the smoke screen he intended to lay down.
It had always been a habit of Killmaster to prowl his environment, wherever and whatever it was at the moment. On the trip down from Manila he had prowled Corsair. He knew the layout of the yacht thoroughly. Now he went forward again, avoiding the crew's quarters, to the ship's storeroom in the bow.
He found a large tarp and a coil of quarter-inch line. They would do to make a shroud for Boy. Now he needed a weight. Something really heavy. He found a small drag anchor, weighing perhaps 150 pounds. It had never been used; the gray paint was still fresh and glistening. Nick hoisted it to his shoulder and went back aft.
After locking himself in again, he put the small body into the tarp, with the anchor at the feet, and wrapped the little canvas coffin securely. As he worked Nick wondered idly if the kid had been a good Buddhist. Probably not. Boy probably hadn't been much of anything along those lines, and he would never have a chance to explore life now. Nick decided, if the opportunity afforded, to burn a candle for the kid in some temple. It was the least he could do.
When he had finished with the tarp he opened a port. Dusk was sliding in from the east. It wouldn't be long now. Riding lights were already winking on the junks and sampans. A ferry plodded by like a moving string of yellow beads.
Nick got Bob Ludwell's letter and ripped it open. He didn't expect much help from it and he was right. Ludwell had told the truth — it had nothing to do with CIA business. He scanned the brief note.
Dear Nick: If you read this I will probably be dead. Enclosed you will find an insurance policy with my wife, Laura, as the beneficiary. It is for two hundred thousand dollars and I had to pay a hell of a premium! I am not too sure about the company, and anyway you know what insurance companies are. I am probably breaking my oath and contract with CIA, possibly even security, but I am determined that Laura and the kids be taken care of. If I am killed on duty CIA will never acknowledge me, of course, and the company may try to weasel out. In any event there will be vast red tape. Will you hire a lawyer and see that Laura collects? Laura will settle with you when she collects. Your friend, Bob. PS — I hope to God you never read this!
Nick glanced at the thick, parchmentlike insurance policy with its pages of fine print. Hong Kong Life Assurance, Ltd. Japanese owned, based in London and Hong Kong. His smile was faint. Might be fly-by-nighters, might not. It would have to wait.
He went to a writing desk in one corner of the bedroom and put the brown envelope in a lower drawer that had a key. He threw the key out the porthole. Inspector Smythe and company were going to search this yacht, no doubt of that, but he doubted they would force a drawer. Very proper, the Limeys. Unless, of course, they thought Nick was hiding in the drawer. He grinned at the feeble jape and went to the bed. It was nearly full dark out now.
He strapped the chamois sheath on his right arm and tucked Hugo away. He stripped down and arranged the little gas bomb, Pierre, in its metal container between his legs. It hung there like a third testicle. Those two should ride in place safely. About the Luger he wasn't so sure. He didn't want to lose Wilhelmina. She would never forgive him.
He wrapped the Luger in the oilskin along with a heavy packet of Hong Kong and United States dollars. He held back a few notes of each sort.
N3 switched off the fights in the stateroom. The ports gleamed, luminescent dioramas of Kowloon. He could not wait much longer for Hawk's call.
The phone rang. Nick reached it in one long stride. "Hello. Harrington here."
Hawk's voice was metallic. It was a tape being played into the phone in Washington. Hawk said: "Procab femnull… procab femnull…" That was all. Nick hung up.
Proceed. Cable following. Feminine null.
So he had the go sign. Nick lit a cigarette and frowned at the portholes, darkening by the second. Cable following. Hell! No good to him now. Have to pick it up at the Consulate later — if he still needed it. And if he were still alive.
Nothing in Washington on Miriam Hunt. It was about what he had expected. Checking had been only a precaution, a hedge against coincidence and chance.
Nick stubbed out his cigarette. He had made a neat little bundle of his slacks, shirt, and a sweater. He put the oilskin with the Luger in the bundle and fashioned a harness with the remainder of the manila line. The clothes would get wet, of course, but that didn't matter. It never got really cold in Hong Kong and anyway cold did not bother him. Very little bothered Nick Carter, in fact, except baby killers and hatchet men.
He lifted the tarped body of Boy as easily as though it were a doll — it so very nearly was, a little dead doll — and left the bedroom. He kept the afterdeck housing between himself and the sentinel junk as he went forward to the starboard bow. He put the tarp bundle down beneath one of the yacht's small lifeboats and went down a companionway to the crew's quarters. The Filipinos would be surprised at his appearance, but that did not matter now. There was the matter of a slight diversion.
Only one of the watch was awake, yawning and rubbing his eyes and testing what must have been a very nasty tongue. He looked at Nick with amazement and a touch of fear — this huge bronzed giant in black trunks with a knife strapped to his wrist.
Nick hauled the man out of the bunk with one easy motion. He smiled to reassure the sailor, who was little more than a boy himself. He handed him a Hong Kong hundred dollar bill.
"Listen closely. Obey orders. Do it fast and do it right and there'll be another hundred when I see you again. Okay? You awake now?"
The man stared stupidly down at the money in his hand. Then he grinned. "Sί, Señor Harrington. I am awake. The money, she always makes me to be most awake."
"Good." Nick patted his bony shoulder. "Now listen carefully. I want you to wake your buddy. I want you to turn on the riding lights, the deck lights, as many lights as you want to. I want you and your pal to run around like crazy, understand, and act like we're getting ready to sail…"
The man gaped. "Sail, Señor? But we cannot. The captain and the others, they…"
"Shut up and listen! You're not really going to sail. But act like you're getting the yacht ready. Run around blowing whistles and yelling, that sort of thing. You must have a certain job when you get up anchor. Do it. Just so you look busy and make a lot of noise — and show lots of lights. Now, you got it?"
The man scratched his head and for a moment
Nick thought he was going to make the loco sign, but he grinned and said, "Sί, Señor. If you wish it. What time? Now?"
Nick glanced at the AXE watch on his wrist. "Not right now. In ten minutes exactly. You have a watch?"
The man extended a hand. "Sί."
"Okay. Remember, stay here for exactly ten minutes. Then do as I've told you."
The sailor rubbed a hand through his greasy hair. He was more intelligent than he looked. "For how long we do this, Señor?…"
"Fifteen minutes should be enough." Nick ducked out the steel door.
Fast now. He had to get into the water, drop Boy's body, and put as much distance as possible between himself and the yacht before things started popping. He shot a glance at the junk as he went forward along the starboard side. She was riding easily in the harbor chop, showing all her riding lights but no others. Nick wondered if they were sharpening hatchets in that dark cabin.
He was about to lower the body over the bow, holding it carefully by a line because he did not want a splash, when he heard a splash. A very gentle splash, more of a ripple, but unmistakably the sound of someone swimming. Someone heading for the bow and the anchor chain?
Nick pulled up the body and tucked it away under the lifeboat again, his face tight in a nasty grin. Tiger Tong didn't waste any time, did they? Well, two bodies wouldn't cause a jam in this ancient Hong Kong harbor. It had seen so many of them.
The spring mechanism snicked quietly as the stiletto slid into his hand. Bare feet made no sound as he moved to a position just over the starboard hawsehole. Any intruder would come over the rail just here. Nick crouched in the dark and waited.
Corsair swung gently to her chain. There was a faint rattle of metal and the sound of heavy breathing. Nick flattened himself on the deck. Another ferry was passing, and though it was some distance off it still cast a fan of light in Corsair's direction.
