Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

"Oh, well, if she hasn't called it must mean that she's all right..."

"Not necessarily, ma'am," Carter said meaningfully.

"Oh. Oh, but there wasn't any attempt to molest her..."

"Then you know about it," Nick cut in.

"Yes, but it was nothing! The poor girl was hysterical because of that dreadful business at the airport. This man was only an investigator, he wanted to ask her some more questions..."

"Did he call first? Or phone from the desk?"

"Well, no." The voice sounded puzzled. "He didn't, at least not from the desk. I don't know so much about the incoming calls, you see..."

"Then how do you know what he was?"

"Well, he said so, when we saw him coming downstairs after she'd screamed."

"Is that the kind of security you have in your hotel?" He was genuinely exasperated. "All right, never mind that now. So you saw him. What did he look like?"

"Well," and now she was on the defensive, "perfectly respectable, although not very neat. He was sort of short and fat and — and he was wearing a seersucker suit. Rather late for this time of year, but that's what he was wearing."

"Did you make any further attempt to question him?"

"No, of course not."

"Why of course not? Did you look at his credentials?"

"Why, no. He left, that's all. He just smiled and left. He seemed to understand she was hysterical."

"Has he been back?"

"No, he..."

"Did you talk to Miss Jameson?"

"No, she had locked herself in her room. She didn't even see him, wouldn't talk to anybody."

"All right. Thank you. Your name?"

"Jones. Adelaide Jones. And what did you say?.."

"One more thing. She went out alone tonight?"

"Yes, she did. But — now that I come to think of it — she sort of joined a group of people and went out with them, but she wasn't really with them."

"I see. That's all."

"And what did you say your name?.."

Nick hung up.

Eventually, when it was time, he called Hawk.

"Yes?"

"Did the tape-cutter work?"

"Fairly well. The bite was bad, but there was time."

"See it yourself?"

"I did." Hawk's voice was noncommittal. "Consultation will be helpful. Any suggestions?"

"Yes. But one thing first. Any word on that delivery?"

"Nothing yet."

"Pity. But I have a delivery myself." Nick still had Piccolo's knife in his briefcase. Perhaps he should have left it where it was, but there'd been no way of knowing who'd be first on the scene in Room 2010. "Afraid it's not much, but it's the best I could do before leaving the room. Unfortunately nothing to do with tonight."

"I'll arrange a pickup. The hotel you mentioned?"

"That's all right. It'll be at the desk, labeled Masterson. But for tomorrow's package, skip the hotel. Just in case. Can we consult somewhere else?"

"Hmmm." Nick could almost see Mr. Hawk tugging his left ear. "Might as well mix business with pleasure, for a change. Ford pitches tomorrow at the Stadium. Section 33 suit you?"

"Fine. We'll give 'im the axe."

"For a New Yorker, that's not a nice thing to say," said Hawk. "Sleep well."

"I always do," said Nick, and hung up.

Tony Kubek was swinging his bat experimentally in the batter's circle when Nick Carter found Mr. Hawk. Hawk was hunched over a scorecard making notations with a ballpoint pen. His open-necked sports shirt and pullover cap looked as though he lived in them, as though he wore them to cut grass on Sundays and devise things in his workshop to delight his grandchildren. As far as Nick knew, he had never married. He lived only for his dangerous, demanding work. But today, his lean, leathery frontier face represented lifelong baseball fandom at its most faithful.

Nick made himself comfortable, crossed his knees and watched Kubek go after the first pitch and send a line single to center. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed: "Attaboy, Tony!"

Hawk clucked approvingly. "The operation is big now, Nick. No time to lose. I'll have to get the package to you right away. And not quite the one I'd planned. You've given us something new to work on."

Nick nodded. "What've you got?"

"One. No return callers at the Biltmore. A-24 got in and went over your visitor. Nothing. K-7 got prints off the knife. Your window-washer friend turns out to have a minor record and a reputation as a hired killer. But nothing big's ever been pinned on him. We got one thing, though. He was contacted in his bar-hangout by a man in a seersucker suit. And we got a description. It matched yours.

"Two. A-24 spent the morning at the airport. A man of that description was seen on the observation deck some time before the explosion and for a while after it. But earlier, he'd been making inquiries about Flight 16. They remembered him because of that.

"Three. The so-called coachman lived long enough to curse both you and Seersucker and say his orders were to get the girl at any price. He got those orders from Seersucker who got his from overseas. From some damn foreigner, he said. And then, regrettably, he died."

"Well, that wasn't much use." Nick shrugged sourly.

"Not much, but it made us wonder how he got his orders. Not so easy, if they come from overseas. And there we had a little break."

The stands came alive with applause as Tresh drove a high fly ball to the left center field corner that bounced into the stands for a ground rule double.

"What break?"

"On what was left of your friend Seersucker we found a pack of cigarettes. And inside the cellophane we found a cablegram. It was sent from London the day before yesterday and it said: Watch Jamaica Flight 16 tomorrow provide welcoming committee if necessary. Hope this already arranged but best intentions sometimes fail. Essential maintain privacy of mission. Trust you will meet situation accordingly. It was signed 'Red'."

"Does that mean anything to us?"

"Not yet. There's more you'll need to know, but I've talked enough for the moment." He dug into his pocket. "When the hot dog man comes around, get two. My treat."

His hand closed a dollar bill into Nick's palm. Nick felt something hard and metallic folded into the wad. A key.

"Grand Central," murmured Hawk. "Everything you'll want for now. You can check with me later for any new developments. But I can tell you this. You'll be traveling again, and soon. First thing after the ballgame, get a haircut."

Nick looked at him indignantly. "I already did."

Hawk allowed himself an inspection. "Not enough. Crew. You're going to be the young college type."

Nick groaned. "What next?"

"Next you'll do the talking. What else do you have for me?"

Carter told him about his conversation with Hadway House while his eyes searched for a hot dog man. This morning he had been to the barber and then called Max Dillman in London. Max had confirmed everything Rita had said, adding that she was a damn fine girl and that it was a bloody awful thing, about Steve. He had met them both through the travel business and she had come to him with her heartbreak after the explosion that took Steve's life. Certainly, it had been an explosion. They'd tried to pin a drunk charge on him at the hearing but it didn't wash. Not with the people who knew him. Sure, she'd been pestering the eyeballs off the authorities, and then she'd had the letter to lay off. And then it turned out that no one in authority had sent the letter.

"What does she mean about the baggage tag?" Carter had asked him.

"Didn't she tell you herself?"

"I didn't want to press her any more, just yet." Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to tell Max that she was dead. "Thought if I checked with you first I might just make it easier for her."

"You could be right. Well, the point about the baggage tag was that he never — and I mean never — carried a bag with him. It was a kind of thing with him, pilots have these bugs. He had a clean shirt in every port — used a locker and he wouldn't carry a bag. So it raised an ugly thought. Strange bag, strange explosion. That was no crash, boy, no pilot error. I know these kids."