Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

Julia eyed him sympathetically as he folded himself back into his seat.

"Feel better, honey? I don't think you should be wandering around talking to people if you're feeling funny."

"Any watchers?"

"Only me, and a few stray glances that didn't seem to mean a thing. How was your scouting expedition?"

Nick slumped down in his seat.

"Rack over his head — empty. Not even a matchbox could be hidden there. His seat is the same as ours. The attaché case is clean. No buckles, just a zipper. The papers are just papers. People sitting near him all check out. Milwaukee housewife and child. Insurance salesman from Illinois. Two Roman Catholic priests too devout to do anything but sit and pray. No steel hands, no crutches, no sinister ticking packages. One accountant from General Foods. One middle-aged couple from Westchester..."

Julia gasped. "You didn't see all that in those few seconds!"

He sat up. "No. I checked the passenger manifest before we left. But I wish I could check Harcourt's pockets. Even if he's carrying a fountain pen or a lighter, it could be dangerous. Someone could have given it to him as a..." He stopped suddenly, looking startled. Julia caught his expression and her eyes flew to follow his gaze. Nick was sitting erect, his jaw taut.

"What is it?" Julia whispered. "That man?"

Nick nodded.

A passenger had risen to his feet, turned into the aisle and made for the door of the lavatory. Julia saw a short, square-shouldered man in a dark suit; clean-shaven; rather handsome head with wiry hair combed back. Nothing special about him. Except that his right sleeve hung empty and the right arm was bound stiffly in a cast of white plaster reaching past the elbow.

The injury must have been recent — the whiteness of plaster and bandage shone spotlessly clean.

Nick started humming tunelessly.

"What about him?" Julia was looking at him curiously. "The cast, you mean?"

"Mmm. I think so. I didn't notice it when I went up ahead before; I guess his coat was covering it."

The man went into the toilet opposite the one Nick had used before.

"You wait here and... no, hold it."

The woman with the clutch bag came out of the other door.

"Look." He spoke in a rapid undertone. "It's your turn now. Go powder your nose. Take as long as you can. I'll follow in a while. But listen for his door opening. He may be through before I get there."

She nodded, listening intently.

"When you hear his door open, open yours right away and get a good look at him. Study that cast and let me know what you see. I want to get in right after him even if I have to wait; that means the other one has to be occupied. So you wait until you hear that door. Then get out of there as fast as you can and watch him."

Julie was already picking her way past him.

"What if I'm in the middle of something when I hear his door open?" she breathed, an impish grin on her face.

"Just don't start anything you can't finish," Nick answered.

She made her way to the vacant lavatory.

Flight 601 began a gradual climb to escape a wall of storm clouds that had started building in the east.

The man with the broken arm spent ten minutes in the lavatory. Nick timed him. He waited restlessly outside the door, evincing all the impatience of an uncomfortable passenger in urgent need of privacy. The plane hit a small air pocket, and he was able to lurch and groan convincingly. Janet Reed flashed him an anxious look.

"Mr. Cane," she said in a low voice, "don't you think you'd better go back to your seat and wait? You don't look well at all. How about another pill?"

"No to both, thank you very much," he moaned. "Now that I'm here, I'll just stay put. Don't worry."

"All right," she answered doubtfully.

"Ohhhh!" The muffled sound and his tortured look were sufficient.

"Well, please call me if I can help."

The lavatory door opened and the man came out. Behind him, as Nick stood at the ready, he heard the other door click. The man with the cast looked blankly at Nick, said "Excuse me," and stepped sideways into the aisle. Julie moved quickly ahead of him and briefly blocked his path. Nick took the face and body apart in a lightning survey. Bland features, small scar on left side of mouth, heavy beard starting to show under the film of powder that gave the illusion of a clean shave, eyes that held all the expression of a dead fish. He moved stiffly, supporting his bandaged arm in his good hand. Nick wondered why he did not use a sling, then stumbled gratefully into the lavatory and closed the door on the automatic lock.

The cubicle was no more than a comfortable stall equipped with sink, commode, chair with strap, and shelving for towels. The wall light had an electric razor socket. A small porthole showed a view of blue sky above a bank of clouds. Nick made a rapid inspection. Nothing out of the way on shelves, wall, floor, fixtures. He ran the water from both taps into the shining sink. Steam rose, but nothing else. A clean piece of soap lay in its hollow.

Nick wrapped a paper tissue round his fingers and felt inside the toilet bowl. Nothing. A fresh roll of tissue hung conveniently near at hand. He took it off its rod, replaced it when he saw there was nothing in the tube. He washed his hands.

When he returned to his seat, Julie murmured: "You really are beginning to look sick. Find something?"

He shook his head. "I'm starving to death. Maybe we can order some sandwiches for you, and I'll lap up the crumbs. Let's call dreamboat."

"I'll call dreamboat," she said, and did.

They were silent until Janet had come and gone with their order and then the sandwiches. Nick took one from Julia's hand.

"Watercress! What a diet for a growing boy."

"Good for the tummy," said Julia placidly. "By the way, it struck me that our friend's plaster cast was just a little loose to be effective."

"Oh." Nick raised an eyebrow. "Something struck me, too. But nothing very conclusive. I don't think he used the bathroom. Not for its primary purpose, anyway. Of course, people have been going in and out all morning, and I've seen Janet go in a couple of times to keep things tidy, so I can't be sure. The bowl was damp, but not wet. The soap was dry. Tissue unbroken on the roll."

"You mean he just went in to look around?"

"That, or more likely he wanted to be alone to look at something he brought in with him. No, he didn't leave anything there," he caught her glance, "I'm sure of that"

"Then he did something to the cast."

"I would say yes. But we don't have enough to go on. If I were sure of anything I might be able to get the Captain's cooperation. But as of now, we're stymied."

The jet engines throbbed smoothly. Occasionally someone rose to stretch his legs. People talked and dozed.

Nick settled back and watched. His two main objectives were Lyle Harcourt's seat and the general area occupied by the man with the broken arm. The latter was too far forward for Nick to see directly; Nick could only see him when he stood up.

Flight 601 was two hours out of London when the bandaged man stood up again. Nick shook Julie. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and he breathed in the fragrance of her hair and skin.

"Julie, honey."

She came awake instantly. "Is this it?"

"I think so." The closer they got to London, the sooner somebody had to make his move.

The man with the bandaged arm went into the lavatory. Julie stiffened.

A woman with a crying baby opened the door opposite and entered. Both signs read "Occupied."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Much the same thing as before, but this time I'll go first. With any luck the baby'll keep that one busy for a while. But follow me down the aisle in a minute and get yourself a forward seat — his, maybe — and be ready to beat me to the punch if the woman comes out first. I've got to see what's going on in there. Okay?"