Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

The cellar became a jungle.

Braille's blurt of maddened pain erupted in the new darkness. Another of Wilhelmina's bullets had thudded home. But the impetus of his forward charge carried him like a runaway barrel into Nick's body. Nick went down, tenpin style, with Braille's lumpy fingers clawing at his throat. The big one was going to die hard.

His mind half-registered scuffling noises at the far end of the room. There was a thud, a high-pitched snarl, the clatter of a falling body, and a feminine squeal. Something clanked and slammed. Julie?.. Judas?.. The cellar was strangely silent. But there was no time to count noses. Braille's powerful fingers were scorching Nick's throat.

Nick dropped Wilhelmina on the floor and spat Hugo into one hand while the other clutched at Braille's thick throat. Nick squeezed and pushed upward. Hugo dug into Braille's abdomen. The gorilla barked. Nick made a ripping motion with deadly Hugo across the bulge above him. It sagged.

There was a bubble of sound, a hoarse dying rattle, then a surge of hot, fetid breath.

The big hands relaxed. Nick turned his head to draw breath, then heaved himself from under Braille's dead bulk. A hush hung over the cellar.

He saw Julie's head framed in the glow of his own cigarette lighter.

"He's gone," she whispered. "Tried to stop him. He pounded out of here in a helluva hurry. Maybe we'd better, too."

Nick reached for her and touched her cheek. "Julie, Julie, Julie... Are you all right?"

She nodded, and suddenly clutched his arms. A tremor ran through her. Then she said: "Never felt better in my life. Now can we get out of here?"

The flickering light showed a trail of blood leading to a street-level trapdoor.

Nick stopped suddenly. "My God! Where did the bastard put our clothes?"

Lyle Harcourt woke late the next morning in his expensive three-room suite at the exclusive Royal Crown Hotel. He had brushed off all offers of company or protection the night before, and had retired after leaving strict instructions that all callers were to be identified and announced before disturbing him.

He sat up in bed, determined to read the London Times from front page to last before even thinking of ordering breakfast.

He enjoyed reading the morning paper. One of the luxuries of being a prominent public official was the amount of time and attention one could lavish on Current Events. It was part of the job, and a very pleasant part.

He didn't get anywhere near the last page.

Harcourt forgot all about breakfast when he saw the morning headlines. The news brought back all the terrifying details of his own strange experience aboard the Jetliner from New York to London.

Harcourt bounded out of bed and phoned the Consulate. A stiff voice answered, identifying itself as the property of a Scotland Yard Inspector.

Ambassador Harcourt announced himself. "But why Scotland Yard? Wasn't it an accident?"

The voice unbent a trifle. Harcourt was Somebody. So was Judson, and that was why they were there. No stone would be unturned, no doubts left dangling. The voice stonily related the scanty information concerning Judson's death. Lyle Harcourt was irritated. Why hadn't he been informed? The Inspector was sorry. Harcourt understood. He would be at the Royal Crown should anyone care to contact him. He hung up. A little while later the phone rang, and the Vice-Consul apologetically told him the little he knew. The only odd thing was that Judson usually took his bath in the morning. It appeared that he had drowned some hours before the day began. Very late last night, in fact.

Harcourt spent the next hour calling the United Nations' London Headquarters trying to get a circuit to the States for a call either to the U.S. Mission in New York or the home office in Washington. Finally he cancelled the calls and drafted a pair of cables.

Peter Cane, that Security fellow on the plane, had certainly known what he was talking about. In fact, the Secret Service man who had seen Harcourt off at Idlewild had urged him to be on guard against any overt move by anyone on or off the plane. He had even been wary of Cane.

Between calls, Harcourt showered and dressed.

Peter Cane. Let's see... He and the girl were staying at the Rand.

He picked up the phone. There was no answer from Cane's room, or Miss Baron's.

He called Room Service for his belated breakfast.

Later, the reception desk called to announce visitors. Harcourt was surprised to find his pulse quickening, his heart pounding. His fingers trembled slightly as he spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Who is it?"

"The name is Cane, Mr. Harcourt," the Crown's desk announced. "Peter Cane. And a young lady. A Miss Baron."

"Ah." Harcourt was relieved. "Let me have a word with Cane." That's the way to do it, he assured himself. Never take anything on trust.

A lively, cultured American voice came on the line.

"This is Cane. May we see you, sir?"

"Ah, Cane. I've been trying to contact you. Yes, please come up. Oh, let me tell the Desk. Hello? Reception? Send them right up. Thank you."

His doorknocker clacked decisively a few minutes later. He heard a woman's laugh and the low rumble of a male voice. Tucking a white handkerchief into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit, Harcourt strode through his sitting room toward the door. The prospect of seeing two government agents was more than a relief. Harcourt was an intelligent, courageous man, but he had no flair for espionage. His own extremely complex job was quite enough for him. He believed in experts, as he believed in himself.

He had only a second, after unlatching the door and pulling it back, to recognize his callers. Only a second to see a tall, good looking man and the attractive woman. They were not Peter Cane and Julia Baron.

He could not even protest, much less think of shouting for help. The door closed and a hand clamped over his mouth. Harcourt suddenly realized that he had no idea what Peter Cane sounded like on the telephone.

The Ambassador toppled without a murmur as the tall man sapped him swiftly with a weighted black instrument.

After that, Harcourt felt nothing.

"There's no answer," said Julie. Her face was puzzled as she put down the phone. "The line was busy only a few minutes ago — it's been busy all morning."

"Damn!" said Nick. "He's gone out and we've missed him. Try the U.N. office."

He paced the floor of the room. They had checked in, after Mr. Judas' near-fatal waterfront party, at a rambling old hotel in the Strand section, registered as Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Slocombe of Philadelphia. The assistant manager's reluctance to accept two disheveled people unaccompanied by luggage had been dispelled by the sight of a wallet bulging with American dollars.

"Peter Cane's" cash had been lifted — no doubt by Braille. The money belt had been tampered with, but not emptied. No doubt Braille and Judas had counted on absconding with it intact. Pierre and Junior were lost forever, but Hugo and Wilhelmina had settled comfortably back into their accustomed places. Julie's torn clothes were still wearable. The warehouse cellar had yielded none of its secrets to a rapid search.

"Well? What do they say?" he demanded. Julie had cut the connection.

"He called them this morning, but they haven't seen him. They suggested his hotel."

"Try his room again and then call the Consulate. Perhaps he decided to go there after he talked to them."

Nick had called the Consulate himself earlier. He was not surprised to learn from Harry Byrnes that Judson had been found drowned in the bathtub after "fainting and striking his head." The chauffeur? Well, it hardly mattered at the moment. There had been a brief message for Nick from Hawk. It said: RECEIVE PACKAGE AT JOHNSON & CO. WAREHOUSE 283 DOCK ROAD. REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF FATAL ILLNESS YOUR FRIEND BROWN. REPORT SOONEST. BIRD.