Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

The trip was without incident, a succession of bright streets and dim ones, then the cobblestones of Limehouse once again. A fine light fog hung over the street lamps.

The car slowed and Nick tensed. They had found a quiet block, lined with low houses bordered with hedges and white picket fences. It was odd to find so very nearly a suburban touch in a neighborhood like Limehouse.

The motor stopped. The driver turned and motioned toward one of the houses. It lay back from the sidewalk, separated from it by twenty feet or so of pebbled path leading to a door framed by clinging ivy. The air was fragrant with wet flowers and grass.

"Here you are. Number Thirty-three."

They got out. Nick stared down into the chauffeur's face, itching to take that scrawny neck between his hands and squeeze. Better leave him alone. "One false note, one ruse from you — and Harcourt dies," the odd voice said inside his head.

"Don't try to take me, friend," the chauffeur grunted. "You'll blow it if you do. And don't bother about the license plates. We just borrowed this heap. And you won't see me again after tonight."

He changed gear noisily.

"Tch," said Nick. "And just when we had learned to love you."

The car shot away from the curb and roared off down the block.

Silence hung over the street. Most of the houses showed at least a gleam of light. But not Number Thirty-three.

Nick guided Julie through a gate that needed oiling. They scrunched up the path. No sound or sign of life came from the shadowed house.

He found a bell, pushed it, and waited. Nothing. Julie shivered suddenly. Nick tried the door. It opened inward. He pulled Julie to one side and pushed it in.

The gloom of the interior was as enveloping as a shroud.

They entered cautiously, moving swiftly away from the direct line of the door. And waited.

A thin, vertical sliver of light sliced the darkness at the end of what appeared to be a length of hallway. Nick's pencil flashlight revealed a wide, carpeted passage. He flicked off the beam and replaced the pencil-light with Wilhelmina. They moved slowly toward the slightly open door.

There were no sudden bursts of gunfire, no pouncing shadows, no animal grunts from lurking figures. Everything was as peaceful as Mr. Judas had promised.

They paused at the door and looked at each other in the gloom. Nick squeezed Julie's arm with more reassurance than he felt. The ticking of his watch was suddenly very loud.

The door creaked open, inwards. Light blazed out.

Judas stood on the threshold. The room behind him was, incongruously, a kitchen, lined with covered shelves and hanging pots and pans.

Mr. Judas inclined his ugly, bandaged head, and made the grimace he intended for a smile. His right arm ended in his pocket. The left held a vicious-looking, snub-nosed gun.

"Come in, come in, my friends. No need to stalk. We are quite alone — except of course for poor, sick Harcourt. You know my passion for privacy. Come in, please."

He backed away. They entered.

Judas pushed the door shut with a swift movement of his elbow and followed them in.

"I see you've come armed, Mr. Cane, as usual. So have I. I assure you I can shoot as quickly as any man alive. And at the sound of the shots, Lyle Harcourt will die downstairs in the cellar."

"I thought you said we were alone," Nick said crisply.

"We are. But I am a man of many resources. Sit down, please, and let us discuss international politics. I have much to say to you both."

The kitchen was a cheery enough place. It looked and smelled lived in; cooking aromas and detergent scents hung in the air. The table in the center of the room had four chairs and a checkered cloth covering.

Mr. Judas sat briskly in the chair facing the door. Nick swiftly looked around. The windows were covered with drawn shades. A door led off to the right, near the stove. There was nothing, apparently, more sinister in the place than a heavy rolling pin that lay innocently on a thick wooden surface near the sink.

"Mr. Cane, on my right. Miss Baron, across from me if you will."

They sat.

Mr. Judas, seated comfortably in the cozy, working-class kitchen was even harder to take than in the more suitable environs of a smelly basement. Seen in close-up, his face was like some remarkable rubber mask drawn tightly over the globular skull that held it in place. But the heavily bandaged left side of the face showed red around the patch of white.

Julie's eyes were flicking around the room.

"Quite cozy for our chat, don't you think, Miss Baron?" Judas crooned. "Belongs to friends of mine. Let me use it once in a while." He took the arm out of his pocket and waved it around the room. "Really rather comfortable, I feel."

A silver paw described a gesture in the air and came to rest upon the table top.

Julie gasped and stared. Nick just stared.

Judas chuckled flutingly. "You see, Miss Baron, unlike human hands, mine are replaceable." Then the hideous face turned a look of the purest hatred on Nick Carter. "You did well, Mr. Cane. You would have paid for it when you stepped into this house if I did not intend to use you."

Between the sleeve and the five-fingered silver thing there was a fringe of bandaging. There was no gleam to the silver.

"A glove," said Nick easily. "Very cleverly staged for shock effect. Why did you bother? That's no replacement, Judas. I did do well, at that. But not quite well enough. Perhaps I can do better this time. Where's Lyle Harcourt?"

"Don't you listen, Cane? Downstairs in the cellar of this place. He is merely sleeping off the effects of a drug administered to maintain unconsciousness. And a little bump on the head, of course. We can discuss him later. As to my — replacement — I shall have it soon, never fear."

"I couldn't care less," said Carter. "We have nothing to talk about but Harcourt. I want to see him, and I want to see him safely out of here."

Judas laughed. "Perhaps you'd like to stay here in his place?"

"I'd like to see you dead, Judas. Let Harcourt go, or either you or I will never leave this place."

"And the lady?" Judas cocked a hairless brow.

Julie answered for herself. "The lady goes where he goes." Her face and voice were icily calm. "But Harcourt leaves here first."

"What touching loyalty! But there is no need for us to kill each other if we can come to terms. You see, there is a hitch to your solution. Something has come up. Something so vital to the people who pay me — and pay me lavishly, might I add — that I shall forego my previous plans concerning you and the lady if you comply. There is a tremendous amount of money involved, more than you could make in several lifetimes. Are you interested?"

"Talk is cheap enough, Judas. Go on."

Mr. Judas scratched his nose with the barrel of his gun.

"Mr. Cane, it has come to my attention that you are considered the number one agent in a very secret branch of your government's intelligence services. I am not as familiar with the details as I should like to be. However, first things first. We are both titans in our field, I find. I have had access to reports that make you out a legend — fantastically resourceful, highly trusted..."

"What reports?" Nick rapped out.

Judas smiled his terrifying smile. "Not, unfortunately, from your own agency, if that is what you want to know. No, painful documents from those who have tangled with a man who always carries a stripped Luger, a stiletto, and a small round ball. For luck. But let me make my point. I want to buy your years of priceless training, your experience, your knowledge, and — shall we say — your goodwill. I need a man who is trusted in high places. Your first job, alone, will net you a very considerable reward."

"And what would that entail?" Nick's voice was softly dangerous.