Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

He felt an unfamiliar sensation of weakness. Upstairs, now, Towels. Outside and away. Or Cane would be back with his own damn bombs. He dragged himself up the steps. From somewhere outside he heard the sound of a car backfiring. Harper coming back for him. Those foreign cars made hell's own noise. He'd better hurry.

He'd meet Cane again.

Or whatever his name really was.

Ten minutes later he left the house. Crude dressings covered a searing pain in his ribs and the mutilated left hand. The absent right hand ached in sympathy and the arm above it was a flaming agony. But his firm step and military posture reflected none of his pain. A coat shielded him from the cool mist and a soft slouch hat concealed his dome-like head. The gate, fortunately, was open. It might have given him a little trouble.

Where was the car, and that surly Harper?

The car was nowhere in sight.

Judas walked slowly along the sidewalk to the corner.

A dark hedge bulged with a darker shadow. A sprawling, ungainly shadow.

Harper was dead.

The street was quiet. Someone must have heard something. Shots and running and a car driving off. But the houses were tranquil. Not a soul was abroad.

Well, that's London for you. Just as well.

He turned the corner and walked on, feeling weak and ill. But his step was firm and his shoulders were straight and his mind was functioning normally. There was a time to work and a time to head for cover. It was better to drop out of sight for the time being.

Mr. Judas vanished into the London fog.

ACTION WASHINGTON ATTENTION BIRD HARCOURT SAFE HOTEL RAND CARE OF CANE AND BARON...

The cable was long and specific and had taken time. There were still some details to clarify, but an early-morning phone call from Harcourt's office would take care of that.

"Incredible, Cane! I still can't believe what I saw with my own two eyes." Harcourt drained his glass. "I'm not, as a rule, a drinking man, but... Thank you, yes, I'm glad you asked."

Nick grinned and mixed him another bracing Scotch and soda. They were together, the three of them, in Nick's suite at the Hotel Rand.

"Cane, Miss Baron, I don't know how to thank you. And I'm not even going to try — or I'll use up all the clichés I'll be needing for tomorrow's speech. But... good Lord, what an experience. The people at home will never believe this."

"They'll believe it, sir. And it'll do 'em good. Julie! Mind your manners when we have company."

She stifled a prodigious yawn and turned it into a smile. The smile made even the ugly bruise on her forehead seem somehow attractive, as if she were a little girl who had fallen while playing with the boys in some rough game. A cat-eyed, lovely little girl...

"I'm sorry. I'm really awfully sorry. But we've had two rather late nights..."

They all laughed.

"I must admit I'm tired too," said Harcourt, "and tomorrow will be full of reports and words and lots of questions. But they'll keep. This sort of thing is — well, I just can't..." He gave up, shaking his patrician head, a peaceful man gradually awaking from a nightmare of violence.

He stayed in Nick's suite that night. Julie and Nick shared hers. It was, after all, two rooms and a bath...

"Peter."

He came awake instantly. She lay in the crook of his arm, warm and soft as a cat. Somewhere a clock struck four.

"Yes?"

"I'm awake."

"So am I."

"Perhaps we should do something about it."

"Perhaps we should."

And so they did, with lighthearted passion, secure in the knowledge that, this time at least, there was a tomorrow to count upon.