Nick Carter - Run, Spy, Run

All other possible entrances were accounted for. Where else could the danger be but in the bathroom?

Nick didn't move. He could hold his breath for four and a half minutes, if he had to. But what would the intruder be doing? Nick cocked his ears, anxious for the slightest sound.

Now he was aware of the sound of Manhattan. The din of traffic rose from twenty floors below. Twenty floors... Fire escape? Not directly outside the bathroom window but near enough for an agile man. A car horn squalled.

Still, the silence in Room 2010 was a tangible, living thing.

His visitor couldn't afford to wait much longer. If other lights were out the guests would be raising hell. The lights would be going on again before anything happened. Fine. That suited Nick.

A slight, leathery splat of sound ignited him. Tt was too close. He moved from where he stood, still holding his breath, and glided to the wall near the front door. As he did so, he flexed his forearm and Hugo slipped quietly from the leathery breakaway holster and settled coolly in his right palm without so much as a hiss of noise. The ice-pick blade sprang into place. Nick reached out his left arm to feel for a chair. It would offer some protection if he could get it between himself and the hidden menace. His movement was soundless, but the darkness betrayed him. It was as if the someone in the room with him had seen the gesture with X-ray eyes.

There was a flick of sibilant noise and a tiny, swiftrushing current of air past Carter's left cheek. A slight thuck of contact sounded as a cold piece of flying steel found a target. Nick's split-second reaction was pure reflex, spurred on by sense memory of a thousand combats. His left hand found the hilt of knife jutting from the plaster wall. He shoved his right shoulder just below the hard handle, aimed, and answered back in kind.

Hugo shot from the balance of his throwing palm with the ease and thrust of a bullet, following the line from which the killer's knife had come. Nick's body tensed, his eyes trying to break the solid blackness into something that could be seen.

But there was no need for eyes now.

A strangled cry of surprise broke the silence. Before the sound could blend into a scream it fell to a bubbling gurgle. Something fell, heavily.

Nick let the air out of his lungs. The killer had paid the price for confidence.

Somewhere, nearby, a door slammed. An angry voice filtered into the darkness from the hall.

"What the hell goes on here? Somebody must have been messing with the fuse box or the circuit breaker or whatever the hell you call it. Are they going to let us grope around in the dark all night?"

Nick found his way to the window and pulled the drapes.

The dim light of the city's night sky showed a man spread-eagled on the floor, halfway across the threshold of the bathroom, his torso sprawled the rest of the way into the living room. Hugo was poking bloodily into his throat, in grim testimony to the accuracy of Nick's judgment and aim. Nick approached the corpse warily. The man was dead, all right. He turned the body over. There was no mistaking the rigid mold of the face.

Nick stepped over the body and went into the bathroom. A brief inspection confirmed his suspicions. The single window was open. He peered through. As he'd remembered, there was nothing but a yawning space below, but a fire escape to either side of the frame was within easy reaching distance. All it took was nerve. He went back to the corpse.

The lights blazed on.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the new brightness. A blank face stared up at him. A voice on the landing said, apologetically: "A kid playing around, maybe. Somebody's idea of a joke. Sorry, folks. Sorry about the inconvenience." The voice and the babble faded.

Inconvenience was right. He'd have to get out of here.

The man was about five ten — not short, certainly — but as thin as a piccolo, and dressed like a window cleaner. Denim trousers, sail cloth shirt. He hadn't bothered with the pail. Probably counted on just blending with the landscape and nipping in and out as fast as he could. It didn't work.

The face was plain and ingenuous even in death. No distinguishing features. There was nothing in his pockets. Not even a book of matches. No labels in the faded work clothes. Nick checked the heels of his shoes, the mouth and ears for hidden accessories. Nothing. The killer had come with only his knife.

The knife was a staghorn-handled destroyer, typical of what you could buy in an Army and Navy Store or those junk shops on Times Square. Nothing there, either. And the nothing left plenty to worry about.

Someone had sent a killer to Carter's room. Because of the plane incident, or because of something else?

Nick lit a Player's and thought: One killer?

Piccolo had come in through the bathroom window, as if on signal, the instant after the lights had gone out. There was no way he could have tampered with the box in the hall. Therefore there must have been a second man. But whoever had killed the lights was probably far away by now. No use looking for him. And no point in waiting around. Nick stubbed out his cigarette.

Too bad he'd have to leave a corpse for the chambermaid to discover. But secret operatives could have no truck with city police.

He placed the knife wielder in bed, dumping him unceremoniously under the blankets. He wrapped a hand towel around his ringers and pulled the knife from the wall. Putting the knife into the folds of the towel, he slid it into his briefcase.

The corpse mustn't be discovered until the next day, or it would serve no purpose at all. Check-out time was three in the afternoon and no maid would disturb a sleeping guest, no matter how badly she wanted to get through work and go home. Not even a guest who didn't answer a knock on the door.

But the knifer's friends were another matter entirely. If they felt like visiting, an unanswered knock wouldn't stop them.

Nick wiped off Hugo with almost fond dutifulness. Hugo had done the job well, as usual. Nick decided his suitcase could stay behind. A few items went into the briefcase: towel, knife, razor, book he hadn't finished reading on the plane, half-full flask. The only other things he wanted were on his person. Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre.

He wasn't worried about his signature on the hotel registration card. The Department had spent two months teaching him how to vary his handwriting to match assumed identities and produce admirably indecipherable signatures that looked like the real thing but spelled nothing and defied analysis. Actually, he had signed in as Willa Gather, but no one would ever know.

He spent several minutes thoroughly checking out Room 2010, then stepped cautiously out into the corridor and closed the door on the self-locking latch. He had left the keys to the room on the writing table. Then he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and headed for the stairway with his briefcase.

Piccolo's accomplice, if he were still about, was unlikely to show himself under the bright lights. Anyway, Hugo was ready for him. Nick climbed two flights, eyes alert for any sign of lurking presence, and made his way to the bank of elevators.

As things stood, the New York City Police would have a difficult case on their hands. Very likely insoluble. There was nothing here that could possibly lead back to Nick Carter. But the knifer's employers would soon know that their quarry was alerted enough to kill and run. That could make for a rather unpleasant future. Pity, in a way, that he had killed the knifer outright.

Still, there was no use moaning over spilt corpses. Especially ones that weren't your own.

Nick looked through the plate glass of the lobby phone booth, wondering how many of Them there were and what had happened to the second man.