Ник Картер - Assault on England

“I don’t think so,” Heather said. “I told you that I’ve seen that emblem before, but I don’t associate it with a hotel. We’ll check it out though.”

“If it isn’t hotel paper,” I said, “we have a double clue. Royal Hotel and the organization or idea represented by the symbol.”

“Exactly,” Heather agreed, excitement showing in her face. “Maybe this is our break, Nick.”

“ If the paper belonged to the killer,” I reminded her.

After tea we took a taxi to the Royal Hotel and spoke to the assistant manager at the desk. He looked at the scrap of paper and denied that it belong to the hotel. He took out a sheet of hotel stationery and showed it to us for comparison.

“Of course, it might have belonged to a guest,” the man said. “Or to one of the many conventioneers who meet here.”

“Yes,” I said heavily. “Well, thanks just the same.”

Outside, Heather said, “I think we’d better bring Brutus up to date.”

“All right,” I said. “Maybe he can offer some ideas on our emblem.” We hailed a cab and went directly to Brutus’s office.

When we got there, after marching briskly through the long corridor with the uniformed security guards, we found Brutus poring over old police records. He thought there might still be some chance that the assassin was a convicted felon with a grudge against the Establishment. I showed him the scrap of paper, but he shook his head.

“I can’t make anything of it,” he said. “I can make copies though and show it around the department. Maybe somebody will recognize it.”

“That might be worthwhile, sir,” I said.

“We’ve checked out this janitor chap you saw leaving the Secretary’s office,” Brutus told me. “Nobody can identify a person of that description working in the building.”

“That figures,” I said.

“He’s probably our killer,” Heather said. “You were close enough to grab him, Nick.”

“Don’t remind me,” I said glumly.

“Don’t blame yourself, lad,” Brutus said, lighting his pipe. “If it weren’t for you, we’d have nothing.”

“We may still have nothing,” I said. “If it’s of any use to you, I have a hazy memory of seeing blond hair under the dark, as if the man might have been wearing a wig.”

Brutus made a note on a slip of paper. “Probably the mustache was false too.”

“Probably. I know I thought so when I saw it.”

Brutus rose from his desk and moved around it, sucking at his pipe. He looked very tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days.

“At the moment,” he said, “despite the clues, we’re a long way from solving the assassination plot. The third note found at the scene tells us nothing more about our man. Or men.”

“If the assassin had accomplices,” Heather said, “he seems to make sparing use of them.”

“Yes, the killings certainly appear to have been accomplished by the same man — although they could give that appearance if directed by one man. At any rate, the Prime Minister has confided to me that he is arranging for payment of the sum demanded.”

“Fourteen million pounds?” Heather asked.

“Precisely. We discussed the possibility of tricking our man somehow, loading the plane with phoney money or the like. But there seems little opportunity, the way he has it worked out. The PM will be going to the banks tomorrow for the funds.”

I stroked my chin, “I wonder, sir, if money is what this man really wants.”

“What do you mean?” Brutus asked.

“He may think he wants the money, on a conscious level,” I said, slowly, “but on another level — a more primitive one, a darker one — he may only want to kill.”

Brutus sucked his pipe and studied my face. “Yes, I get your meaning. But be that as it may, we must assume that payment of the sum demanded will stop the killings, mustn’t we?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” I said.

“Right. Well, you two can get some rest now. Keep after that scrap of paper though — there might be something there.”

Heather rose from her usual perch on Brutus’s desk and I got up from my chair.

“There’s one other thing, sir,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Hawk told me Augie Fergus had served in the commandos. I think we should get a list of the men in Augie’s outfit.”

Brutus frowned. “That could be quite a list.”

“I’d restrict it to the men in his immediate company. There might be a lead in it.”

“Right, Nick,” Brutus said. “I’ll get on it. Anything else?”

“Just a few hours sleep,” I said, grinning.

“I promise not to bother either of you for the rest of the day,” he said. “Get yourselves a good meal and some rest.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Heather and I had dinner at a quiet little restaurant, and then she invited me to her flat for a drink before I returned to my SOE-paid hotel room. I had a bourbon and she took sherry. We sat on a long sofa sipping the drinks.

“I wish I could remember where I’ve seen the emblem on that scrap of paper,” she confessed. “I know I’ve seen it somewhere and not too long ago.”

“There’s plenty of time for that tomorrow when you’re rested,” I said. “Let it all incubate inside until then.”

“All right, doctor.” She smiled. “I put myself completely under your care.”

“Is that a proposition?”

“Take it as you like.”

I put my unfinished drink down and reached for her. She melted into my arms, her softness pressing into me. She was wearing a pants suit and shirt and no bra. As I pressed my lips to hers, I brushed my hand across her right breast. The nipple hardened at my touch. My tongue explored her mouth and she responded passionately.

She broke away from me and stood up. “I’ll get into something more — appropriate,” she said.

She disappeared into the bedroom and I finished my bourbon. The warmth of the liquor spread all through me. I was relaxed and ready. And then Heather returned.

She was wearing an almost-transparent floor-length peignoir.

I undressed and lay down beside her on the sofa. I slid my hand between her thighs and caressed her. A soft sound purred in her throat.

I slipped the peignoir over her head and let it fall to the floor beside me. And she wanted me. It was clear that she wanted me very much. I knew that this would be even better than the last time.

We began leisurely, comfortably, letting the ripples of pleasure pass through us as our bodies touched and the fire slowly flamed up inside. It was sweet, very sweet; the leisurely pace stoked the fire and built it.

As the thrusting and reaching and probing reached a greater intensity, Heather began to tremble. The sounds in her throat grew until they seemed to fill the room. Then it was a primitive plunging, savage in its intensity, as Heather’s arms locked tightly around me, her hot thighs pressing me into her, deeper and deeper.

When it was over, I lay back, lit a cigarette and thought about Heather and Hadiya; I couldn’t help comparing the two of them. Their ways of making love were as different as their nationalities. Hadiya’s was like the North African desert in which she was born: fevered, like a raging sand storm which ended as abruptly as it began. Heather’s was more like the English spring: slow to develop, following a long-established pattern, gradually easing into the heat of summer, then tapering off into the cooling spell of fall.

Which was better? I couldn’t tell. Each had its advantages. But it would be nice, I thought, to have a steady diet of first one, then the other.

It was after midnight when I got back to my hotel room and to bed to sleep. About an hour after I dozed off, I awoke suddenly. At first I had no idea what had awakened me and then I heard it again: a soft clicking sound. What was it? And was it inside the room or out?