Ник Картер - Assault on England

“But how would the assassin know who you are and what you’re here for?” she asked, puzzled.

I shrugged. “A leak in Brutus’s office?” I suggested.

“Impossible!” She was indignant.

“I hope so,” I said. “Anyway, it means we’re getting warm so — what about that emblem?”

Her face brightened again excitedly. “Let me see that paper.”

I handed it to her. “Yes,” she nodded, “I’m sure of it. It’s part of a design for an auto emblem. I just can’t remember which one.”

I pulled on a shirt and buttoned it. I was beginning to get excited too. “Let’s go back and talk to that fellow at the Royal Hotel again,” I said. “That may just be faster than trying to get a list of emblems from the AA.”

“I have a taxi waiting.”

We drove through a dissipating fog along Millbank, past the massive edifices of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. I knew the House of Commons was in an emergency session at that very moment, debating how to best implement the Prime Minister’s decision to comply with the assassin’s demand for a fortune in sterling.

At the Royal Hotel, Heather told our man, “We think we may have identified the symbol on the paper we showed you. It seems to me that I’ve seen it in connection with an automobile.”

The hotel clerk thought a moment “You may be right,” he said, finally.

“Have you had any guests recently who might have been in London representing some auto firm?” I asked.

He gave us a big smile. “Not a fortnight ago we had a convention of auto makers here.”

“Really?” Heather said.

“Quite!” The man was getting as excited as we were. “I can give you a list of all the firms that were represented. In fact, I believe we still have some of the literature they passed around in back, waiting for pickup. Would you like to take a look?”

“Yes we would. Thanks,” I said.

He took us to a small storeroom at the rear of the main floor. There were boxes of pamphlets and note paper stacked in a corner. A couple of boxes bore insignia but none that seemed to fit ours.

The desk man went back to his work and we were alone. Heather started looking through one cardboard carton and I took another. Suddenly Heather gave a sharp cry of recognition.

“We’ve got it, Nick! Look!” She was holding a sheet of paper the same manila color as ours. I moved over to her and studied it.

“Well,” I said. “Well, well, well.”

The complete emblem showed a scorpion on a field of vine leaves set on a crest shield. We looked at the name of the company printed in an arc above the shield, then at each other.

“Jupiter Motors Limited,” Heather said, her face suddenly changing. “Yes, of course.”

“Jupiter,” I said. “Isn’t that your friend?”

“Elmo Jupiter isn’t my friend,” Heather said flatly. “But he does own Jupiter Motors. Now I know why the emblem seemed familiar. I’ve been to one of his showrooms. His plant and offices are on the outskirts of London somewhere.”

“Interesting,” I said. Something about Elmo Jupiter was tugging at the edge of my mind but I couldn’t bring it into focus. I stuck the sheet of note paper, along with the original scrap, into my pocket and steered Heather out of the storeroom and back to the desk.

The hotel clerk was delighted when we told him that we had matched the emblem.

“Smashing!” he said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Now maybe you can do us one more good turn.”

“Pleased to.”

“We’d like a list of the Jupiter Motors personnel who attended the meetings, if you can manage it,”

“Certainly! We were given a list for each company by the organizer of the affair. I’m sure I still have it somewhere. Excuse me a moment,”

He was back shortly with the list and showed us the names of the Jupiter Motors people. There were three: Derek Forsythe, Percival Smythe and Elmo Jupiter himself.

I thanked the clerk for all his help and Heather and I walked toward the park at Russell Square, slowly, to let our new-found information sink in.

“Jupiter is a Scorpio,” Heather said. “Astrologically, I mean. I remember his telling me. That’s why the emblem features the scorpion.”

“I think. Heather, we should go see Mr. Jupiter,” I said.

Jupiter Motors was in a modern building complex out on North End Road. A lot of money had obviously been put into the place. Still, it showed signs of neglect. After a brief exchange with Jupiter’s private secretary, we went into his office. He was all smiles, ignoring me and concentrating on Heather.

“Well, Heather!” he said warmly. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You told me to get in touch,” Heather said as he took her hand and held it. “Richard here is frightfully interested in cars and hoped he could have a look through your plant.”

Jupiter focused his hard brown eyes on me. He wasn’t bad-looking, I had to admit, with an athletic, muscular build. But those hard eyes spoiled an otherwise handsome face.

“Of course you may look around.” He gave me a tight smile. “It will give me a chance to chat with Heather.”

Heather gave him a warm look. I watched his face. He seemed to be studying her now, as if trying to determine if she were friend or enemy.

He pushed the intercom button and asked his secretary to call a Mr. Burroughs who would show me around while Jupiter and Heather had tea in a lounge down the corridor.

As we waited for Mr. Burroughs, I said to Jupiter casually, “I understand there was an auto manufacturers’ convention here in London recently.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I attended with my sales director and his assistant. The meetings fell far short of expectation. There’s too little cooperation between companies here in England.”

“It’s the same in the States, I think,” I said.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “And what is it you do there, Mr. Matthews?”

“I’m in public health, same as Heather here. She’s been assigned to show me London.”

Heather pulled out a cigarette and deliberately fumbled her lighter. It fell to the carpeted floor. I stood as if to pick the thing up for her but Jupiter beat me to it. As he lighted her cigarette, I pressed the stem on the watch I was wearing. Besides keeping perfect time it took excellent pictures.

The intercom buzzed. Jupiter reached over and flicked the switch. “Yes? Good, send him right in.” He glanced over at me. “It’s Burroughs at last.”

Mr. Burroughs was amiable but almost as bored as I was with the tour. In the sales division I was introduced to Forsythe and Smythe, the two men who’d attended the convention at the Royal Hotel with Jupiter. Forsythe was a gray-haired distinguished type; Smythe about fifteen years his junior and pushy, the type of salesman who shoves his foot in the door when he’s selling house to house. Somehow I didn’t see either of them as our man, but we’d have Brutus check them out anyway.

Jupiter seemed a bit tense when Heather and I said good-bye finally. He focused those cold eyes on me and said, with complete insincerity, “Come back any time, Mr. Matthews. Glad to have you.”

“Thanks,” I said, returning the chilly stare.

Walking toward West Kensington station, Heather and I assessed our morning’s work. “Burroughs hinted the company is in financial trouble because of high government taxes,” I told her.

“Interesting,” she said. “I got a set of prints, I think, on the cigarette lighter. Did you manage any photos?”

“One of him and a couple of the papers on his desk, for his handwriting.” I lit cigarettes for us as we walked. “I also met Forsythe and Smythe, but I think Jupiter is our man. I’d just like to know how he found out I’m an agent.”