Ник Картер - Death Island

The other one came from the guardhouse. He looked surprised.

“There is parking on the far side of the house, Monsieur Carter,” he said.

“Merci,” Carter replied.

“Please have your driver remain with your car, or if you wish, he may be dismissed, and a ride into town or out to the receiving station will be provided for you, sir.”

“Of course,” Carter said, inclining his head.

The gate swung open, and they drove through. They went up the road and around to the far side of the house where there was a large parking lot. It was filled with cars on one side, and fully a dozen small and medium-size helicopters occupied the other side and a wide, flat field beyond.

Tieggs whistled. “We knew choppers were brought in for these parties, but I never realized just how many.”

“Lots of important people here tonight,” Carter said. He looked over his shoulder. A separate road ran from the parking lot directly in front of the mansion and then connected with the road back to the gate.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Tieggs said heavily.

Carter looked back. “If you can’t come in, I don’t want you sitting around out here. It’s too dangerous considering what almost happened tonight back at the hotel. No, Bob, I want you to go back.”

“The hotel or the base?”

“The hotel. But watch your step. I won’t be too late, I don’t think. We can go back in the morning.”

“All right,” Tieggs said. He swung the jeep around and drove slowly down the front road, pulling up below the veranda. A few of the governor’s guests glanced down in idle curiosity but then looked away.

“See you in a few hours,” Carter said, and he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he mounted the steps.

An Oriental houseboy dressed in an immaculate white uniform met Carter at the head of the stairs.

“If you will just follow me, sir,” he said, and he turned and moved into the house.

Carter followed him across the wide veranda, which was filled with men and women standing around drinking and talking. At one end of the veranda a pair of lovely young women were dispensing drinks to the guests, and at the other end of the balcony a seven-piece band was just beginning to set up.

Inside, the house was lit up and decorated for the party. In two of the rooms they passed through were service bars with young, lovely, female bartenders, and in another room an older black man was playing ragtime piano and singing.

From what Carter had seen so far, he guessed there were at least a hundred men and women there, about two thirds of them Oriental, the other third European.

They had come to the far side of the house, to another wide veranda, but this one faced the jungle. This balcony was only dimly lit and was quiet in comparison to the front area. There were about a dozen people seated around a wide, ornately carved coffee table. Two young girls, bare-breasted and wearing only sarongs, served drinks to the group.

Everyone stopped what they were doing when the houseboy led Carter around to the far side of the table. There sat one of the largest men Carter had ever seen.

Governor Albert Remi Rondine looked up, then smiled as he rose to his impressive six-feet-eight. Carter guessed the man to weigh in the neighborhood of 450 to 500 pounds. His hair, neatly trimmed, was jet black and slicked back with oil. He wore a small goatee, also well trimmed, and a pencil-thin mustache separated his bulbous lips from his grossly huge and misshapen nose.

The governor was, as Tieggs had promised, big, fat, and ugly.

“Mr. Nicholas Carter, I believe,” the governor said in heavily accented English, his voice as rich and as deep as his appearance suggested it would be.

They shook hands.

“I heard you were having this little get-together, so I thought I might drop in,” Carter said, glancing around at the others. No one was smiling.

“Please feel free to mingle, Mr. Carter. I am sure that some of my guests might find you amusing.”

Carter grinned. “Actually, it was you I came to see, Governor...” he said, but then his voice caught in his throat. To the governor’s left, looking somewhat disconsolate, was an incredibly beautiful woman. She was neither European nor Oriental, but her olive skin bespoke an exotic background. Carter could not place the exquisite features. She had high, delicate cheekbones, lovely, large sloe eyes, full, moist lips, and a long, delicate neck. Her hair and eyes were very dark. She was dressed in a silk kimono, so he was not able to see her figure. But he guessed it was as lovely as her face.

“I had intended on calling you in within the next day or so,” the governor said irritably. “I understand you only just arrived this afternoon.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then there will be time enough for us to speak.”

Carter focused on the gross man. The governor wore a white tropical suit with a white gauze shirt and a dark blue ascot. His dress was impeccable. Yet he gave Carter the impression of being a greasy, unkempt animal.

“On the contrary, Governor, there is no time. Americans are being killed.”

“It is of little consequence to me,” the governor shot back.

No one moved. Even his wife, who was about to raise her wineglass to her lips, stopped.

“It is of great consequence to me, sir,” Carter said, choosing his words very carefully. “For when I find those responsible, I shall kill them.” He nodded. Then he turned to the governor’s wife. “It is a great pleasure for me to be here, Madame Rondine. I had heard how lovely you are, but even the most superlative claims do you no justice.”

The woman stood up as the governor’s complexion turned red.

Carter had struck a nerve. He started to step aside, half expecting the governor to take a swing at him, when his wife threw her wine into Carter’s face.

“You arrogant American bastard,” she said in English.

Carter held perfectly still for several long seconds, resisting the urge to turn around, or at the very least wipe his face. Instead he managed a thin smile.

“There was absolutely no offense meant, madame ,” he said in perfect French. “You are beautiful, and it is a fact. Bon soir. ”

He turned, inclined his head stiffly to the others around the table, and then nodded to the governor. “I will call on you at your office tomorrow,” he said.

“I’ll call you when I desire your presence—”

“I will see you tomorrow. Governor Rondine,” Carter said, interrupting.

He turned on his heel and stalked off the veranda, going back through the house out to the front terrace. The houseboy who had shown him to the governor was at his elbow.

“Mr. Carter wishes perhaps for transportation to the base?”

“The hotel,” Carter snapped.

“Very good, sir. It will be just a moment.” The houseboy disappeared down the steps and into the darkness.

The band was playing a soft tune, and many of the couples were dancing. Carter went across to the bar and ordered a snifter of cognac. The young woman tending bar glanced up at someone across the veranda before she poured the drink. Evidently for permission.

The governor had quite a setup here, Carter thought angrily.

He sipped from his drink — it was an excellent cognac — then turned around so that he could see who the woman had looked to for permission to serve him. A tall man, dressed in a plain tuxedo, a small bulge at his left armpit. One of the governor’s goons. But if nothing ever happened here that the governor was involved with — nothing violent, that is — then why the armed guards, why the security around the fence, and why such a close watch on the Americans?

Carter raised his snifter in salute to the guard, who stared back with no expression on his face, then took a deep drink and put the glass back on the bar as the houseboy came back up the stairs and looked around for him.