Nick Carter: Assassination Brigade

I ordered another cognac. When the waiter brought the liqueur, he handed me a note and pointed to the redhead still sitting alone. I was surprised. In the confusion of the departure of the other guests at our table, I had completely forgotten the girl who had earlier caught my eye.

I opened the note and read, WON’T YOU PLEASE JOIN ME? IT’S URGENT THAT I SPEAK WITH YOU. I wondered why the word URGENT was underlined. I looked over and saw that die girl was watching me gravely, and nodded.

“Mr. Dawes,” the girl said in a soft, throaty voice, offering me a slim, shapely hand, “I’m Suzanne Henley.” She had an accent that was hard to place — they call it mid-Atlantic, but I detected a very strong British tone. She paused until the waiter had gone and I was seated and then added in an undertone, “Please don’t misunderstand, I’m not used to picking up men. But there’s an important matter that I must discuss with you.” She looked around the diningroom searchingly and then back at me. “We can’t discuss it here. I don’t know who might be watching. Is there some place we can talk in private?”

“Well, there’s my room upstairs,” I suggested. “It should be private enough, if it won’t bother you.”

“I’m sure you’re a gentleman, Mr. Dawes,” she answered. “Yes, your room will be fine. You go up and after a few minutes I’ll follow you.”

I told her my room number and stood up to leave. As the waiter came toward the table again to pull my chair back, she offered me her hand and said, “So nice to see you again, and I will give you a call if I’m ever in the States.”

I went upstairs to my room, wondering what this latest turn of events could mean. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before there was a light tap on my door. I opened it, and Suzanne Henley stepped quickly inside. I closed and locked the door. She seemed nervous and ill at ease for the first few moments. She prowled the room restlessly, looked out the window, and saw the spa, its lights gleaming in the night.

“Oh, there’s where I work,” she exclaimed. She spotted the binoculars on the windowsill, picked them up, and focused on the complex of buildings. “You have a very good view of the spa from here,” she said as she put the binoculars down and turned toward me again.

“Miss Henley, what’s this all about? And won’t you please sit down.”

She sat in a chair opposite me and thought for a moment before she began. “I don’t know what all this means, Mr. Dawes, but I’ve heard rumors about you up at the spa. And I was worried. I really don’t know you, and I don’t know what your interest is in the place, but — well, I just didn’t feel right about things. I thought I’d tell you, that’s all.” She paused and shook her head helplessly.

I said as gently as possible, “You realize, Miss Henley, I really don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

She took a deep breath and finally settled back in the chair. “I should have explained,” she said, “that I’ve been working at the spa for several years now. I’m a dietician there. But for a while I haven’t liked the atmosphere. It feels somehow — well — sinister.”

“How do you mean, sinister?” I prodded.

“I don’t really know,” she said. “Just that there’s a lot of whispering and secrecy. And I hear people coming and going in the dead of night. There are security guards all around the place, but the guests don’t know it. The guests think they’re just employees. But they’re very tough-looking men. Day and night I hear whispering, and I picked up your name, Dawes. I guessed there was trouble when five of the security men returned to the spa in a car this afternoon. I just happened to see them. A couple were injured. And I heard your name mentioned again. I phoned around until I located you here. That’s why I came here for dinner. I asked the waiter who Mr. Dawes was, and he pointed you out. I just wanted to warn you to stay away.”

When I questioned her further, her answers seemed straightforward enough, but I didn’t really learn anything that tied into the case, even though we talked for a long while. She could have been on the level, or she could have been a decoy sent to try to discourage me from snooping around.

It was quite late when we finished talking, and she suddenly glanced at her watch and gasped, “Oh, I’m in real trouble now. It’s after midnight. Long past curfew for the employees. I can’t go back there tonight. They’ll demand a detailed explanation of where I’ve been. I’ll have to find a place to stay and slip back in the morning.”

She was on her feet, quite agitated, and moving toward the door. She paused in mid-stride and shuddered. “If anyone from the spa should see me out on the streets, they would pick me up and question me.”

“That place sounds like a prison.”

She nodded her head. “Yes, exactly. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

She had the door open and had started to leave. I grabbed her arm, pulled her back, and shut and locked the door again.

“If it’s that dangerous for you,” I said, “perhaps you should spend the night here. You’ll be safe.”

She looked at me thoughtfully for a long moment, probably considering all the implications of my invitation. I really had no ulterior motive in making the suggestion, except that I wanted to help. But if something else developed.…

“You’re sure it won’t inconvenience you?” she asked.

I shrugged. There were twin beds, as she could plainly see. “You can take one bed,” I said, “and I’ll just stretch out on the other until morning. You’ll be quite safe.” I meant it any way she chose to take it.

“All right,” she said slowly, nodding her head.

She went into the bathroom. I checked the locks on the doors and turned out die lights in the room. Then I took my shoes off and lay down on one of the beds. It was still bright in the room from the reflection of the moon on the snow outside. She came back in a few minutes, wearing only her slip. As she crossed from the bathroom to the bed, her body was outlined in the light from the window, and I could see that she had nothing else on underneath.

She got into bed and pulled the covers over her. “Good night, Mr. Dawes. And thank you.”

“Good night,” I said. “Go to sleep now.”

For a brief while, I’ll admit, the thought of that beautiful body lying so near distracted me from sleep. But she had offered no invitation. I soon drifted off to sleep. I don’t think I had slept for very long when I was awakened by soft cries from her bed.

I sat up and leaned toward the bed. “Suzanne? Miss Henley? Are you okay?”

She continued to cry quietly, and I thought that perhaps she was having a nightmare. I moved over and sat on the side of her bed and shook her lightly by the shoulders.

“It’s all right,” I whispered. “Wake up! It’s all right. You’re only having a bad dream.”

Her arms came up suddenly, encircled my neck, and pulled me to her urgently. Her eyes still shut, she began frantically to cover my face with kisses. “Hold me. Hold me! Love me!”

It was still hard to tell whether she was awake or dreaming, but her hand had moved to my body, fumbling with my pants while she continued to kiss me. I quickly shed my clothing and slid into bed with her.

“Suzanne,” I asked again, “are you awake?”

“Love me, please,” she repeated. I obliged her.

She responded as if she had prepared for the act of love all her life but had never before had an opportunity to actually practice it. Her hunger was enormous, driving her to one erotic stimulation after another until we were both exhausted by repeated climaxes. Never before had I known a woman who responded so fully with every sense, every nerve, of her being. Again and again, her body thrashing wildly on the bed, she turned her head to stifle her cries so that they wouldn’t echo through the whole chalet.