Nick Carter - A Korean Tiger

Nick shot his subordinate a quizzical glance. "A tiger hunt? In Korea?"

Jimmy nodded. "It happens once in a great while, dad. Some beat-up, toothless old tiger wanders down south from Manchuria. The old cat can't catch game anymore, so he has to eat peasants. I've been reading about this one — he's killed four or five farmers up around Yongdong. That's in the mountains near Taejon. So some of the brass got the bright idea of organizing a tiger hunt — saves the peasants and gives the brass something to do. Look — some of them are boarding now." Jimmy Kim laughed. "They've got a bar on that car. If I was a betting man I'd put my money on the tiger."

They watched a party of American and ROK officers boarding the special car. One of the ROK officers carried a Tommy gun. Nick smiled faintly. The tiger didn't figure to have much chance.

He turned to Jimmy Kim. "Okay, kid. Go check on Dinky Man now. And from now on we don't know each other — unless an emergency pops. I think I'll just stooge around for awhile. I won't board until the last minute. So long — and luck."

"So long, dad. Good luck to you. And happy hunting. Don't worry about a thing — I'll handle things here."

Nick Carter watched the boy bounce away on springy heels, full of verve and confidence. A good kid. For just a moment Nick felt old. His stomach pained him a bit. He glanced again at Car 1066. The blinds were drawn in all the compartments.

Nick went back into the bar and had a couple more shots of the bad whisky. He lingered there, not drinking more, until the loudspeaker rasped and a singsong voice began to call the Seoul train, first in Korean, then in English: "Taegu-Kumchon-Yongdong-Taejon-Chochiwon-Chonan-Seoul. Change at Seoul for Yongdungpo and Inchon and Ascom City. The Seoul Express — leaving in ten minutes from Track 4."

Killmaster waited until one minute before train time, then walked rapidly to the train. A huge diesel was snorting softly at the head of the fifteen cars. Nick glanced at his ticket, saw that his car was 1105. Two cars removed from Car 1066.

As he walked down the line he saw Jimmy Kim lingering near the open vestibule of 1066. Nick glanced through the vestibule as he passed, saw the squat figure of Dinky Man on the far platform.

As Jimmy Kim turned away he nodded slightly and flipped his cigarette butt at the train. It hit the car midway and fell to the tracks below. Nick looked straight ahead, but he had the message. The Kotos' compartment was midway in the car.

He reached his own car and swung easily up into the vestibule. He glanced down the long line of cars. Most Korean trains were pretty bad, and anything like a time schedule was mere wishful thinking, but this train, the Seoul Express, was the Koreans' pride and joy. It had, on occasion, actually arrived in Seoul on time after a four-teen-hour run.

Nick clung to the handrail. He lit a new cigarette. Fourteen hours was a long time in his business. Almost anything could happen. On this trip it probably would.

Near the engine a little Korean conductor was waving a green flag. There was a shrill of whistles and a last-minute running by two ichibans in tall horsehair hats, and their fat little wives. One of the wives was carrying a huge fish. They would be traveling third class.

The long metal snake jerked and jolted as the wheels of the giant diesel spun and bit into track. The Seoul Express moved out. Nick spotted Jimmy Kim in the crowd on the platform as the train glided slowly out of the station.

A tiny Korean boy in a smart uniform showed Nick Carter to his compartment For a Korean train it was luxurious. The boy seemed proud of it. He gestured around and said, "Number one, I think. Hokay?"

Nick smiled and handed him a few won. "Hokay, junior. Thanks." The boy left and Nick locked the door after him. It was time now for a little planning. How was he to get in to the Kotos' compartment to check things out? See if it was really Raymond Lee Bennett and the Widow? And if it was — what then? He didn't want to kill Bennett on the train if it could possibly be avoided. But how to get him off the train? Perhaps he could arrange an accident of some kind. Maybe…

There was a soft tapping at the door of his compartment. Nick Carter came off the seat with the easy flow of a powerful cat and stood to one side of the door. He checked the Luger and the stiletto before he asked, "Who is it?"

The boy's voice said: "Is me, sar. Porter boy. I bring you towels."

"Just a minute."

Nick checked the tiny lavatory. There were no towels. He went back to the door. "Okay."

He opened the door. The woman who stood there was very beautiful, with a tall, sturdy body. Her hair was auburn, her eyes green. The little gun in her hand was rock steady on Nick's belly. Behind her was the Korean boy, staring at Nick with wide eyes.

The woman spoke to the boy. "Go now. You know what to do. Hurry!" Her English was heavily accented. A Slavic accent. So they were here, too, and they had wasted no time.

The boy ran off down the corridor. The woman smiled at Nick and moved the little gun a trifle. "Please step back into the compartment, Mr. Carter, and raise your hands. High over your head. I don't want to kill you just yet."

Nick obeyed. She followed him into the compartment and kicked the door shut with a high heel. The gun never wavered from his stomach.

The woman smiled again. Her teeth were good. Very white and just a trifle large. Her body, beneath a black failie suit, was finely molded.

"So we meet again, Mr. Carter. I admit that I am surprised, but then with you one can never tell. Did you enjoy your swim in the Rhine?"

For one of the very few times in his life Nick Carter was totally taken aback, at a loss. It was impossible. It was insane. And yet — her hands! The hand holding the little gun. A delicate, pink-tipped hand. He had seen those hands before.

Nick's grin was hard. "I still don't believe it," he told her. "I must have had too much ginseng booze last night. It can't be. You people just aren't that good at makeup!" He knew the truth. It was she, impossible as it seemed. But if he could keep the chatter flowing, keep the situation from becoming static, he just might try to jump the gun. Jumping a gun was a pretty sure way of getting dead, but…

Her smile a little cold about the edges, the woman said, "Turn around, Mr. Carter. Now! Don't do anything foolish. Lean toward the wall and keep your hands high on it."

Nick did as she ordered. He was off balance and knew he had lost for the moment. As he felt those delicate hands fluttering over him in search he managed a wry grin.

He said: "I now believe in miracles, Colonel Kalinski."

She took the Luger and the stiletto and stepped back away from him. "Stay exactly as you are, Mr. Carter."

Nick stared out the window. Rain was clawing at it with gray blobby paws. The train ran through a tall stand of bamboo, then plunged into a tunnel. He watched her reflection in the window. She opened the door to the tiny bathroom, tossed the weapons inside, then removed the key and locked the door from the outside. She put the key in a pocket of her jacket.

She turned back to him. "You may turn around now. Go and sit over there." The gun indicated the long sofa-divan, along one wall, that made up into a bed. Nick sat down. The eye of the little pistol never left him.

Colonel Kalinski crossed her legs with a slither of nylon. The faille skirt was short, and what she displayed was impressive. Nick remembered the lisle stockings. She must have been wearing a hell of a lot of padding.

"I am presuming," she said, "that you still carry your little gas bomb between your legs, Mr. Carter? I know how lethal it is. We conducted an experiment on some of our undesirables. Condemned men. Your gas is most efficacious — but I believe I am safe as long as we are locked in here together."