Nick Carter - Double Identity

“Your wife? And nine kids?”

Bannion shook his head. “Not to worry. I’m bringing home some money, so Neva — that’s my wife — will be happy with me for once. The kids do what I say! No problem there, though you’ll have to keep out of sight. We’re one big happy neighborhood and the wives gossip something fierce — but we’ll worry about that later. Speaking of money — I’d better have some to show Neva.”

Nick fumbled in his wallet and handed the man a thousand rupee note. “That’s for now. There will be plenty more if we get along. If you do a good job and don’t let me down I might be able to do something about getting you out of this hole.” He let it go at that. Bannion made no answer.

They reached Drigh Road and headed west. It was a modern highway, four lanes, and well marked. Bannion pressed down on the gas and the old jeep sputtered and picked up speed. The speedometer didn’t work, but Nick guessed they were doing at least forty-five.

“This is the tricky bit,” Bannion said. “They patrol this pretty well. If we’re stopped it’ll be along this stretch.”

Nick glanced at his AXE watch. It was a little after one.

He heard a sound of planes overhead and glanced up. They were old prop jobs. Far across the city he watched lances of brilliant light spring to life and sweep the sky. There came the distant popping of anti-aircraft fire. Two of the searchlights caught a plane in their apex and held it for a moment, pinned to the black sky like a moth to cork. The plane slipped away. There came the remote crash-thud of a bomb exploding.

Bannion chuckled. “Hit-and-run raid. Tomorrow the Indians will officially deny it ever happened. The Pakistanis are probably raiding Delhi about now — and they’ll deny it too. Some war! A two-bit deal that neither of them wants.

N3 remembered Hawk’s words — somebody wanted this war. The Red Chinese!

They were getting into the Mauripur district now. Well-paved streets and large estates and compounds surrounded by thick-growing chinar trees. A delicate fragrance of cashew-nut bushes scented the crisp night air. The AXE man noted the street lights, dark now because of the blackout.

“This is where the money lives,” said Bannion. “And most of the foreigners. The place you want is just up here.”

Bannion slowed the jeep to a crawl. Even so the old engine made a fearful racket in the quiet night. “Turn it off,” Nick ordered quietly, almost whispering. “Park it someplace where it won’t be noticed by a patrol, then we’ll walk.”

Bannion switched off the engine and they coasted. They left the jeep in the clotted shadow of a towering Persian oak, and Bannion led the way down a strip of blacktop. He stopped in the shadows just short of where a white gate gleamed in the gibbous moon. At that moment, from afar on the outskirts of the city, a jackal wailed.

“They come in close looking for food,” Bannion said. “Tigers not a hundred miles from here.”

Nick told him to shut up and stand quietly. He was not interested in tigers, other than himself, and the only jackals he cared about were the two-legged variety. He whispered his instructions to Bannion. They would remain in the shadows, and stark still, for twenty minutes. If anyone was watching they should betray themselves by then. In the meantime Bannion, whispering into N3’s ear, was to fill him in on a few matters. Bannion obliged.

He had followed the Nick Carter case in the papers, of course, but only with cursory interest. Until tonight his interest in spies and secret agents had been nil — his chiefest concern being the next drink. Now he probed his alcohol-ridden memory as best he could.

Nick Carter — the man who looked like and was posing as, Nick Carter — had been arrested because of the alertness and loyalty of Sam Shelton’s maid, a Hindu girl. Hindus who worked for Americans were fairly safe in Karachi. The maid had admitted the man calling himself Nick Carter and had left him alone with Sam Shelton. Shelton, she told the police later, had appeared puzzled at first, but glad enough to see the man. They had gone into Shelton’s private office. Later the girl heard angry words and peeked through a keyhole just in time to see the stranger stab Shelton with a small stiletto. The girl had used her head, had not panicked, had called the police immediately from an upstairs phone.

By luck there had been a police car nearly on the spot They captured the killer after a terrific struggle in which a policeman was badly hurt. Once taken, however, the murderer had given no trouble. Not in the ordinary way. In another way he had been enormous trouble. He had identified himself as Nicholas Carter, an American agent, and had cheerfully confessed to killing Sam Shelton. Shelton, the man claimed, was a traitor who was about to defect. He had been killed on orders from Washington. To top it all off the killer demanded diplomatic immunity.

The real N3 whistled softly as he heard this latter. Clever devil! He wondered if the story had been rehearsed, or if the guy had simply made it up as he went along? Anyway it was fiendishly confusing — as the man had meant it to be. The cables and air waves between Washington and Karachi must have been blazing. Nick grinned sourly now as Bannion talked. He could almost smell the mutual distrust. And Hawk — his boss must be nearly out of his mind.

The best — or the worst — was yet to come. Day before yesterday the fake Nick Carter had escaped! Had been delivered from jail by a gang of masked and armed men who left three dead cops behind, plus one of their own. This man had turned out to be a Hindu thug well known to the police, which helped matters not at all.

Into this mess Nick Carter had walked! Unsuspecting. Hawk hadn’t known the details in time to warn him. Might not have warned him anyway— Nick had a job to do and he was on his own. It was a thing his chief was capable of — withholding information that might only complicate matters. It was a judgment call — and Hawk never erred on the side of making things safer and more comfortable for his agents. It was his theory that such solicitude only made them lax.

Nick could find but one small crumb of comfort — he was only two days behind the impostor now. It occurred to him that the man might still be in Karachi.

The twenty minutes were up. The moon ducked behind a cloud and it was very dark. Nick, walking on the grass, went to the white gate and vaulted it. Bannion was just behind him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay and watch,” Nick whispered. “Be careful. I don’t expect you to take any risks or get in any trouble for me. But if anyone comes snooping, a police car, or anyone, I’d appreciate a warning.”

“I whistle pretty good.”

Nick remembered the jackal. “Whistling’s too obvious. How’s your jackal howl?”

Bannion’s teeth flashed in a grin. “Not bad. I scare the kids with it sometimes.”

“Okay then. That’s it. After you signal, and if you think there is any danger, you take off! I don’t want you caught.” Bannion would talk, of course.

“I don’t want to get caught,” Bannion agreed. He chuckled. “Not until I get the rest of the money anyway. But every cop in Karachi knows my jeep.”

“We’ll risk that,” said Nick. “Now keep quiet and hide. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

The house was low and rambling, much like a ranch house in the States except that one wing had a second story. Maid’s room, Nick thought as he studied the house from the shelter of a hedge. It was dark and quiet. He wondered briefly what had happened to the maid. Cops still holding her? Gone to relatives in India?

A tiny censor in his brilliant, superbly trained brain began to click and glow. But for once he ignored it, so intent was he on his purpose.