Nick Carter - Double Identity

So much for that idea. The corpse was real enough. A woman’s body. His still roaming fingers plunged into a deep wound squarely between her breasts. No weapon, but Nick could guess at what had killed her. Stiletto!

The phony agent had taken his revenge on the Hindu maid. What a fool she had been, what fools the Karachi police, to let her stay on in the house. Probably she had figured she would be safer here than elsewhere in this angry Moslem city. Sad irony!

Her single filmy garment had been pulled up over her head and tied, so his sensitive fingers told him. Nick scowled in the blackness. It was easy to imagine what else the man had done to her. He had spiced his revenge, his waiting, with a little rape. Cold, clever, heartless devil! The krait in the drawer was proof of that, if more was needed. He had known that Nick would prowl that desk. Only that hadn’t worked and—

The moon came out again and sent a glancing bright beam through the slats of the jalousies. It saved Nick Carter’s life.

He saw the flash of the stiletto just in time. A.savage silver glint in the bad light, aimed at his leg just above the knee. A hamstringing stroke! The crippling stroke came from the bed, beneath the dead girl! In the same instant Nick heard the pock-pock of a silenced gun. Two shots. One of the slugs nipped at his thigh, but by that time he was in action, a cyclone attacking the figure still struggling out from under the dead girl.

The phony Nick Carter was just a trifle awkward at the wrong moment or the real Nick would have died then! As it was he felt flesh sear over his left ear as the gun pocked again. He dove at the bed, stabbing with his own stiletto, saving the Luger for a target he could see clearly. He was met by the flung body of the dead girl. The limp and bloody arms and legs cloyed about him like a net of flesh. The moonlight was fainter now, cloud shadowed, and Nick saw his man roll out of the bed on the far side. He was wearing something on his face, something ugly and snoutlike. A respirator! That was how he could breathe under the girl in the nest he had cut in the mattress!

The gun in the man’s hand pocked at him again. Miss. Nick went over the bed in a long sprawling dive, still not using the Luger. He wanted it to be the stiletto — or his hands on the bastard’s throat!

He cleared the bed but slipped to his knees. The man kicked him in the face and tried to aim with his gun at close range, trying to shoot Nick in the head. Nick came up roaring, his desire for silence forgotten. He smashed the gun aside with one arm and ripped his stiletto around in a vicious circle. His enemy skipped nimbly back, yet gasped in pain. Nick went boring in, the stiletto in front of him like a lance. The moon blacked out.

N3 leaped forward and was met by his enemy coming at him. The collision was great, both men shaken and gasping, grunting and sweating, as they locked and swayed. Both forgot the stilettos now and tried to bring their hand guns to bear. For a full minute they stood locked in a deadly embrace, each clutching the right wrist of the other, each trying to bring his weapon to bear an«‘ I keep the other’s at bay.

The enemy was a perfect match for Nick in everything but strength. He was as tall, as wide, as lean and ferocious, but he lacked Nick’s rock-ribbed muscles. Slowly, painfully, Nick began to bend the other’s arm down. His. finger tensed on the trigger of the Luger. He had no silencer and it was going to make a hell of a noise and that would bring the man’s companions and he just didn’t give a damn. He was going to kill this sonofabitch as quickly as he could. He was going to spread his nasty guts all over the room. A belly shot — the whole damned clip right through the big gut!

Slowly, inexorably, hating and sweating and yearning, he brought the Luger down. His other hand held the man’s gun wrist in a vise of steel. There could be no tricks now— he had him this time. He had him now! Vaguely, through his red daze of rage and frenzy, Nick Carter knew that he was doing this wrong. He should try to take the man alive, to take him prisoner and try, somehow try, to get him back to Washington. He would talk, this one, and he could tell them many things.

To hell with it! Kill!

The fake agent broke. His wrist and forearm collapsed. He squealed and tried to pull away from the Luger now digging into his belly. Nick pulled the trigger.

Nothing! Nick pulled the trigger again as the man fought like a maniac to break away. Nothing. Nick swore and got it then — somehow the safety had gotten knocked on again! He had done it — the phony! His sly fingers had found the safety and fiddled it as they struggled. Slimy clever bastard! But it wouldn’t do him any good.

But it did! As Nick flipped the safety off again his concentration wavered. His enemy slashed down with his freed hand at Nick’s left which was holding him prisoner. The savage blow broke Nick’s grip at last. The man dove for the open window and went through it in a crashing welter of torn jalousies. Nick cursed and forgot all caution and let the Luger spit through the window, the reports thunderous in the little bedroom. He leaped to the window in time to see a shadow roll off the roof and crash through the breezeway. Nick let the whole clip go with a lousy feeling that he was hitting nothing. He felt sick with failure. He had had the bastard — and let him get away! It was more than professional failure — it was personal failure! And, worse, the man had damned near killed him!

Time to go, he told himself. Go fast Nothing more to do here. I bungled it good!

A jackal howled nearby. The sound had a strange note of urgency, one that is not commonly associated with jackals. Nick grinned without a hint of mirth. Mike Bannion was getting nervous — and maybe was in trouble. Better go see.

He started to leave by the window, then thought better of it. They might still be about, though he doubted it. That phony had had enough for one night. As he went down the stairs in the dark house Nick had to admit, although grudgingly, that the fellow was tough. Good. But then why not— was not imitation the sincerest form of flattery?

Mike Bannion was already at the wheel of the jeep. He was nervous and with cause.

“There’s a patrol snooping around down the street,” he said as they swung away. “We’re lucky they aren’t on our necks now. Maybe they think all that shooting was Indian commandos or something — probably they’re mapping a battle plan. I hope they don’t hear this heap.”

“They can hear this heap in Chicago,” Nick said sourly.

Bannion patted the battered dashboard. “Maybe — but she’ll get us home if they give her a chance.”

Nick Carter yawned. He hurt all over. His feet were killing him and the flesh wounds were smarting, but the worst was the hurt to his pride. He had failed. That there would be another time, must be, was of no consolation now. He forced himself to think of it as a professional must — some you won and some you lost! It was a mark of his caliber that never once did he think of how near he had been to losing everything.

Wearily he lit a cigarette and gave the pack to Bannion.

They were well away from the Mauripur district now, running down black and smelly alleys, and the danger seemed to be over. For the moment.

Bannion said: “What in hell was going on in there? It sounded like a shooting gallery.”

Nick was curt. “Part of the deal is that you ask no questions. You see anybody come out? See anyone at all?”

“Not a soul.”

N3 nodded. Maybe the man hadn’t had friends after all. Maybe he was a loner, like Nick himself. That would be in character.

“It was a tie game,” he said savagely, almost to himself. “I’ll get the bastard the next round!”