Nick Carter - Double Identity

A sound alerted him and he disappeared from the window like a ghost. His double was coming. Second encounter!

This time it was no contest

Nick took his alter ego from behind with a vicious chopping blow across the neck. The man went down like a stone, out cold. Nick dragged the inert body into the shelter of dripping bushes and began to strip it. The only light in the house now was a soft rosy glow from the bedroom. How nice. Like a candle in the window. She must be getting impatient.

Won’t be long now, baby, N3 promised as he stripped the man. He was hoping to take Beth Cravens by surprise, in the dark, but if she did turn on a bright light he wanted to be able to pass as himself. Himself! Nick shook his head. This mixup was making him screwy.

He risked the pencil light to inspect the unconscious man’s features. He felt a little sense of shock — it was like looking in a mirror. The man was so damned near a perfect ringer — if you missed the tiny pink surgical scars and a certain mean cast in the mouth that Nick did not normally have.

Dressed well, too. Nick slipped on the expensive suit, a bit wet and muddy now, and the fine shirt and tie, the good shoes, the fawn Burberry. He transferred his black plastic holster to the new belt, put the Luger in it, and was ready to go. He left the impostor bound with Nick’s belt and strips torn from his old OD shirt and trousers. Should hold him long enough.

What to do with the man’s weapons was a problem for a moment. Nick ran the flash over them quickly. Duplicates of his own. A 9mm Luger, stripped down, and the stiletto — a trifle longer than his own. No one was perfect. He took the clip from the Luger and slipped it in his pocket, then flung the weapons as far as he could into the night. Metal clanked on the stony hillside.

As he started for the house the light in the bedroom went out. Nick whistled a little tune deep in his throat. He felt good. Keyed and on edge. Ready for anything. He was looking forward to this — he remembered how she had looked before the mirror.

He didn’t want to kill her, though she deserved it. She was a betrayer of her country — but such a lovely creature. He knew the Chinese would be merciless with her for failing, and he hated to think how they would deal with her. He must give her a chance to consider defecting. But he would have to do it fast. Climb into bed with her before she could get suspicious. That it would be dangerous he took for granted, as he always did. She might shoot him on sight — or later. A little grin crinkled Nick’s mouth— what a hell of a way to get shot. And he must be careful not to betray himself until the last moment — he could not hope to keep up the deception forever, of course. A single error might give him away. He didn’t know the layout of the house, didn’t know about doors or closets or the kitchen or where anything was. It would be like running a strange obstacle course in the dark.

His voice would pass, he thought. At the parking lot the man had spoken nearly like himself — Nick had wondered at the time where the Chinese spy masters had gotten the recordings or tapes. That might bear looking into — if he ever got back.

He went in a side door, the way Beth Cravens had. He used his tiny light, shielding it with his hand, hoping she wouldn’t see it from the bedroom. He couldn’t afford to fall over anything — be a dead giveaway.

The woman called from the bedroom. “Nick? Darling? What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for ages.”

In his own voice, blurred just a bit by what he hoped she would think was alcohol, Nick said: “I’ve been waiting for that turtle bastard at the hotel — he never did come. I spent too much time in the bar, too. I think I’m a little drunk, honey.” He slurred his words.

Beth Cravens laughed, but her voice sharpened. “That wasn’t very smart, darling! You know you shouldn’t drink too much until this job is over. We can’t afford to take chances with this man.”

Nick was oriented by now. He headed for the bedroom and her voice, taking off his clothes as he went. “I’m not that drunk,” he said, hoping she would think he was. He laughed loudly to cover the sound of his clothes coming off. “I’m not as drunk as you think I am!”

“Well — I hope you’re not too drunk. You know—”

“I’m not.” He was naked now, carrying the stiletto and the Luger. He stooped and shoved them under the bed. What a woman — it hadn’t been over two hours since she had been bouncing around in the car. Now she was avid again!

“You sound sort of funny,” Beth said. He heard her twist and reach for the bedside light. He slid beneath the cool sheets and pulled her to him, clamping his mouth over hers. For a moment she was tense, questioning, then her flesh betrayed her and she slid her tongue into his mouth.

He wasted no time on preliminaries. Not only were they dangerous, but there was so little time.

Beth Cravens welcomed him. She lifted herself to engulf him. Without a trace of tenderness, and yet without hate or malice, he took her. Perhaps a little brutally, but Beth did not appear to object. It was she, in the end, who turned to frenzy and began to inflict pain in her ecstasy.

She began to whimper and claw at his back. He felt her nails rake him, scraping away flesh. She followed his every movement, her moist body glued to his as though she could never bear to part with him.

To Nick she seemed insatiable. She was a trial even to his great endurance. But at last Beth Cravens gave a long convulsive sigh and ceased to move. But not for long. She reached up and wrapped her soft arms around his neck and smothered his mouth with moist kisses. It was, he guessed, her way of telling him not to go away — the best was yet to come.

He knew it was dangerous to linger. He must talk to her now.

Suddenly the bedside light went on and she was staring at him with what might have been fear and awe and amazement — and gratitude? The little automatic in her hand was rock steady on his muscle-corded belly. She had had the gun under her pillow!

“Who are you?” Her voice trembled but the gun did not. She was sitting up, naked from the waist, the fine white breasts bobbling as she fought to control her breathing. Her blonde hair was in wild disarray and her red mouth swollen and smeared. Her face was pink, but the gray eyes were cold. Nick could see the wild beat of a pulse in her milky throat.

N3 smiled at her. He felt relaxed and good and sure of himself. Let her think she had the upper hand. Anytime he felt like it he would take the pea-shooter away from her.

“I’m Nick Carter,” said Nick Carter. “The real McCoy. Not an imitation. Surprised?”

She took it in her stride. He admired her nerve and intelligence. She believed him at once. Then she smiled and moved away a little, her finger tense on the trigger of the little black pistol. “So you did come. I thought you would but I couldn’t be sure. I only know what the turtle tells me— and he’s not very reliable when he’s under hypnosis. He’s really not such a good subject.”

Nick grinned at her. “I bet they think so in Peking.”

“Yes, but they were wrong. They did it under lab conditions — I have to do it in the field.” She was wearing a little silver locket on a fine chain. Absently she began to twirl it, her gray eyes huge and steady on Nick.

The man from AXE stretched luxuriously. “You’re wasting your time, sweetheart. I don’t hypnotize.” No AXE man did. It was a rudimentary requirement for the service.

Her smile had a tinge of pseudo-sweetness in it. The eyes were not quite so cold. But the pistol was as steady as ever. “This is really better than what we had in mind at first,” she said. “My orders have been changed. Peking doesn’t want you killed now — they want you taken alive. They’ve got big plans for you.”