Nick Carter: The Living Death

"I don't believe it!" she gasped over the phone.

"Believe it," I said. "I'm at the Gore Hotel, really only passing through. I thought we might squeeze in a few hours."

"Damn it all!" she swore. Denny could swear like a Grenadier Guard and make it sound terribly proper. "I've a dinner dance I must attend — the school where I teach."

"You're a schoolteacher now?"

"It's a riding school," she said quickly, "But I'll sneak away early — as close to ten as I can."

"Wonderful," I said. "I'll be waiting in my room."

"Nick!" she said, adding hurriedly, "How are you? Still the same?"

"I've changed," I laughed. "I'm older, more mature. I'm that thoroughly likable chap you wrote about. Isn't that what you want?"

"I'm not sure," she said, thoughtfulness creeping into her voice. "Besides, I don't believe you. Oh, Nick, it'll be so wonderful seeing you again. Tonight — ten-ish."

I walked from the phone booth seeing only a tall, regal girl with deep red hair, auburn, she always called it, framing a peaches-and-cream complexion. I went directly to dinner at a fine restaurant, and though I don't especially enjoy eating alone, I thoroughly enjoyed the meal. Perhaps because I wasn't alone. Denny and memories of her were an almost physical presence. It was a damn good dinner, too, Cock-a-leekie and roast ribs of beef with Yorkshire pudding, topped by a good brandy. I returned to my room, stretched out on the bed and briefly reviewed the contact procedures to be followed later in the night.

The woman was to phone me at two a.m. and use the identification code she had set up herself. Once that was cleared, she would give me further instructions about where to meet her. The brandy was still with me and I closed my eyes. I guess I'd walked more than I'd realized during the day, for I fell asleep almost instantly. The ringing of the phone woke me. Instantly glancing at my watch, I saw that it was just ten o'clock. I answered, expecting Denny's voice. It was a girl but it sure wasn't Denny. In fact, to one expecting Denny's precise, impeccable English, the voice was a rude shock to the ear — flat, somewhat nasal, the distinctive dialect I recognized as a Liverpool accent. It has often been said that an Englishman's accent reveals far more than the part of the country he hails from; it is a fairly accurate guide to his educational, social and economic background. In a half-dozen words, my caller had revealed herself as what the English call a working-class girl, or perhaps something a little less.

"Mr. Carter?" the voice said hesitantly. "Can you come to the lobby? There's been a change in plans."

"In what plans?" I asked, my naturally suspicious nature leaping to the fore.

"In the plans for your meeting," she said. "I'm down here in the lobby. Can you come down? Time is important."

"Who are you?" I questioned.

"Nobody important," she said. "My name is Vicky. I've been sent to drive you to a new meeting place. Please come down."

I agreed to go down and found her still standing beside the house phones, a round-busted little thing, a manufactured blonde, with a sexy shape beneath a too-tight, red dress. She had a round, youthful face and I guessed her age at not more than twenty-one. Her round breasts were made even higher and rounder by a platform bra that pulled the dress almost to the breaking point. Beneath the makeup and paint there was an air of underlying scrounginess that refused to be hidden. Her hands nervously fingered a small, shiny leather purse. I didn't see her as a trollop. She merely looked like one, a not uncommon condition with many girls. I saw her eyes, light blue, look me over expertly and automatically, involuntary approval in her glance.

"What's this all about, Vicky?" I smiled down at her.

"I don't know anything," she said. "I only know I'm to drive you someplace and I was told to tell you there'd been a change in plans. They told me you'd understand."

I turned it over in my mind and had to come up with one conclusion. This whole bit had been a weird one from the beginning, shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. No one knew what, why or who. The change in plans fitted right into the picture. Just to check her again, I tossed her another one.

"A woman sent you?" I asked sharply.

"A man," she answered with hesitation. I pierced her with a speculative gaze which she returned evenly.

"That's all I know, luv," she said, a touch of defiance in her tone. I believed her. She was a messenger. Whoever was behind this wouldn't tell her anything beyond her immediate instructions.

"Okay, doll," I said, taking her by the arm. "I'll go with you. I just want to stop at the desk for a second."

I'd intended to leave a note for Denny but before we got to the front desk I saw Denny enter, radiantly lovely in a white satin evening gown and rich, red velvet cape. She saw me at the same instant I saw her and I saw her brown eyes take in Vicky at my side. Her lips, finely edged, grew tight and her eyes narrowed. I could see her temper skyrocketing. It had always been an instantaneous thing and I had to admit it looked as though I was on my way out on a date with Vicky.

"I can explain," I said, attempting to head off the explosion. "I'll call you tomorrow and explain the whole thing to you."

She had stopped directly in front of us and her eyes flashed as she looked at me. I could see that beneath the anger there was hurt.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something absolutely brilliant by then," she said, her words wrapped in ice. She always looked so gorgeous when she was angry. "But don't bother calling because I won't be listening. You haven't changed a bit, I see. You're still a tomcat on two legs."

"Denny, wait!" I called after her but she was already stalking out the door after throwing me one of those I-might-have-known looks. I glanced at Vicky and cursed inwardly. There was no question what I wanted to do and no question what I had to do. I hustled the little blonde through the door, noting the fleeting expression of sly, bitchy pleasure that had crossed her face. Even though she hadn't really a damn thing to do with it, she enjoyed the role of superiority over another female. It was a reflex action, a built-in part of the female organism.

"She your bird?" she commented with studied blandness. "Bit of a problem explaining this to her, I fancy."

"She's not my bird" I said gruffly. "She's an old friend. Where's your car?"

She pointed to a little Sunbeam Imp standing at the curb and I slid in beside her, feeling as though I might split the sides on it.

"Lord," Vicky exclaimed, glancing at me. "You fill up a seat, you do." There was a hint of interest in her glance again, a glance which said that under other conditions, another time, another place, she'd be more than friendly. I sat quietly, watching London go by. She was following Victoria embankment, through the inner City, past Billingsgate Market and the old Tower, still grim and forbidding. She paid no attention to her dress, which was riding up high on her lap. Her legs, a little too short of calf and thick of thigh, would be stubby and dumpy in another five or more years. Right now, they had enough youth and firmness to exude a raw sexuality. As we drove on, I tossed a few more questions at her, just to see what they might elicit.

"Am I going to meet the woman now?" I asked casually.

"Lord, you're a persistent one," she exclaimed with some heat. "I told you I don't know nothing at all and that's the bloody truth of it."

"Little jumpy yourself, aren't you, Vicky?" I grinned.

"What if I am?" she retorted. "I'm just doin' a job, that's all. Throwing a bloody lot of questions at me isn't helping any."

She turned the Sunbeam when we reached a large sign reading: "Royal Albert Docks." She swung the little car into the narrow streets of the first of the dock sections, streets that led past warehouses, rows of crates and bales and vessels ablaze with lights illuminating the night unloading. The London docks, unlike any others in the world, did not jut out from the Thames but consisted of five huge, man-made areas set back from the river and reached by narrow passageways. In these vast complexes, London could accommodate over a hundred oceangoing liners and cargo vessels at one time. Vicky threaded the Sunbeam through the sections alive with lights and activities, turning into an area that was dark, deserted and silent. The vessels moored there were equally silent and dark, obviously out of service. I felt a warning chill sweep over me, the hairs on the back of my neck starting to rise. It was a reliable sign of trouble and danger. There was no explaining it. Call it extra-sensory perception, sixth sense, experience, give it any name you like, but it was a built-in part of me that defied rational explanation. I was damned glad for it, don't get me wrong, but every now and then even I wondered what made it operate so unfailingly. Right now, for example, there was no reason for it to start ticking. It was only logical that the kind of meeting that was planned would be held in some dark, out-of-the-way spot. The whole business, by its very nature, would be a dark and secret thing. It was to be expected, and yet I felt that sense of impending danger, a premonition that it was twelve o'clock and all was not so well. I felt for Wilhelmina, my Luger, safely in my shoulder holster. It was reassuring. Along my right forearm, in its leather sheath, Hugo, the thin stiletto, added a further touch of reassurance.