Macao (KM031), page 5
part #31 of Killmaster Series
More pressure. The huge arms moved slowly in like a pneumatic vise. Nick would have groaned if he’d had the breath. Something had to give soon—a rib, all his ribs, his entire chest. The agony was becoming unbearable. He would have to use the gun after all. The silenced pistol he had lifted from the girl’s purse.
His fingers were so numb that for a moment he couldn’t find the trigger. Finally he did find it and pulled it. There was a plop of sound and the little gun kicked in his pocket. The giant kept squeezing him. Nick got roaring mad. The damned fool didn’t even know he had been shot! He pulled the trigger again and again. The gun kicked and squirmed and there was a smell of powder.
The Negro dropped Nick, who fell to his knees, panting for breath. He watched, gasping, fascinated, as the man took another step back. He seemed to have forgotten all about Nick. He stared down at his chest and beltline, where little red splotches were leaking from his clothes. Nick did not think he had seriously injured the man; he had not hit a vital spot, and shooting a hulk like this with a .22 was like shooting an elephant with a slingshot.
It was the blood, his own blood, that frightened and subdued the big man. The AXEman, still fighting for breath, trying to get up, stared in amazement as the Negro searched among his clothes for the little bullet bites. His hands were slippery with blood now and he looked as if he were about to burst into tears. He stared at Nick in reproach.
“Bad,” said the giant. “Most bad—you shoot. I bleed. Bad.”
A shout and the sound of a car being reversed savagely aroused Nick from his stupor. He realized that only seconds had passed. The smaller man had leaped from the black car and was dragging the man with the broken knee into it. At the same time he barked commands in the strange language to the giant. It was full daylight now and Nick saw that the small man had a mouthful of gold teeth.
The little man glowered at Nick as he pushed the crippled man into the rear of the car. “Better you run, mister. You win for now, but maybe we see you again, huh? I think so. If you are smart you not talk to police.”
The huge Negro was still staring at the blood and muttering to himself. The smaller man snapped at him in the Swahili-like language and he obeyed as a child might, climbing back into the car.
The driver got behind the wheel. He snapped a menacing salute at Nick. “See you some other time, mister.” The car roared away. Nick noted that it was a Bentley and that the license plate was so encrusted with dirt that it could not be read. Intentionally so, of course. He sighed, felt his ribs tenderly, and began to reassemble himself. What the giant Negro had left of him. It did not appear to be much. He took a deep breath. Owwwwww—that hurt. What a brute!
He glanced to his left in time to see a pair of helmets enter the far end of the street. Bobbies. Now they showed!
Time to fold his tent and vanish. Nick turned to his right and began to saunter.
He would go back to the flat and ask some questions. He would get some answers, too, if he had to choke them out of her. If he must he would hold her under an icy shower until she screamed for mercy. He would pour black coffee down her until she gagged.
He walked until he found an entrance to the underground, where he caught an Inner Circle train to Kensington Gore. He thought of the Princess again. Maybe, about now, she was awakening in a strange bed, terrified and in the throes of a terrible hangover. The thought pleased him. Let her suffer a little. He felt his ribs again. Ohhh. She was, in a way, responsible for all this.
Then Killmaster laughed aloud. So unabashedly did he laugh that a man sitting a little down the car, reading a morning paper, gave him an odd glance. Nick paid him no attention.
That was all nonsense, of course. It was—whatever it was—all his fault. For sticking his nose in. He had been bored to death, wanting action, and now he was getting it. Without even calling Hawk. Maybe he wouldn’t call Hawk, just handle this little bit of extra-curricular fun and games all on his own. He had picked up a drunken girl and stumbled into a murder and had been worked over by some Africans.
Killmaster began to hum a little French tune that had to do with naughty ladies. His ribs didn’t hurt any more. He felt good. This could turn out to be fun for once—no spies, no counter-espionage, no Hawk and no official restrictions. Just good old-fashioned murder and a pretty, utterly lovely girl, who had to be saved. Plucked from the burning, as it were.
Nick Carter laughed again. This could turn out to be fun, playing Ned Rover or Tom Swift. Up to a point. Ned and Tom never got to go to bed with their ladies, and Nick couldn’t imagine not going to bed with his.
First, though, the lady must talk. She was in this murder bit up to her pretty fanny, though she couldn’t have killed Blacker herself, in person.
Yet the wish had been there, as witness red ink scrawled on a card. And the gun, the .22 that had saved his life or, at least, his ribs.
Nick began to look forward to this next visit with the Princess da Gama. He would be sitting there, right by the bed, with a cup of black coffee or tomato juice, when she opened those green eyes and asked the usual question: “Where am I?”
The man down the aisle was peering over his paper at Nick Carter. The man appeared bored, also tired and sleepy. His eyes were puffy, but very alert. He wore a pair of cheap rumpled slacks and a garish yellow sport shirt with purple figuring. His socks were thin and black and he wore brown leather sandals with open toes. His chest hair, where it was revealed by the wide V of the shirt, was scant and touched with gray. He was hatless, his hair badly in need of cutting.
When Nick Carter got off at Kensington Gore the man with the newspaper followed as unobtrusively as a shadow.
Chapter 4
SHE WAS GONE. The scent of her was still in his bedroom, the indentation of her body on the sheets, the flowered coverlet rucked carelessly back. But no Princess.
Nick Carter surveyed the bedroom for a moment, shook his head in wonderment, then went into the tiny kitchen to make coffee. She was a pretty rugged gal to be able to snap out of it so fast, to get on her beautiful legs and function after the load of booze she’d been carrying.
While the coffee perked he took a fast shower and shaved. Could she have been faking it, for some recondite reason of her own? As he toweled his big, lean, superbly muscled body he decided not. He had seen a lot of drunks in his day—and that gal had been drunk!
As he put on a robe and went into the kitchen the answer came to him. The vial of pills in her purse. He had noticed them when he’d lifted the card and the little gun. Probably pep pills of some sort—amphetamines,—which, if she gulped four or five, would give her juice enough to function for a few hours.
Nick poured a little Scotch in his coffee and sat staring at the kitchen table and smoking a long, gold-tipped cigarette, a mixture of Turkish and Virgina made especially for him in Istanbul. He scowled at the blue-gray smoke coiling up. God damn it to hell! He was disappointed. He had, well, almost had, begun to make a few plans for himself and the Princess. He had decided not to call Hawk, at least for a time. God damn it again! The thing had gotten into his blood now, was beginning to intrigue him—not only the girl, but the murdered Blacker, the Negroes who had attacked him, the whole screwy setup. It made a welcome change from the official routine of killing and trying to keep from being killed.
Nick Carter, amateur sleuth!
He smiled at himself. Hawk, if he knew about it, would have him committed.
Nick finished his coffee and went back to the bedroom. He took a large suitcase from a closet and pried up the loose floor board under it. This was habit asserting itself, mere professional precaution, given the events of the morning.
From beneath the floor board he took the Luger, wrapped in oily rags, and the stiletto in its chamois arm sheath. Wilhelmina, bitch gun, and little Hugo, death needle. They would be his friends, would stick, when all else, and everybody, had forsaken him.
Killmaster sloughed off the robe and adjusted the sheath on his right forearm The spring mechanism was delicate—a faint twitch of his wrist, just so, and the hilt of the stiletto flashed into his palm ready for throwing or stabbing.
There was a worn-out dartboard on one wall of the bedroom. Nick turned his back on it, took a few steps, crooked his wrist, turned and threw without appearing to aim. The stiletto quivered in the bull’s eye. The AXEman nodded. At least he hadn’t lost that skill. He replaced the stiletto and began to field strip the Luger, tossing the parts oil the mussed bed. He gazed at the long hollow where the girl had lain. He sighed. Yes, it might have been good.
Nick reassembled the Luger, put it in the pocket of his robe, and went into the living room. He picked up the phone, not bothering with the book, and asked the operator to get him the Aldgate Hotel.
The desk came on in a nancy voice. “Aldgate—good morning.”
“The Princess da Gama, please.” She must be there. Where else would she have gone? One answer came immediately— fourteen Half Crescent Mews.
They were taking too long to put the call through. That, and two distinct clicks on the line warned Nick. They were stalling and the line was tapped. Well, well! You never knew, did you?
He was surprised when a heavy male voice answered from the Princess’ suite. It had simply not occurred to him that she might have a husband or a lover, perhaps even a brother.
Nick said: “Let me speak to the Princess, please.”
Silence. Heavy breathing. Then: “The Princess is not here at the moment. Who is this calling?” The English was good, but slightly accented. Italian, Nick decided, or maybe French or Portuguese. It was hard to tell at first.
It was Nick’s turn to stall. He did a little heavy breathing himself. They had a trace going by now, of course, and he didn’t care. Let them trace it. One way of getting them out in the open.
The man said: “Hello—hello—are you still there?” He sounded anxious.
“Still here,” Nick said sweetly. “And I still want to talk to the Princess.” He had placed the accent now. Must be Portuguese. It figured. The Princess was Portuguese.
“She isn’t here,” the man said. “As a matter of fact we’re a little worried about her, sir. What did you say your name was?”
Killmaster ignored that worn-out gambit. He said: “You don’t know where she is, then?”
“No,” the man said. “We would like to know. It’s most important that we do know. We’re afraid that something may have happened to her. If you are a friend of hers and know where she is we would greatly appreciate it if—”
“I just bet you would,” said Nick. He hung up. Maybe they’d had time to trace the call, maybe not. He didn’t particularly care at the moment.
He poured himself a small Scotch, went to the bay window and stood looking down into a small square directly beneath him. For some reason known only to long dead Englishmen, the little rectangle of concrete and greenery was known as Needlework Place. It was hemmed by a rusty iron fence. There were flower beds and paths, and a few impoverished trees struggled from the cement. Already, at this early hour, there was one nanny patrolling the paths with her pram.
A man was seated on one of the green benches reading a paper. Nick glanced at the man casually, thinking only that here was a man with sense enough to enjoy the cool of the early morning. It was going to be another sweating day and—
His eyes came sharply back to the man on the bench. His professional skin crawled in warning. He had seen the guy before! Where? Under what circumstances?
In a moment he had it. The subway, of course. The man had been reading a paper then, too, and had looked at Nick when he laughed. Killmaster stepped back from the window, his eyes narrowed now, and studied the man with great care.
No hat. Needs a haircut. Slacks and loud sports shirt, black socks, brown sandals. In his forties—with all that hair he could be older and look younger—and he looked as if he could use a square meal and some sleep. Thin, nearly emaciated, yet with an impression of wiriness.
Nick got another cigarette, lit it, then went back to the window and stood staring at the man reading the paper. The AXEman grinned. He must know that paper by heart now.
Nick stepped farther back from the window as the man folded his paper and put it on the bench beside him. He took a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. With utmost casualness, without appearing in the least interested, he gave Nick’s block of flats a good long scrutiny.
The AXE agent nodded. The guy was pretty good, but working under difficulties. His clothes were wrong for this part of London and this time of day. Probably couldn’t be helped—he must have picked Nick up at Blacker’s place or shortly afterward and had had no choice but to tail him back here. That meant he must have witnessed the fracas with the Negroes, but hadn’t wanted to interfere. Why should he? He wasn’t obviously, interested in the Negroes at all. He was interested in Nick Carter. That was why he was hanging around, sticking out like a sore thumb and praying for a relief man and someone to cover the rear of the flats. The AXEman could almost sympathize: he had been in like spots himself.
He continued to smoke and stare at the man, who had now gone back to pretending to read his paper. Killmaster took it a step farther. The man was not really interested in Nick. He was interested in the Princess. He thought she was here, now, with Nick.
Killmaster stubbed out his cigarette and lit another, freshened his drink—it was really too early to drink but to hell with it, the stuff never bothered him anyway—and paced the living room, glancing out every now and then at the man on the green bench.
Fact— The man who answered the phone in the Princess’ suite had had what might be a Portuguese accent. He had been most anxious to locate the Princess.
Fact— The man on the bench, watching Nick’s flat, looked like and could be Portuguese.
Fact— The Princess Morgan da Gama was Portuguese. She was also social and wealthy, though no doubt something of a pariah, and was a sort of jet-set drunk and, very likely, a drug addict.
Fact— A man named Theodore Blacker, about whom Nick knew absolutely nothing, had been very messily killed and his own genitals jammed down his throat.
Fact— The Princess had been somehow mixed up with Blacker. She had had his card in her purse, with a frenzied kill wish scrawled on it, and she had been carrying an automatic pistol with a silencer. You didn’t carry a silencer just for protection—you carried it because you intended to shoot somebody and you wanted to do it quietly.
Fact— Three Negroes, speaking a language akin to Swahili but not, had tried to kidnap him. One of them, with gorilla blood in him, had damned near broken all his ribs.
Killmaster frowned. Put it all together and it sure as hell didn’t spell Mother. If it spelled anything at all, which he doubted, it spelled Portuguese. That was the only thread of consistency in the whole mess—Portuguese. But how and why and who and—
It happened so fast that he was nearly caught napping. He saw the taxi pull up to the curb and the girl get out. She fumbled in the white alligator purse for money. She looked unsteady on her feet, swaying a bit, holding to the taxi door as she paid the driver.
Nick saw the man on the bench get up quickly, toss away the paper and start walking across the little square toward the taxi. There was determination in his manner and he was moving fast, lithely, like a skinny cat after a tired mouse.
The decision had to be made instantly and without real thought. The watcher had agent of some sort written all over him. The voice at the Aldgate had also shouted cop, agent, counter-agent, whatever. A man had been murdered and the girl, somehow, some way, had blood on her. Up to now it had been fun and games and he could still back out. Let them take her?
Killmaster was pounding down the stairs, the decision made without conscious volition on his part. His hand closed on the butt of the Luger, cold and heavy in the pocket of his robe.
The girl, panic on her face, was running, half staggering, up the dozen steps to the glass outer door of the flats. The taxi had pulled away. The man on the bench was running now, sprinting. He vaulted the iron gate of the little park, clearing it easily with scissoring long legs, and pounded across the street toward the steps. The girl glanced back, her mouth contorted. She slipped on the worn stone, ripping a stocking and drawing blood, then was up again and running up the stairs.
The man was at the first step as Nick pushed open the heavy glass door. The man shouted at the running girl. “Pare, Princess! Pare! Faca o favor de pare!”
Polite bastard, thought Nick as he swung open the big door, gripped the girl’s arm and pulled her into the vestibule. He kept the Luger in his pocket. The man had made no move to produce a weapon. He slammed the door in the man’s face. The girl slumped against him, panting, clutching at him to keep herself from falling. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please help me. Don’t let that man get me.”
It occurred to Nick that she did not know who he was. She had never seen him when she was sober. He gave her a little push. “Up to the first landing and wait. Go!”
She obeyed. Nick turned back to the glass door, which he was holding easily against all the thin man’s efforts to push open. The AXEman slipped on the lock and smiled coldly at the man outside. It was direct confrontation, separated only by a quarter of an inch of glass. They had a good long look at each other.
There was frustration in the thin man’s face, but an apparent lack of rage. Instead Nick could read resignation and patience. For a long moment their eyes met and locked, staring through the glass. The man’s eyes were a muddy brown, hooded, the nose razor sharp and slightly hooked, the lips thin and bloodless. He resembled, at the moment, a baffled but very patient hawk.
Killmaster said, loudly enough to be heard through the glass, “Que deseja?” It was a chance to check that out, once and for all.
A look of surprise flitted over the thin face, vanishing immediately. He replied in Portuguese. “I must speak with the Princess, sir. It is of the utmost importance.”
