by Nick Carter
Rosalind spoke eventually.
"You really think they were on the level? I mean… kosher crooks?"
"Just about positive." Nick nodded, letting the Jag pick up speed. "I'll check them at the first opportunity, but I can feel in my bones that they're honest-to-god thugs. Occupational hazard of being filthy rich. And obvious. And shady. By the way, why 'Rob'?"
"Oh, I don't know," Rosalind said uncertainly. "You don't seem like a Bob, somehow."
"Hmm." For some reason, that reminded him of Carla. "Look, I have a hot date with that Langley woman tomorrow. Do you think you can…?"
"Oh, I'll manage," she interrupted. "Didn't waste any time, did you? Don't you think it's a little soon for you to start playing around with other women?" For some reason she looked annoyed.
"It is a bit," he admitted. "But I'll always come back to my one true love — who keeps me locked out of the bedroom."
"Huh!" Rosalind curled her lip, but her eyes were thoughtful.
* * *
The deep orange rays of the late afternoon sun fell across the bay and slowly became absorbed in the darkening water. Nick and Carla, sunsoaked and flecked with salt, lay on the vast beach towel that she had brought. Lunch at the club had been brief; the afternoon on the incredibly secluded beach was lazy and long. Every once in a while they enjoyed a small libation from the flask she had provided.
Once Nick asked: "What is it, an aphrodisiac?"
She smiled at him under lowered lids and answered: "Only if you find it so."
Now he lay back, looking out through the palm leaves. It was the most secluded beach he'd ever seen. They had swum and laughed and drunk, and only a few times had they seen any people anywhere near. They had talked about almost everything except the thing that mattered to each of them. Carla's eyes were alive and her face Was flushed with the sun, and perhaps with something else.
"Come on, Robert. One more quick swim before the sun goes down!"
Laughing happily, he pulled her to her feet. Together, they ran down to the water. Nick swam ahead and ducked below, holding his breath and waiting for her. Strong arms reached for her as she glided by, and the two of them laughed until they gasped for breath. Then they ran back across the strip of beach to their sheltered place between the trees.
"Let's take off these wet things and towel ourselves dry," said Carla gaily. "And then let's lie here and watch the colors go out of the sky."
Nick stared at her. "You mean…?"
She laughed at his surprise. "Why not? We're adults, aren't we? Don't you sometimes like to feel that your whole body's free to breathe the sea air, to soak it in?" She was pulling down her straps as she spoke. "You needn't worry — no one will see us. Of course, if you don't want to…"
"Of course I want to," said Nick. "It's just that I'm one of those inhibited Americans one hears so much about." A little awkwardly and under cover of a towel, he stripped off his trunks, staring fixedly at a low-hanging palm frond, knowing with certainty what was going to happen next.
She lay waiting on the towel, beautiful and bare.
He lay down beside her. For a moment she watched the clouds in the evening sky. Then she turned to him and put one cool hand on his face.
"Robert… don't you like me a little?"
"Of course I do, Carla. More than a little," he made himself murmur. "You're beautiful, you're exciting. And you're married. If there's anything I don't like, it's a husband lurking in the background." But his gently stroking hand took the sting from his words.
"It's not a marriage! It's not a marriage at all!" she said furiously. "And why should you care that I'm married, if I don't?"
That was a hard one to answer. He made time by pulling her down to him and kissing her eloquently.
"Carla… it's nothing to do with being prudish. But I'm cautious. For your sake and mine, I don't want angry husbands baying at our heels. Do you know where is he right now, for instance? He may have had you followed."
"Ha!" She made a scornful sound. "He wouldn't dare. He knows he'd lose me for good if he tried that. Anyway, he's out of town."
"But you don't know where, do you? At least, that's what you said. Surely you must know…"
She made an abrupt move away from him with an expression so angered that he knew he had to change his tune or he would lose whatever small thread he now held in his hands.
"Carla! Don't you see how much I'm attracted to you? I can't help asking you these things. Carla… please." He propped himself up on one tanned elbow and bent over her. "God — you're so lovely." He sighed and let his eyes half close. His hand traced the soft lines of her neck and chin… slid down to feel the contours of one high, pointed breast… slid lower and felt silky softness. He wondered when she'd stop him.
Her body writhed beneath him.
The colors went from the sky and a soft darkness took their place.
His lips retraced the course plotted by his fingers.
"Bite me. Bite me!" she begged, teeth clenched.
He bit her. Several times, in various places.
Then she pulled his head down and kissed him hungrily, expertly. Her fingers wandered over his body. Her half-closed eyes gleamed in the half-light, her breath came quickly. Despite himself, he felt his own pulse quicken. She seemed to be transformed by her growing passion into a vibrant and lovely being. The back of his mind reminded him of Pierce Langley, the man. Another corner told him coldly that this woman was unfaithful by her own choice, and this might be his first, best step toward the missing agent. The front of his mind was an unthinking blur.
Nick felt her legs part beneath him, felt the tautness of his own body sliding as if into a dark, unknown well that became a rippling pond and then a swirling whirlpool. He let himself go, all of himself but that one segment that was always an agent on the alert for the dangerous and unexpected. Its crude voice told him now that he must hurry, that this would be a helluva spot to get caught in.
She gasped and bit. Her body shook and twisted with its need. Her legs scissored around him and her muscles strained to draw from him all the strength that he could give. There was no need for him to pretend a tenderness he did not feel; she gave herself violently and without restraint, demanding from him the same violence and animal intensity. In her own way she was magnificent — utterly abandoned, inordinately accomplished, ferociously physical.
It seemed to him that he was drowning beneath the waves of her desire, even though he knew he was causing the turbulence himself. Dimly, he thought of Roz, and for some reason he felt a sort of hatred for himself and for the woman who convulsed beneath him.
At last he surfaced, gasping; and at last she drew a long deep breath and released it — clutching him fiercely as though she herself were drowning — in a series of short, tortured groans of ecstasy.
Then she lay almost quiet, sighing and quivering.
He forced himself to murmur soft, meaningless things, although his impulse was to grab his clothes and run. But a moment later she opened her eyes and they were alive with happiness and content. And then he felt like cursing himself and begging her forgiveness.
"Oh, God…" she said, and sighed again. "So strong. So sudden. Next time…" She caught her breath, and her eyes stared into his. "There will be a next time, won't there?"
Finally, he forced himself to act. This was his cue.
He slowly moved away from her, knowing that her appetite was not satisfied but whetted, that her desire for his body would grow and keep on growing. He knew as surely as if she'd spent the afternoon telling him.
"There will be, won't there, Robert?"
He sighed gustily. Shame — either for Robert Milbank or Nick Carter, he wasn't sure which — made him get to his feet and pull a towel around his waist.
"Carla. Carla, listen to me." He dropped to his knees near her. His voice was firm and reasonable, gently pleading. "You've got to tell me about your husband. Not because I want to pry. Not because I don't trust you. But because I simply
don't like the idea of not knowing where he is. I don't like the idea of Rodrigo, either. Don't you understand?"
She had stiffened slightly and opened her mouth to speak.
"No, wait!" he said urgently. "Don't get angry. Don't spoil it all. We could have something wonderful together, you and I." His voice hardened suddenly. "But I don't like complications. I don't like mysteries — and I don't like competition. I just want to know how you can afford to be so casual about him. Where is he, and when is he coming back? Is that really so much to ask of you?"
It was her turn to reach for something to cover her naked body.
"Do you always take such an interest in husbands?" she asked icily.
"Oh, God," he said, very quietly. He got to his feet, and stared at her for a moment.
"Doesn't it occur to you," he said evenly, "that you're the one I'm interested in?" He turned away and began to dress.
She stared at him through the gathering darkness.
"I don't know where he is," she said at last. "I haven't seen him for weeks. He called me from his office and said he had to go away on business. He didn't say where and I didn't ask. And he didn't say how long he'd be away. I gave up caring long ago."
She started pulling on her clothes.
"He called you from the office and he's been away for weeks') And he hasn't been in touch with you? Does he often do this sort of thing?" Nick threw the questions over his shoulder.
"No, I suppose not," she admitted. "He doesn't usually stay away so long. And he calls."
Nick's mind was full of questions, but he dared not take the risk of asking them. He buttoned his shirt and thought busily. It was remotely possible that Pierce Langley was genuinely away on business. But he doubted it. And his doubts were increasing by the minute. Two found dead already, having died weeks apart. And Langley?
"It's been almost a month this time," she said thoughtfully, as if sharing some of his thoughts.
"Hmm. Then he could be back any day. And when he comes back, I give you up, is that it? No, Carla. That's not the way I play. I don't want to share you. And I don't want to be made a fool of. What would have happened if he'd suddenly come home today and started looking for you here?"
She laughed scornfully. "He never looks here."
Nick swung to face her. "Never? How often should he have?"
"Damn you!" Carla cried. "Damn you! Are you better than I am? What do you want of me? What do you want me to do?" She was on her feet, half-dressed, eyes flashing with anger and torment.
"Nothing much," Nick said reasonably, almost as if he'd lost interest. "Just find out where he is and when he's coming back. And get rid of that Rodrigo, too. I don't care to be just one of a pack." His eyes dominated hers, and she bit back the retort that rose to her lips. "I'm used to getting what I want." Suddenly, he smiled his most charming smile. "Of course, in this case it doesn't mean a thing unless you want me, too."
They finished dressing in silence. Carla spoke at last.
"How can I find out?"
"Oh," said Nick, fishing for a cigarette, "you must know some of his business acquaintances. Find out who he talked to last, what he said, if he's contacted his office. I don't have to tell you how."
"What if I can't? What if I don't find out?"
He shrugged. "I must say I'll think that's rather strange." He gathered up the towels. "Let's go back to the club for your car. Unless you want me to take you straight home?"
She stared at him. "You mean — we don't see each other tonight?"
"Well, I think that's best, don't you?" Nick said amiably. "We'll have a drink first…"
"And then you don't want to see me again, is that it?"
Nick dropped the towels. "Oh sweetheart, no! Oh, Carla that's not the way it is." He took her urgently in his arms. "Please don't think that." His tongue found hers in a passionate kiss. Her eyes were half-closed and her lips were glistening.
"Let's go now," said gently. "Just call when you're ready to see me."
He knew she knew exactly what he meant. And he knew that she would call.
The Enquiring Reporter
It was after midnight when the man who was neither Nick Carter nor Robert Milbank left the luxury suite in the Copacabana International. He was youngish but stoop-shouldered. The strong lines of his face were obscured by the kind of beard usually associated with absent-minded professors or the inhabitants of Greenwich Village. His steel gray eyes were distorted behind thick glasses and his suit, though well cut, hung loosely from his frame. But he moved quickly, eyes alert.
He first made sure that the corridor was empty. He found the stairway, walked down three flights, and then took the elevator to the street floor. From there, he walked to the Excelsior Copacabana, spent a few minutes at the bar, and then hailed a cab for the downtown Hotel Serrador.
Before leaving the International he had gone over the day's events and the next day's plans with Rosalind.
"I'm not sure it was the same man," she said. "I only caught a glimpse of him after you'd noticed we were being watched. But that round face looked familiar. He was with a group, but it was hard to tell if he belonged with them or if they'd just sort of drifted together. Anyway, he'd said he'd be in touch. I know what he's got in mind for me — he said something about bargains in alligator bags and amethysts — but for you I think it's girlie shows and gambling."
"Silveiro, huh?" said Nick, tugging at his beard. "I wonder if that's his real name. "He didn't say when he'd call, I suppose."
"No," she said, inspecting his new face. "He just sort of leered and said he'd take a chance on finding us in some time. And then he gave that fat smile and drifted away."
"Okay, we'll wait for him," said Nick. "Now, look. I left word that we're not to be disturbed until late morning. When you leave, take the sign from the door and melt out of here as unobtrusively as possible. I'll meet you at the museum between three and three-thirty. Please try to look a little less gorgeous than usual so that you won't attract a crowd of admirers."
"At the museum?" she said scornfully. "It'll probably be just me and the mice."
"Yeah, well watch out for those mice. And make like a mouse yourself. Do you want the Colt, just in case?"
"No, thank you. I don't want to be caught with anything like that. By the way, how did you make out with Madame Langley?"
Nick's face tightened under the beard. "If you can bear not knowing, I'd just as soon you didn't ask. But if she does call while you're here, just… uh… take a message. Or if she leaves a note read it and get rid of it." As he spoke he distributed several articles about his person. A Luger, a stiletto, and a small round ball that could have been plastic, metal or some alloy.
"Why, that's Wilhelmina!" said Rosalind, eyes wide open and lovely eyebrows raised. "And Hugo, isn't it? I thought you'd lost them."
The bearded face split into a grin.
"So did I. But — it's a funny old world, this is. I got them back. I'll tell you how, one of these days. It's quite a story. In the meantime — de Santos and Brenha. If you need me urgently, call Room 1107, Serrador, and ask for Nolan. I'll hear the phone even if I'm in the other room. Are you all set. for tomorrow?"
She nodded. "Yes, it'll be easy. But who'll you be when I see you?"
"Hmm." He thought for a moment. "I guess this'll do. No need to switch too often just yet. Look for Michael Nolan, bearded boy reporter. And look after yourself, will you?" Nick turned to her and took her face between his hands. "I don't want anything to happen to you. Check the locks and windows when I've gone, and don't do anything rash tomorrow. We're just beginning, and I need to have you around."
"Well, it doesn't look much like it," she began, but he silenced her with a beardy kiss on the lips.
"Don't open the door to any strangers," he said lightly. "Just check to see if the coast is clear, and I'm on my way."
The corridor was empty.
It was shortly after one o'clock on a Monday morning that he opened the door to Room
1107, Hotel Serrador, for the second time. The first time had been a few hours after their arrival toward the end of the previous week. At the same time Mrs. Marlene Webster of Dallas, Texas, had checked into Room 1109 and requested complete privacy through the weekend. Michael Nolan, roving correspondent for the Washington Herald, had made it clear to the management that he intended to use his room only as a headquarters for trips from the city to the hinterland. He would seldom be there.
There was nothing to suggest any connection between Michael Nolan and Mrs. Marlene Webster, in spite of the locked connecting door. Documents had arranged the reservations very nicely. The management was not to know that both the lady and the gentleman could open almost any door with the ease of the most accomplished lockpicker.
Nick locked the door of Room 1107 behind him. Habit made him check closet doors, bureau drawers, windows, dusty surfaces and bathroom fixtures. The bed that he had left rumpled on his first visit had been straightened out, but nothing else had been changed. Nolan's battered baggage and few clothes were untouched.
He took a small kit from his pocket and swiftly worked on the locking mechanism he had attached to the connecting door on his first visit. Seconds later he stepped into Room 1109 and inspected Mrs. Webster's luggage.
Mrs. Webster's luggage was a marvel of ingenuity. Besides the usual complement of feminine frippery, it included some devices known only to AXE and similar specialized services. Mrs. Webster's cosmetic case was particularly well fitted. When stripped of its top shelves, it revealed a shortwave radio known to AXEmen as Oscar Johnson.
Nick's message to Hawk was short and cryptic:
PRESS TOUR TOMORROW SUPPORT CREDENTIALS IF NECESSARY. NOLAN ON NEWS BEAT ASSISTANT ON ANTHROPOLOGY STORY. NO MAJOR BREAKS YET.
Hawk's reply was even shorter. CHECK. CREDENTIALS SUPPORTED.
It wasn't much, but it did mean that AXE headquarters would know where agents Carter and Adler were heading when last heard from. Carter, with full press credentials, would be checking the Rio Journal. And Rosalind Adler would be at the National Indian Museum.