Safari for Spies

by Nick Carter

  "And the Hop Club? How did you miss him there?" The fat man shifted impatiently in his gigantic chair. The rolls of fat that reached from his shoulders to his ears bobbled like agitated jelly. "Come, Laszlo, you have not done well. Explain how you failed the second time."

  "How could I know it was him?" Laszlo hissed indignantly. "He came disguised as a drug peddler from here, from Casablanca. I did not even know who he was when I went after him, and then he shot me in the ssshoulder, the ssswine! After that, bleeding as I was, I got the ssstory from that fat — that is to say, from Madame Sophia. She had even mentioned the Big One in Casablanca, the ssstupid old drab! And when she saw our radio operator was dead, and the police came pounding at the front door, she got frightened and threatened to tell some wild story that would save her neck and hang the rest of us, give away our entire operation. So of course I had to kill her, and I jussst barely managed to get away before the police came through to the back." His frog-lidded eyes drew together in a frown as he recalled his narrow escape. Then they brightened suddenly. "You may care to know how I managed with Madame Sophia, whom as you know is of a size considerable compared with me. I selected the stabbing knife, the one with the long blade, and positioned it — thus!" He shot his right cuff and a gleaming spike appeared in his hand. "Then I jabbed at the soft underbelly…!"

  "Enough!" The fat man shuddered tremendously. "Spare me these frightful details. I do not care to hear of your atrocities. What became of the man Carter?"

  "But surely you will be interested in the finesse of my deed."

  "Silence!" The big moonface twisted with distaste and anger. "And do not try to tell me how bravely you suffered with your miserable shoulder. I want to know what further attempt you made to find Carter, and what happened to him."

  Laszlo's sickly face looked hurt and sullen.

  "He disappeared. There were radio reports that he had been abducted from his hotel room. I naturally assumed that Rufus' men had found him."

  "Well, your natural assumption was wrong!" the fat man barked. "Or do you think it was his ghost who showed up in Duolo and took over the camp? And killed Rufus, or whatever he did to him? Can you explain why we have heard nothing from our own sources in Nyanga since your idiotic, fright-born killings in the herbalist's shop and your equally idiotic flight to Dakar? No? I thought not! Stop trembling like a cowardly fool and put your sodden mind to work."

  The froggy eyes were glazed and the slim, killer's hands were shaking. "Rufus dead?" Laszlo whispered. "Then who will take Nyanga for us?"

  "Rufus is nothing," growled the fat man. "We will find another Rufus — in Nyanga, or some other country. He is not important. Unless…" He leaned forward and stared piercingly at Laszlo. "Unless your careless tongue has slipped and you have told him where our headquarters are. Because if you have, and if he is still alive, then our entire African operation falls apart. And I will take you apart with my own bare hands." The menace of his big, slightly sing-song voice lashed across the room.

  "No-no-no!" Laszlo babbled. "I told him nothing, you must know that. I have always talked about you as if your orders come directly from Peking. He thinks you went back there after giving him the money and technicians. I was always careful to relay your messages as though…"

  "You had better be right, Laszlo. You had better be. You have made enough mistakes. And one of them was to let Carter get as far as the Hop Club. There is one way to redeem yourself, and one way only."

  "Yes-yes? Yes?" Lazlo darted his head like a snake and waited eagerly.

  "Find Carter," the mountainous man said icily. "Find him quickly and bring him here to me."

  "But how can I find him?" Laszlo hissed desperately. "As far as I know, he has disappeared. He may be dead; he may have left the country."

  "You are a fool. He is not dead, and I can guarantee that he has not left Africa without trying to find out who was backing Rufus." He frowned suddenly. "I can only hope that Teng and Chan had the grace to kill themselves before anyone could question them. They must have been seen in that mountain camp… But they are soldiers. They know what to do. Not like you, you miserable worm!" He banged his huge fist on the desk in a burst of rage. Laszlo flinched. "You! You have done nothing right. Find Carter, and I may — I may — decide not to punish you as I would like to. Don't ask me where to find him — that is your problem. You can be sure he is no longer in Dakar. And there is nothing left for him to do in Nyanga, thanks largely to your bungling." His thick voice was bitter and his huge face was a gargoyle mask of loathing. "So your task should be easy."

  Laszlo swallowed and his body shook. "But where?" he whimpered. "How?"

  The vast fist slammed down again on the immense desk top. The fat man rose abruptly and the huge chair fell back behind him.

  "I told you not to ask me that!" he roared. "But I will tell you, since that prying, spying creature must be found or he will ruin us! Show yourself. Make yourself public, as you have so successfully done before. Make him find you; he will want to find you. Dangle yourself like bait in front of him. Lure the shark. Where? you ask? Where?" The fat man's face darkened into purple. "Where else but Casablanca? Don't you think that you have let him find out enough by now so that he will come straight to Casablanca?"

  * * *

  The stubble-faced seaman who sat at the waterfront bar looked nothing at all like Nick Carter except for the muscular toughness of his body, and he was beginning to feel less like him as the hours and days went by. "Our man in Morocco" had been a mine of information about smuggling and narcotics and had offered a long list of places frequented by people specializing in either one. He had also provided the names of several brokers, importers and small shipping companies who seemed to prefer dealing with the East rather than with the West, and Nick had painstakingly enquired into every one of them. But so far the score was zero.

  He ordered another beer and decided for the hundredth time that his best bet was to keep haunting the dives and the back streets in the hope of making contact with someone who would talk too much, try to sell him something, maybe lead him where the action was. It was a long shot, but not as long a shot as his even greater hope — that somewhere in these sinks and dens and flophouses he would catch sight of Green Face.

  His eyes roamed casually around the noisy, smoke-filled barroom. There wasn't a single customer in it that he would trust within reaching distance of his pocket, but neither was there one — not only here, but in any of the other dives — that he could remotely associate with Green Face or dope traffic or a mystery man known to him only as the Big One or the Fat One.

  He and Liz had come to Casablanca the day after the meeting in Julian's hospital room. With Abe, he had spent the remainder of the long day in fruitless questioning and investigation into the nature of the Red Chinese operations in Nyanga, and the whereabouts of Green Face and the Fat One. The day ended, as all good days should, in bed. After a while Nick and Liz had emerged from their haze of happiness, and she had asked him then if she could come with him to Casablanca.

  "You're a sucker for punishment, aren't you?" he said admiringly. "Don't you realize it could be dangerous? No, Liz, you'd better not come."

  "What can happen?" she murmured, brushing his ear with her lips. "I'll stay quietly in the background. Anyway, after Duolo, I can put up with anything!"

  He felt her large, firm, luscious breasts against his body and gave in without a struggle. But he did insist that they stay at separate hotels — he in a dump to suit his disguise and she in the comfortable Transatlantique — and arrange to meet with the greatest of caution.

  And so she was window-shopping and taking sight-seeing tours from her hotel while Nick prowled the seamier parts of the city in his search for Green Face.

  Two men who had been huddled at a corner table talking in low whispers got up and made their way — looking secretive and conspiratorial — out of the dingy bar. Nick suddenly decided to follow them. What the hell, he wasn't accomplishing anything here, an
d they might just lead him some place he hadn't thought of going.

  They did. He followed them for several blocks before they scuttled furtively into a shambling house Nick knew — by hearsay — to be the local brothel. He gave up in disgust and headed slowly for his own hotel, intending to call Liz. But his route led past the Transatlantique, and he glanced automatically at its lobby doors as he passed. Several people were going in. And there was something very familiar about the back of one of them. Nick stopped and stared.

  He'd have known that figure anywhere.

  In a Moorish Garden

  Green Face! At last! But what in hell was he doing, going into the hotel where Liz was staying?

  Nick crossed the street against the blaring of the traffic and raced into the lobby. With his grimy seaman's clothes and his three-day beard, he was hardly the sort of guest to be welcomed by the Hotel Transatlantique. But the doorman merely eyed him in passing as someone to be gotten rid of if he made a pest of himself, but let him enter the hotel unchallenged.

  Green Face stood at the Enquiries Desk waiting for attention. Nick sidled up behind him and waited for the clerk to notice the unpleasant little man with the anxious look in his strange, staring eyes. Nick heard him say: "I am looking for a friend of mine who neglected to tell me where he would be staying when he came to town. Is Mr. Nicholas Carter registered here? Or does he have a reservation?" The clerk consulted something. "No, sir," he said finally. "We have no record of him." "Are you sure?" Laszlo persisted. "He isss a very important American diplomat and may be traveling incognito. A tall man, youngish, carrying a cane…" "No, sir!" the clerk said firmly. "No American gentleman. No one like that."

  The man called Laszlo turned away, the very picture of despondence. Nick moved off and pretended to study the glass-encased hotel directory, keeping one sharp eye on Laszlo. All at once the man stiffened and sucked in his breath. Nick followed his gaze. Liz was stepping out of the express elevator, looking — as usual — slightly larger than life-size and twice as fresh and lovely as any woman within miles. She made her way, with graceful majesty, toward the lobby doors, unaware that every male eye was upon her and completely unconscious of the particularly interested stare of two very special pairs of eyes.

  Laszlo smiled to himself and strolled after her.

  And Nick strolled after him — relieved, perturbed, amused, thinking of the way he and Hakim had foxed and followed this little man that day in Abimako.

  He let Green Face follow Liz through the main shopping center and linger half a block away from her as she stopped outside a lingerie shop and looked into the window. Then he made his first move. He walked past Green Face and shambled up to Liz.

  "Buy you a drink, lady? You come with me, I'll give you a good time." Liz turned around as if slapped and stared at him with disgust.

  "That's right, look mad, and stalk away," Nick whispered urgently. "Go straight back to your hotel and stay there 'til you hear from me. Green Face is following you. Now go!"

  Comprehension flooded into her eyes. "Why, you cheap masher!" she said through her teeth. "I'd know you anywhere. Good luck — get him!" Liz drew herself up haughtily and stalked away, back to the hotel. Nick said a dirty word and spat onto the pavement. Green Face waited for Liz to go by and then followed her as casually as a man with nothing in the world to do but stroll the sidewalks of sunny Casablanca.

  Once inside the lobby he was not so casual. Nick saw him pause in front of the Enquiries Desk and then move away uncertainly, as if he did not know what question he could ask. Liz was out of sight.

  Maybe, Nick thought hopefully, he doesn't know her name. And why should he? She's just someone he's seen around Abimako; there's no reason why he should know the names on the American Embassy list.

  Green Face sat down near the elevators and waited.

  So he didn't know who to ask for.

  Nick ignored the disapproving glance of the girl at the newsstand and bought a newspaper. He sat down near Green Face and hid his grimy face behind the paper, hoping that Green Face would make his move before the house dick was called to remove that dirty seaman from the Transatlantique's nice lobby.

  The house dick must have been busy with other things. Green Face sat and sat. Nick waited. No one seemed to notice either of them. Time ticked by. Mid-afternoon turned to late afternoon; late afternoon to nightfall. Liz was probably bored stiff and wondering what in hell was going on. It was funny, though. Nick grinned to himself. Laszlo had apparently been looking for him in the better part of town where diplomats are supposed to stay, and he had looked for Laszlo where he knew the runt really belonged.

  Laszlo started looking at his watch. Finally he got up and made a phone call from a public booth. When he came out he was shaking. He stood outside the booth for a moment staring into space; then he walked through the lobby as if he scarcely knew where he was going and started pacing back and forth on the sidewalk like a man torn between duty and some urgent personal need.

  Nick watched him curiously, noting the staring eyes and the clumsy, jerking movements. Why, the bastard needs a fix! he thought. And maybe I can give it to him.

  Laszlo must have come to some sudden decision. All at once he started walking rapidly away from the hotel, past the bright lights and the white buildings that gleamed under the lamps. He headed toward the waterfront and a dockside taxi stand.

  Nick didn't care too much for the follow-that-cab routine in a city and among people he was not particularly familiar with. All it needed was one cab-driver to say "Huh?" in Arabic, and he had had it. Wilhelmina slid easily into his hand as his pace quickened behind Laszlo.

  "Greetings, friend!" he said cheerfully, jabbing the Luger into the smaller man's back and feeling it go rigid. "Don't turn suddenly and don't shout. Understand? Keep your hands away from your body and turn and face me in a nice, friendly way."

  Green Face turned slowly and stared at Nick. His face looked as though it had been dipped in olive oil and his body seemed to be squirming within its clothes, but the eyes still had their weird effect on Nick. He felt his flesh creep, as though a thousand tiny, slimy snakes were slithering over him. Then Green Face gasped with recognition, and the feeling went away.

  "Now we will find ourselves another taxicab," said Nick, "and you will take me to the fat man."

  Conflicting expressions chased themselves across the other man's face. "What fat man?" he said, and his trembling right hand steadied itself momentarily before making a small, convulsive movement. The long stabbing blade flashed into his hand as if by magic. But there was nothing wrong with Nick's reflexes after several days of comparative rest. His left leg swung upward in a thunderbolt of a place-kick and the knife flew skyward and arced gracefully through the air, disappearing into the gloom beyond the lampposts.

  "That was foolish," Nick reproved him. "You know your boss would like to talk to me as much as I would like to talk to him. Don't try that again. But just in case you get any ideas…" His left hand shot out in a movement twice as rapid as Laszlo's drawing of the knife and clamped a deceptively light hold on the throwing arm — then made a wrenching, whiplash movement that tore a choked scream from Laszlo's throat and made him clutch his arm as though it would fall off. He swore terribly.

  "Be quiet," Nick ordered. "Unless you'd like the same treatment for the other arm. Now move. We'll take a taxicab I will choose and you will give the directions." He prodded the cursing, hissing Laszlo with Wilhelmina's cold, unfriendly nose, and steered him into a brightly-lit street where he flagged a cruising cab.

  "Tell him," said Nick. "And tell him right. If we don't find the place within half an hour I'll stop the cab wherever we are and deal with you."

  "But it might — it might take longer than that," stammered Laszlo.

  "It better not," Nick said grimly.

  Laszlo gritted his teeth and gave the driver an address unfamiliar to Nick, consisting of two street names he had never heard of. Arabic names.

  "Now tell h
im not to stop right outside when we get there but to drive past — while you point out the place to me — until I tell him to stop."

  Laszlo, breathing heavily and trembling like a man with the ague, passed on the instructions in stumbling Arabic not much better than Nick's own and subsided into the corner.

  The cab sped past the bright lights and skyscrapers of the modern city and skirted the edges of the new Medina — the new «old» section, built in Moorish style — and then slowed down to pick its way into the old Arab town with the square white buildings and ornate wrought-iron gates. After about twenty minutes Laszlo sat up straight and began to dart anxious looks out of the window. A little while later the cab turned into a wide street lined with three — and four-storied dwelling houses that reminded Nick of brownstones, except that they were a flaky white and the roofs were of uneven height. The driver braked.

  "Go on to the next block," Nick ordered. "Which is it, Laszlo?"

  Green Face shivered and pointed. "Third from the end. Ten Wong, Rare Books."

  "Odd place for a shop," said Nick. "I don't see any sign."

  "Very exclusive place," said Laszlo. "Ten sees only the wholesale dealers. He does not like the busy streets of town. For God's sake, let us stop now!"

  "All right," Nick said agreeably. "Let's go and give Ten Wong a nice surprise. Have the driver pull up and pay him off."

  Laszlo glared. "I should pay him?"

  "Come on, pal. Step on it. Unless you'd like us to drive around all night and talk?"

  Laszlo moaned, hissed irritably at the driver and paid him.

  Nick let the cab drive off before starting back toward the Moorish house of Ten Wong, dealer in rare books. Laszlo scuttled in front of him, his movements convulsive and his breath coming in short gasps.