by Nick Carter
The lieutenant came back. Nick felt a little sick as he recognized the expression on the man's face. He had seen it before. Cat knows where there is a nice fat canary.
The lieutenant opened the wallet again. "You say your name is Pete Fremont?"
Nick looked puzzled. At the same time he moved a small step closer to the lieutenant. Something had gone wrong. Badly wrong. He began to make a new plan.
He pointed to the wallet and said indignantly: "Yeah. Pete Fremont. It's all in there, for Christ's sake. Say, what is this! The old third degree? It won't work. I know my rights. You either charge me or let me go. And if you charge me I'll get right on the horn to the American Ambassador and..."
The lieutenant smiled and pounced. "I'm sure the Ambassador will be glad to hear from you, sir. I think you will have to come to the station with us. There seems to be a most curious mix-up. A man has been found dead in his apartment. A man who is also named Pete Fremont and who has been positively identified as Pete Fremont by his girl friend."
Nick tried to bluster. He moved another few inches closer to the man.
"So what? I didn't say I was the only Pete Fremont in the world. It's just a mistake."
The little lieutenant did not bow this time. He inclined his head very politely and said, "I am sure it is. But you will accompany us to the station, please, until we have this matter arranged." He motioned to the other cop who was still covering Nick with the Nambu.
Nick Carter went to the lieutenant in a swift gliding movement. The cop, though surprised, was well trained and went into a defensive judo posture, lax and waiting for Nick to lunge at him. Kunizo Matu had taught Nick that one years before.
Nick stopped short. He offered his right arm as bait and when the cop tried to clamp his wrist for the shoulder throw Nick took the arm away and jolted a vicious short left into the man's solar plexus. He had to get close, fast, before the other cops could start shooting.
Stunned, the lieutenant slumped forward, Nick caught him and moved behind him in a motion as fast as a heartbeat. He got a full nelson and lifted the man off the ground. He didn't weigh more than 120-130. With his legs spread wide so the man couldn't kick him in the groin Nick backed toward the steps leading to the passage behind the flophouses. It was the only way out now. The little cop dangled in front of him, an effective bullet shield.
Three cops were training guns on him now. The spotlights were feeble rays of dead light in the growing dawn.
Nick backed cautiously toward the steps. "Stay away," he warned them. "You rush me and I'll break his neck!"
The lieutenant tried to kick him and Nick put on a little pressure. The bones in the lieutenant's thin neck made a snapping sound. He groaned and stopped kicking.
"He's all right," Nick told them, "I haven't hurt him yet. Let's keep it that way."
Where in hell was that first step?
The three cops stopped following him. One of them ran back to a car and began talking rapidly into the radio mike. Calling for help. Nick didn't mind. He didn't plan to be around.
His foot touched the first step. Good. Now if he didn't make any mistakes he had a chance.
He scowled at the cops. They were keeping their distance.
"I'm taking him with me," Nick said. "Down this passage behind me. Try to follow and he's going to get hurt. Stay here like good little policemen and he will be okay. Up to you. Sayonara!"
He went backward down the steps. At the bottom he was just out of sight of the cops. He could feel the old beggar's body against his legs. He put on sudden pressure, bent the lieutenant's head forward and slammed him across the neck with a karate chop. His thumb was rigidly extended and he felt a little shock as the calloused flesh blade of his hand slammed into the scrawny neck. He dropped the man.
The Colt was lying partly under the dead beggar. "Nick scooped it up — the butt was sticky with the old man's blood — and ran down the passage. He kept the Colt in his right hand, jutting out. No one in this neighborhood was going to interfere with a man carrying a cannon.
It was now a matter of seconds. He wasn't going out of the Sanya jungle, he was going in, and once in the cops would never find him. The shacks were all of paper or wood or tin, flimsy fire traps, and it was simply a matter of bulldozing his way.
He made the turn to his right again and ran toward Matu's house. He ran in the front door, still open, and on through the inner room. Kunizo was lying there in his blood. Nick kept going.
He smashed through a paper door. A brown face peered in fright from a floor pad. The servant. Too scared to get up and investigate. Nick kept going.
He put his arms in front of his face and bulled through a wall. The paper and flimsy wood tore away with slight complaint. Nick began to feel like a tank.
He crossed a little open court littered with junk. There was another wood and paper wall. He plunged into it, leaving the outline of his big body in gaping cut-out. The room was empty. He slammed ahead, through another wall, into another room — or was it another house — and a man and woman gaped in astonishment from a floor bed. A child lay between them.
Nick touched his hat with a finger. "Sorry." He ran on.
He ran through six houses, kicked three dogs aside and surprised one couple in copulation before he came out in a narrow winding lane that led somewhere. That suited him. Somewhere away from the cops who were blundering and cursing along behind him. His trail was plain enough, but the cops were polite and dignified and had to do things the Japanese way. They would never catch him. Not in Sanya they wouldn't!
An hour later he was over the Namidabashi bridge and approaching Minowa station where he had left the Datsun parked. The station was crowded with early workers. There were many cars in the parking lot and queues already forming at the ticket windows.
Nick did not go directly into the station grounds. There was a small snack bar already open across the street and he had a koka-kora, wishing it was something much stronger. It had been a rugged night.
He could see the top of the Datsun. No one looked especially interested in it. He lingered over the Coke and let his eyes wander over the crowd, sifting and judging. No cops. He could have sworn to that.
Not that it meant he was out of this yet. Home free. Cops, he acknowledged, were going to be the least of his worries. Cops were fairly predictable. Cops he could handle.
Someone knew he was in Tokyo. Someone had followed him to Kunizo's place, in spite of all his precautions. Someone had killed Kunizo and set Nick up for it. That might have been accident, happenstance. They could have wanted to give the cops someone, anyone, to stop pursuit and questions. They might. He didn't really think so.
Or had someone followed him to Sanya? Had it been a setup from the very beginning? Or, if not a setup, how had someone known he would be in Kunizo's house? Nick could think of an answer to that one and he didn't like it. It made him feel a little sick. He had come to like Tonaka.
He headed for the parking lot. He wasn't going to solve anything by beating his brains out over a suburban Coke bar. He had to go to work. Kunizo was dead and he was without contacts for the moment. Somewhere in the Tokyo haystack was a needle by the name of Richard Philston and Nick had to find him. Fast.
He reached the Datsun and stared down. Passersby hissed in sympathy. Nick ignored them. All four of the tires had been slashed to ribbons.
A train came in. Nick started for the ticket window, reaching for his hip pocket. So he didn't have a car! He could take his train to Ueno Park and change to a train for downtown Tokyo. It was better, actually. A man in a car was confined, a good target, and easy to follow.
His hand came out of his pocket empty. He didn't have the wallet. Pete Fremont's wallet. The little cop had it.
Chapter 7
A trail like a bull moose on roller skates careering through a formal garden.
That, Hawk considered, was an apt description of the spoor left behind by Nick Carter. He was alone in his office, Aubrey and Terence having just
departed, and after he finished going through a stack of yellow flimsies he spoke on the intercom to Delia Stokes.
"Cancel the red APB on Nick, Delia. Make it a yellow instead. All points to stand by, to offer any assistance if he asks for it, but not to interfere. He is not to be recognized, followed or reported on. Absolutely no interference unless he requests help. Got that?"
"Got it, sir."
"Right. Get it out at once."
Hawk clicked the intercom off and sat back, stripping a cigar without looking at it. He was playing a hunch. Nick Carter was onto something — God might know, for Hawk certainly didn't — and he had decided to stay out of it. Let Nick work it out his own way. If any man in the world could take care of himself it was Killmaster.
Hawk picked up one of the flimsies and studied it again. His thin mouth, which often reminded Nick of a wolf trap, quirked in a dry smile. Ames had done his job well. It was all here — as far as Tokyo International Airport.
Nick, accompanied by four Japanese Girl Scouts, had boarded a Northwest Airlines plane in Washington. He had been in a gay mood and had insisted on kissing a stewardess and shaking hands with the Captain. At no time had he been really obnoxious, or only slightly, and it was only when he insisted on dancing in the aisle that the co-captain had been summoned to quiet him down. Later he had ordered champagne for all aboard the plane. He had led the other passengers in song, proclaiming that he was a flower child and that love was his thing.
The Girl Scouts had managed to control him fairly well, actually, and the crew, questioned by Ames over long distance, admitted that the flight had been lively and different. Not that they would care to do it again.
They had, with absolutely no reluctance, poured Nick off at Tokyo International and watched the Girl Scouts whisk him into Customs. Beyond that they did not know.
Ames, still by phone, had established that Nick and the Girl Scouts had gotten into a taxi and vanished into the wild melee of Tokyo traffic. And that was that.
And yet it was not quite all. Hawk turned to another yellow flimsy containing his own notes.
Cecil Aubrey, a little reluctantly, had at last admitted that his tip on Richard Philston had come from one Kunizo Matu, a retired karate teacher now living in Tokyo. Aubrey did not know exactly where in Tokyo.
Matu had lived in London for many years and had worked for MI5.
"We always suspected him of being a double," Aubrey had said. "We thought he worked for Jap Intelligence, too, but we could never prove it. We didn't really care at the moment. Our, er, interests didn't clash and he did a good job for us."
Hawk had gotten out some old files and searched back. His memory was very nearly perfect, but he liked to confirm.
Nick Carter had known Kunizo Matu in London, in fact, used him on a couple of jobs. There was not much else to be gleaned from the barren reports. Nick Carter had a way of keeping personal business just that — personal.
And yet — Hawk sighed and pushed the stack of papers away. He stared at the Western Union clock. This was a devious profession and very seldom did the left hand know what the right was doing.
Ames had searched the apartment and found Nick's Luger and stiletto in the mattress. That was odd, Hawk conceded. He must feel naked without them.
But Girl Scouts! How in hell had they gotten into the act? Hawk began to laugh, a thing he very rarely did. Gradually he lost control and sat helplessly in the chair, eyes tearing, and laughed until his chest muscles began to pain.
Delia Stokes did not believe it at first. She peered through the door. Sure enough. The old man was sitting there and laughing like a loon.
Chapter 8
There is a first time for everything. This was the first time Nick had ever panhandled. He selected his victim well, a middle-aged, well-dressed man carrying an expensive-looking briefcase. He bummed fifty yen off the man, who looked Nick up and down, wrinkled his nose and dug into his pocket. As he handed the note to the AXEman, he bowed slightly and tipped his black Homburg.
Nick bowed in return. "Arigato, kandai na-sen."
"Yoroshii desu." The man turned away.
Nick got off at Tokyo Station and walked west toward the Palace grounds. The incredible Tokyo traffic was already building into a writhing mass of taxis, trucks, clanging trams and private cars. A crash-helmeted motorcyclist slammed past with a girl clinging to the pillion. Kaminariyoku. Thunder breed.
What now, Carter? No papers and no money. Wanted for questioning by the police. It was time to go to ground for awhile — if he had any place to go. He doubted that it would do him much good to go back to the Electric Palace. Anyway it wouldn't be open this early.
He sensed the taxi gliding to a halt beside him and his hand snaked inside the trenchcoat to the Colt in his waistband. "Sssttttt — Carter-san! In here!"
It was Kato, one of the three weird sisters. Nick took a fast look around. It was a perfectly ordinary taxi and there didn't seem to be any followers. He got in. Maybe he could borrow a few yen.
Kato huddled in her corner. She gave him a perfunctory smile and rapped a command to the driver. The taxi took off in the usual manner of Tokyo taxis, with tires screaming and the driver daring anything to get in the way.
"Surprise," said Nick. "I didn't expect to see you again, Kato. You are Kato?"
She nodded. "I am honored to see you again, Carter-san. But it is not of my seeking. There is much trouble. Tonaka is missing."
A nasty worm turned in his belly. He waited.
"She did not answer her phone. Sato and I went to her apartment and there had been a fight — everything is torn to pieces. And she is gone."
Nick nodded toward the driver.
"He is okay. One of us."
"What do you think happened to Tonaka?"
Her shrug was forlorn. "Who can say? But I am afraid — we all are. Tonaka was our leader. It is possible that Johnny Chow has her. If so he will torture her and make her lead them to her father. Kunizo Matu. The Chicoms wish to kill him because he rights back against them."
He did not tell her. But he began to understand why Matu was dead and how he had been so nearly trapped.
Nick patted her arm. "I will do what I can. But I need money and a place to hide for a few hours until I can make a plan. You can arrange this?"
"Yes. We go there now. To a geisha house in Shimbasi. Mato and Sato will also be there. As soon as they do not find you."
He pondered that. She saw his confusion and smiled faintly. "We have all been looking for you. Sato, Mato and myself. All in separate taxis. We go to all stations and look. Tonaka did not tell us much — just that you have gone to see her father. It is better, you see, that each of us does not know too much about what others do. But when Tonaka is missing we know we must find you for help. So we get taxis and start looking. It is all we know to do — and it worked. I find you."
Nick had been studying her as she spoke. This was not the Girl Scout of Washington and the plane. Geisha! He should have guessed.
At the moment there was nothing geisha about her but the elaborate hairdo. She had, he imagined, been working that night and early morning. Geishas kept weird hours, dictated by the whims of their various protectors. Now her face was still shiny with the cold cream she had used to remove the chalky makeup. She wore a tan pullover sweater, a mini-skirt and a tiny pair of black Korean boots.
Nick wondered just how safe a geisha house would be. Yet it was all he had. He lit his last cigarette and began asking questions. He did not intend to tell her any more than he must. It was best, as she herself had mentioned.
"About this Pete Fremont, Kato. Tonaka told me that you stole his clothes? These clothes?"
"That is true. It was a small thing." She was obviously puzzled.
"Where was Fremont when you did this?"
"In bed. Sleeping. We thought so."
"Thought so? Was he or wasn't he?" Something pretty fishy here.
Kato regarded him solemnly. She had a smear of lipstick
on one shiny front tooth.
"I say thought so. We take his clothes. Easy, because his girl not there then. Later we find out that Pete is dead. He die in sleep."
Christ! Nick counted slowly to five.
"Then what did you do?"
She shrugged again. "What can do? We need the clothes for you. We take. We know that Pete die of wsuki, he drink, drink all the time, and that nobody kill him. We leave. Then later we go back and take body away and hide it so police not find out."
Very softly he said, "They did find out, Kato." Rapidly he explained his encounter with the police, leaving out the fact that Kunizo Matu was also dead
Kato did not seem very impressed. "Yes. I am sorry. But I know what happen, I think. We leave to take clothes to Tonaka. His girl come. She find Pete dead from alcohol and call police. They come. All then leave. We come back, not knowing police and girl have been there, and we take body and hide it. Okei?"
Nick sat back. "I suppose okay," he said weakly. It would have to do. It was wacky but at least it explained matters. And it just might help him — the Tokyo cops had lost a body and they might be a little embarrassed. They might decide to play it down, keep it quiet for a time, at least until they found the body or gave up on it. That meant that his description wouldn't be in the newspapers or on radio and television. Not yet. So his cover as Pete Fremont was still good — up to a point. With the wallet it would have been better, but that was gone forever.
They passed the Shiba Park Hotel and turned right toward the Hikawa Shrine. It was a district of apartment houses, with here and there a villa set back in its formal garden. It was one of the top geisha districts, where the ethics were rigid and the behavior discreet. Gone were the days when the girls had to live in a mizu shobai atmosphere, beyond the pale. Comparisons were always invidious — in this case especially so — but Nick had always thought of geishas as on a par with the very highest class of New York call girl. With the geishas far superior in brains and talent.