by Nick Carter
He came to. where Philston had turned off. The man was now only about thirty yards ahead of him, walking stealthily down a long corridor. He was moving slowly and on his toes. There was a single door at the end of the corridor. It would lead into one of the larger shrines and the Emperor would be there.
A faint light was coming from the door at the end of the corridor and Philston was silhouetted against it. A good shot. Nick raised the Browning and took careful aim at Philston's back. He did not want to risk a head shot in the uncertain light and he could always finish the man off afterward. He held the pistol at arms length, sighted carefully and squeezed off the shot. The Browning clicked dully. Bad cartridge. A million to one chance and the old, lifeless ammo had come up with a big zero.
Philston was in the door now and there was no more time. He couldn't clear the gun in time with only one hand. Nick ran.
He was at the door. The room beyond was spacious. A single flame guttered over the altar. Before it a man sat cross-legged, his head down, deep in his own thoughts and unaware of Death stalking him.
Philston still had not seen or heard Nick Carter. He was tiptoeing across the room, the pistol in his hand made larger, snoutier, by the silencer screwed onto the muzzle. Nick put the Browning on the floor without sound and took the hunting knife . from his pocket. He would have given anything for the little stiletto. All he had was the hunting knife. And about two seconds.
Philston was halfway across the room now. If the man before the altar heard anything, if he was aware of what was in the room with him, he made no sign. His head was sunk on his chest and he breathed deeply.
Philston raised the pistol.
Nick Carter called softly: "Philston!"
Philston "whirled gracefully. Surprise, malice, rage flickered in amalgam on his too sensitive, top feminine face. For once there was no sneer. His shaven head sparked in the light from the torch. His cobra eyes widened.
"Fremont!" He fired.
Nick took one step to the side, turned to present a narrow target and hurled the knife. He did not, could not, wait. He went in to follow it up.
The pistol clattered on the stone floor. Philston stared down at the knife in his heart. He looked up at Nick, then back at the knife and then he fell. In dying reflex his hand reached for the pistol. Nick kicked it out of reach.
The little man before the altar had risen. He stood for a moment, quietly glancing from Nick Carter to the corpse on the floor. Philston was not bleeding very much.
Nick bowed. He spoke briefly. The man listened without interruption. Admiration grew in the AXEman. This was a cool hand.
The man was wearing only a light brown robe, loosely caught about his slender waist. His hair was thick, dark, cut ebrosse and streaked with gray at the temples. His feet were bare. He had a neatly trimmed moustache.
When Nick had finished speaking the little man took a pair of silver-rimmed glasses from the pocket of his robe and put them on. He peered at Nick for a moment, then down at the body of Richard Philston. Then, with a little indrawn hiss, he turned to Nick and bowed very low.
"Arigato."
Nick bowed very low. It hurt his back but he did it.
"Do itashimashite."
The Emperor said: "You are free to go, as you suggest. You are right, of course. This must be kept secret. I can arrange that, I think. You will leave everything to me, please."
Nick bowed again. "Then I will go. There is very little time."
"One moment, please," He took a jeweled and golden sunburst from around his neck and handed it to Nick by the golden chain.
"You will accept this, please. I wish it."
Nick took the medal. The gold and jewels sparkled in the faint light. "Thank you."
He saw the camera then and remembered that this man was a famous shutter bug. The camera was lying on a small table in a corner of the room and had, must have been, brought along absent-mindedly. Nick went to the table and picked up the camera. A flash cube was in the socket.
Nick bowed again. "May I use it. A record, you understand. It is important."
The little man bowed deeply. "Of course. But I suggest haste. I think I hear a plane now."
It was a helicopter but Nick did not say so. He straddled Philston and snapped a picture of the dead face. Another one for safety, then he bowed again.
"I will have to keep the camera."
"Most certainly. Itaskimashite. And now — sayonara!"
"Sayonara!"
They bowed to each other.
He had reached the Lincoln when the first helicopter blatted in and hovered over the grounds. The landing lights, bars of blue-white brilliance, smoked in the damp night air.
Killmaster put the Lincoln in gear and started backing out of the lane.
Chapter 15
Hawk had said nine sharp, Friday morning.
Nick Carter was two minutes late. He did not feel badly about it. Considering everything, he thought himself entitled to a couple of minutes leeway. He was there. Thanks to the International Dateline.
He was wearing one of his newer suits, a light spring flannel, and his right hand was in a cast nearly to the elbow. Strips of adhesive made a tic-tac-toe pattern on his lean face. He was still limping badly as he walked into the outer office. Delia Stokes was at her typewriter.
She gave him a head to toe glance and an effulgent smile. "I'm so glad, Nick. We were a little worried for a time."
"I was a little worried myself, for a time. Are they in there?"
"Yes. Since half past — waiting for you."
"Hmmmm — do you know if Hawk has told them anything yet?"
"He hasn't. Waiting for you. As of now just the three of us know."
Nick straightened his tie. "Thanks, sweetheart. Remind me to buy you a drink after. A little celebration is in order."
Delia smiled. "Da you think you should be seen out with an older woman. After all, I'm not a Girl Scout'any more."
"Cut it out, Delia. One more crack like that and you blow the drink."
An impatient rasp came over the intercom. "Delia! Send Nick in, please."
Delia shook her head. "He's got ears like a cat."
"Built-in sonar." He went into the inner office.
Hawk had a cigar in his mouth. The cellophane was still on it. That meant he was excited and trying not to show it. He had talked with Hawk on the phone at length, and the old man had insisted on rigging this little scene. Nick didn't understand it, except that Hawk was trying for some kind of a dramatic effect. But to what purpose?
Hawk introduced him to Cecil Aubrey and a man named Terence, a dour lanky Scot who merely nodded and puffed on an obscene pipe.
Extra chairs had been brought in. When they were all seated Hawk said, "All right, Cecil. Tell him what you want."
Nick listened in growing amazement and puzzlement. Hawk avoided his eye. What was the old devil up to?
Cecil Aubrey went through it fast. What he wanted, it appeared, was that Nick go to Japan and do what Nick had just been to Japan and done.
At the end Aubrey said: "Richard Philston is extremely dangerous. I suggest that you kill him on sight rather than try to take him."
Nick glanced at Hawk. The old man was staring innocently at the ceiling.
Nick took the glossy photo from his inner pocket and handed it to the big Englishman. "This your man Philston?"
Cecil Aubrey stared down at the dead face, at the shaven head. His mouth opened as his jaw dropped.
"I'll be damned! It looks like — but without the hair it's a little hard to — I can't be sure."
The Scot came over to look. One quick glance. He tapped his superior on the shoulder, then nodded to Hawk.
"It's Philston. Na doubt about it. I dinna ken how you did it, mon, but congratulations."
To Aubrey he added quietly, "It's Richard Philston, Cecil, and ye know it."
Cecil Aubrey put the photo on Hawk's desk. "Yes. It's Dick Philston. I've waited a long time for this."
Aubrey raised a hand. "But wait — I mean I'd like to hear some of the details. This is amazing and..."
"Later," said Hawk. "Later, Cecil, after we've discussed our own very private business."
Aubrey frowned. Coughed. Then, "Oh, yes. Of course, David. You needn't worry. I keep my bargains."
At the door Nick looked back. He had never seen Hawk in exactly this light before. Of a sudden his boss looked like a wily old cat — a cat with cream smeared all over his whiskers.