by Nick Carter
Brutus made a note on a slip of paper. "Probably the mustache was false too."
"Probably. I know I thought so when I saw it."
Brutus rose from his desk and moved around it, sucking at his pipe. He looked very tired, as if he hadn't slept in days.
"At the moment," he said, "despite the clues, we're a long way from solving the assassination plot. The third note found at the scene tells us nothing more about our man. Or men."
"If the assassin had accomplices," Heather said, "he seems to make sparing use of them."
"Yes, the killings certainly appear to have been accomplished by the same man — although they could give that appearance if directed by one man. At any rate, the Prime Minister has confided to me that he is arranging for payment of the sum demanded."
"Fourteen million pounds?" Heather asked.
"Precisely. We discussed the possibility of tricking our man somehow, loading the plane with phoney money or the like. But there seems little opportunity, the way he has it worked out. The PM will be going to the banks tomorrow for the funds."
I stroked my chin, "I wonder, sir, if money is what this man really wants."
"What do you mean?" Brutus asked.
"He may think he wants the money, on a conscious level," I said, slowly, "but on another level — a more primitive one, a darker one — he may only want to kill."
Brutus sucked his pipe and studied my face. "Yes, I get your meaning. But be that as it may, we must assume that payment of the sum demanded will stop the killings, mustn't we?"
"Yes, sir, I suppose so," I said.
"Right. Well, you two can get some rest now. Keep after that scrap of paper though — there might be something there."
Heather rose from her usual perch on Brutus's desk and I got up from my chair.
"There's one other thing, sir," I said.
"Yes?"
"Hawk told me Augie Fergus had served in the commandos. I think we should get a list of the men in Augie's outfit."
Brutus frowned. "That could be quite a list."
"I'd restrict it to the men in his immediate company. There might be a lead in it."
"Right, Nick," Brutus said. "I'll get on it. Anything else?"
"Just a few hours sleep," I said, grinning.
"I promise not to bother either of you for the rest of the day," he said. "Get yourselves a good meal and some rest."
"Thanks," I said.
Heather and I had dinner at a quiet little restaurant, and then she invited me to her flat for a drink before I returned to my SOE-paid hotel room. I had a bourbon and she took sherry. We sat on a long sofa sipping the drinks.
"I wish I could remember where I've seen the emblem on that scrap of paper," she confessed. "I know I've seen it somewhere and not too long ago."
"There's plenty of time for that tomorrow when you're rested," I said. "Let it all incubate inside until then."
"All right, doctor." She smiled. "I put myself completely under your care."
"Is that a proposition?"
"Take it as you like."
I put my unfinished drink down and reached for her. She melted into my arms, her softness pressing into me. She was wearing a pants suit and shirt and no bra. As I pressed my lips to hers, I brushed my hand across her right breast. The nipple hardened at my touch. My tongue explored her mouth and she responded passionately.
She broke away from me and stood up. "I'll get into something more — appropriate," she said.
She disappeared into the bedroom and I finished my bourbon. The warmth of the liquor spread all through me. I was relaxed and ready. And then Heather returned.
She was wearing an almost-transparent floor-length peignoir.
I undressed and lay down beside her on the sofa. I slid my hand between her thighs and caressed her. A soft sound purred in her throat.
I slipped the peignoir over her head and let it fall to the floor beside me. And she wanted me. It was clear that she wanted me very much. I knew that this would be even better than the last time.
We began leisurely, comfortably, letting the ripples of pleasure pass through us as our bodies touched and the fire slowly flamed up inside. It was sweet, very sweet; the leisurely pace stoked the fire and built it.
As the thrusting and reaching and probing reached a greater intensity, Heather began to tremble. The sounds in her throat grew until they seemed to fill the room. Then it was a primitive plunging, savage in its intensity, as Heather's arms locked tightly around me, her hot thighs pressing me into her, deeper and deeper.
When it was over, I lay back, lit a cigarette and thought about Heather and Hadiya; I couldn't help comparing the two of them. Their ways of making love were as different as their nationalities. Hadiya's was like the North African desert in which she was born: fevered, like a raging sand storm which ended as abruptly as it began. Heather's was more like the English spring: slow to develop, following a long-established pattern, gradually easing into the heat of summer, then tapering off into the cooling spell of fall.
Which was better? I couldn't tell. Each had its advantages. But it would be nice, I thought, to have a steady diet of first one, then the other.
Seven
It was after midnight when I got back to my hotel room and to bed to sleep. About an hour after I dozed off, I awoke suddenly. At first I had no idea what had awakened me and then I heard it again: a soft clicking sound. What was it? And was it inside the room or out?
I lay listening, wanting very much to go back to sleep and knowing that that was a luxury I could not afford. Many an agent has awakened dead, so to speak, because he was too tired or sleepy to check out a strange noise in the middle of the night.
I lay perfectly still, staring into the blackness. Silence surrounded me, punctuated by the traffic noise from the street outside. Was I imagining things, or dreaming?
Fifteen minutes by the luminous face of my watch. I yawned and struggled to keep my eyes open. A half-hour. Surely I had been mistaken. Sleep was pulling at me, dragging me down into its dark, warm pit. My eyelids closed, then popped wide open.
That sound again! That small clicking sound and this time there was no doubt. It came from the door to the corridor. Somebody was moving a key in the lock.
The sound was repeated. Whoever was out there was satisfied that I was asleep.
I eased silently out of bed. The only light in the room came from the window and under the door to the corridor. Now a shadow blocked out the narrow ribbon of light under the door. Yes, somebody was outside and coming in shortly.
I pulled on my pants and a shirt, slipped into my shoes as the tumbler clicked in the lock and the knob began turning. I moved to the chair where my jacket was hanging and reached for the shoulder holster under it. I pulled Wilhelmina free then moved back to the bed and drew the sheet up over the pillow. When the door eased open, I was crouched behind the chair.
A thick-shouldered man entered the room slowly, holding a hand gun in front of him. Another thinner man moved shadow-like behind him. They came into the room soundlessly and stood facing the bed. The thick-shouldered man nodded to the slim one and they aimed their guns at the bed where I had been lying. It was hidden in shadow and they thought I was still there. The guns, big and ugly, had long silencers fitted to their muzzles. Suddenly, three or four shots popped from each gun. I waited until they stopped firing and the bedding was a riddled mess, then I reached up and switched on the light.
"Surprise!" I said, holding Wilhelmina on them.
They whirled to face me, confusion on their faces. I had never seen either of them before.
"Drop the guns," I said firmly.
Apparently I wasn't very persuasive. The thick-shouldered one moved his gun and fired quickly, dropping to one knee. His shot chipped wood from the frame of the overstuffed chair I was using for cover. I ducked as he fired a second time. This time the slug slammed into the chair stuffing.
I hit the floor behind the chair, rolled once and came up firi
ng on the far side. Wilhelmina, sans silencer, roared loudly in the room, the slug tearing into the wall behind the brawny gunman's head. I fired again quickly and the second shot caught the man in the chest, grand-slammed him against the wall. He slid to the floor, leaving a crimson mark on the wall.
The second gunman now popped off another round, chipping flowered paper off the wall behind me, and dived for cover behind the bed. I snapped off a crashing shot but missed my target by inches and shattered the leg of a night table.
I was back behind the chair now. I picked up a fallen ashtray, heaved it to my right and drew fire from my enemy. In the same instant, I moved back to my left, grabbed above my head at the light switch again, darkening the room. I scrambled quickly to the side of a large chest of drawers which afforded good cover from the bed.
The surviving gunman was on his feet, moving toward the door from the bed, firing toward me as he went. The slugs chewed up the wood on the front of the chest. I stayed down, but as he headed out the door I managed to fire another round at him. Unfortunately I missed.
I jumped to my feet and sprang for the door, just in time to see the gunman disappear around the corner in the corridor. He was heading for the back stairs.
I swore under my breath as I stepped quickly back into the room. I grabbed a small attache case and took out a spare magazine for Wilhelmina. I thumbed the old magazine out and then jammed in the new. Then I raced out into the corridor, past a small gathering of wide-eyed hotel personnel and guests, to the back stairs.
By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs and moved out into the alley behind the hotel, the second gunman was nowhere in sight. I ran to the mouth of the alley, looked right then left — and spotted him just turning a corner. I started after him.
I was gaining on him when we emerged into High Holborn, at Euston Square and he saw the entrance to the Tubes — the London subway — and dived into it.
I was there in a moment. As I reached the stairs, I saw him at the bottom, aiming his gun at me. He pulled the trigger but the only sound was a futile click. Apparently the gun had misfired. He swore and threw it down.
"Hold it!" I yelled.
But he disappeared around the bottom of the stairs. I stuck the Luger into my belt and followed.
We hurdled barriers and then I was racing after him along the station platform. An elderly man standing at the edge of the platform, waiting for a train gaped at us as we raced by.
At the end of the platform my man started climbing stairs to another level. He turned and I got a good look at him. He was young and tough; there was both anger and desperation in his face. He bolted up the steps with me close behind.
At the top of the stairs he turned and waited for me. As I closed the distance he kicked out viciously. I fell back a couple of steps and almost lost my balance completely. By the time I reached the top of the stairs, the gunman was already halfway down the platform. I ran after him, trying to regain the ground I had lost.
A train roared into the station but my man made no attempt to board it. Apparently he felt he had a better chance in the station. At the end of the platform, he plummeted down into another stairwell.
A train was just pulling away here. A middle-aged couple had gotten off and seated themselves on a bench. They looked up placidly as the gunman, after a glance back at me, began running again down the platform. But I caught up with him just past the bench. I made a diving lunge and brought him down.
We fell heavily, rolling at the feet of the couple on the bench. They sat there, watching with mild interest, as the man grabbed for my throat.
I broke free with a chop to his forearm, then delivered another chop to his neck. He fell backward. I struggled up on one knee and punched a fist into his face.
He grunted under the impact, but he was not finished. He kicked out at me as I threw myself at him, the blow knocking me sidewise to the edge of the platform. I almost went over.
He saw how close I was to the edge and decided to give me a little help. He kicked, aiming for my side, just as a train came into the station. I grabbed his foot and held on. He tried to jerk free, lost his balance and cartwheeled off the edge of the platform, nearly dragging me with him. His scream was drowned by the train as it roared over him.
The couple who had watched us so placidly were on their feet now, the woman shrieking like a stuck factory whistle.
I turned and headed quickly up the steps. I did not want to explain all this to the police. Not just at the moment.
Eight
"I've got it!" Heather said as I let her into my room. "I've remembered about that emblem!"
I rubbed sleep out of my eyes and followed her inside. She stopped short and stared. Thanks to my uninvited visitors, the place looked like a disaster area.
"What in the world happened here?"
"You'd never believe it."
"Try me," she said.
"A good guess is that the assassin knows I'm on the case and has decided he doesn't want me breathing down his neck. He sent a couple of big fellows with big guns to deliver a one-way ticket to the morgue. I had to get Brutus to pull the police off my back at three a.m."
"But how would the assassin know who you are and what you're here for?" she asked, puzzled.
I shrugged. "A leak in Brutus's office?" I suggested.
"Impossible!" She was indignant.
"I hope so," I said. "Anyway, it means we're getting warm so — what about that emblem?"
Her face brightened again excitedly. "Let me see that paper."
I handed it to her. "Yes," she nodded, "I'm sure of it. It's part of a design for an auto emblem. I just can't remember which one."
I pulled on a shirt and buttoned it. I was beginning to get excited too. "Let's go back and talk to that fellow at the Royal Hotel again," I said. 'That may just be faster than trying to get a list of emblems from the AA."
"I have a taxi waiting."
We drove through a dissipating fog along Millbank, past the massive edifices of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. I knew the House of Commons was in an emergency session at that very moment, debating how to best implement the Prime Minister's decision to comply with the assassin's demand for a fortune in sterling.
At the Royal Hotel, Heather told our man, "We think we may have identified the symbol on the paper we showed you. It seems to me that I've seen it in connection with an automobile."
The hotel clerk thought a moment "You may be right," he said, finally.
"Have you had any guests recently who might have been in London representing some auto firm?" I asked.
He gave us a big smile. "Not a fortnight ago we had a convention of auto makers here."
"Really?" Heather said.
"Quite!" The man was getting as excited as we were. "I can give you a list of all the firms that were represented. In fact, I believe we still have some of the literature they passed around in back, waiting for pickup. Would you like to take a look?"
"Yes we would. Thanks," I said.
He took us to a small storeroom at the rear of the main floor. There were boxes of pamphlets and note paper stacked in a corner. A couple of boxes bore insignia but none that seemed to fit ours.
The desk man went back to his work and we were alone. Heather started looking through one cardboard carton and I took another. Suddenly Heather gave a sharp cry of recognition.
"We've got it, Nick! Look!" She was holding a sheet of paper the same manila color as ours. I moved over to her and studied it.
"Well," I said. "Well, well, well."
The complete emblem showed a scorpion on a field of vine leaves set on a crest shield. We looked at the name of the company printed in an arc above the shield, then at each other.
"Jupiter Motors Limited," Heather said, her face suddenly changing. "Yes, of course."
"Jupiter," I said. "Isn't that your friend?"
"Elmo Jupiter isn't my friend," Heather said flatly. "But he does own Jupiter Motors. Now I know why
the emblem seemed familiar. I've been to one of his showrooms. His plant and offices are on the outskirts of London somewhere."
"Interesting," I said. Something about Elmo Jupiter was tugging at the edge of my mind but I couldn't bring it into focus. I stuck the sheet of note paper, along with the original scrap, into my pocket and steered Heather out of the storeroom and back to the desk.
The hotel clerk was delighted when we told him that we had matched the emblem.
"Smashing!" he said.
"Yes," I agreed. "Now maybe you can do us one more good turn."
"Pleased to."
"We'd like a list of the Jupiter Motors personnel who attended the meetings, if you can manage it,"
"Certainly! We were given a list for each company by the organizer of the affair. I'm sure I still have it somewhere. Excuse me a moment,"
He was back shortly with the list and showed us the names of the Jupiter Motors people. There were three: Derek Forsythe, Percival Smythe and Elmo Jupiter himself.
I thanked the clerk for all his help and Heather and I walked toward the park at Russell Square, slowly, to let our new-found information sink in.
"Jupiter is a Scorpio," Heather said. "Astrologically, I mean. I remember his telling me. That's why the emblem features the scorpion."
"I think. Heather, we should go see Mr. Jupiter," I said.
Jupiter Motors was in a modern building complex out on North End Road. A lot of money had obviously been put into the place. Still, it showed signs of neglect. After a brief exchange with Jupiter's private secretary, we went into his office. He was all smiles, ignoring me and concentrating on Heather.
"Well, Heather!" he said warmly. "What a pleasant surprise."
"You told me to get in touch," Heather said as he took her hand and held it. "Richard here is frightfully interested in cars and hoped he could have a look through your plant."
Jupiter focused his hard brown eyes on me. He wasn't bad-looking, I had to admit, with an athletic, muscular build. But those hard eyes spoiled an otherwise handsome face.