Fraulein Spy

by Nick Carter

  Death and Consolation

  "Mark, darling, you are impossible…" Elena Darby stopped in mid-sentence and bit her Up. "I'm sorry, Dr. Gerber. That was very forward of me. It's just that sometimes you exasperate me like a… well, like a…"

  Dr. Mark Gerber grinned at her in the dashboard light as he tooled his compact car along one of the highways feeding Los Angeles and its suburbs. Elena really was extraordinarily beautiful; so much more decorative — and intelligent — than the sweet but cowlike Barbara who had left to get married about three months ago.

  "Like a what, Miss Darby, darling?" he said lightly, with a tiny flash of his old spirit.

  "Like a brother," she said crisply. "Like a stubborn, pigheaded kid brother. Not like a father, at any rate. And not so stubborn that I'll ever refuse to have you call me 'darling, " she said, as unaware as he of the dark-gray Hornet that discreetly followed them into the turnoff. "Dr. Gerber, I'm serious. You must see that your work will suffer if you go on driving yourself so hard. You simply have to take time off to rest."

  "Well, the least you can do is call me Mark," he said. "And I suppose Doctors Harrison and Leibowitz have been huddling with you again to pressure me, is that it?" He glanced at her, his face drawn with fatigue. "Don't you think I can take care of myself — at slightly more than twice your age?"

  "It isn't a question of age." Elena shook her head with a touch of impatience and her red hair shimmered in the beam of a street light. "Nearly everyone can use a little unsolicited advice once in a while. Why do you keep telling me how old you are? You're not old. And I don't go into huddles with people about pressuring you into anything. All I'm saying is that you're working yourself into the ground, and everybody knows it. You've got to stop it. That's all I'm saying."

  He smiled a little sadly. "It's an old story. Anna used to tell me that all the time."

  "Your wife?" Elena looked at the strong face that stared at the road ahead as if it were an empty future. "She'd tell you the same thing now, if she were here. Mark, Universal Electronics isn't going to fall apart if you take some time off. But you may, if you don't. I know I'm only your secretary, but if I'm interfering it's only because…"

  "My dear Elena. Please!" Gerber swung the car onto a wide boulevard and picked up speed. The gray Hornet behind them turned smoothly as if it knew the intersection well, and let Gerber's compact pull several blocks ahead before accelerating gently. "Don't give me that 'I'm only your secretary' routine." His faint German accent blended pleasantly with his American phrasing. "I am not accusing you of interfering. I appreciate your interest. But the work is about all that I have left." He concentrated on the road ahead. "Now, it is the next street to the right, is it not?"

  "Yes, that's it." She eyed him thoughtfully. "I have two nice steaks waiting in the refrigerator. Why don't you have dinner with me?"

  Gerber made the turn. "Elena, you are very sweet, but you know I only came out for that quick cup of coffee you promised me. I have to get back to the lab."

  "Here we are," she said. They stopped in front of an attractive garden apartment. Gerber slid out of his seat and walked around to open her door. Elena got out with a graceful display of leg that Gerber could hardly help noticing.

  "I have a slow coffeepot and a fast broiler," Elena said, "so by the time the coffee's ready we can have eaten our dinner. Now where can you get a better deal than that?" She slammed the car door decisively.

  Gerber smiled and took her arm lightly.

  "Please, Mark," she said.

  He looked into her eyes and nodded slowly. "Thank you, Elena. I shall enjoy dining with you."

  They walked up the flower-lined concrete path to her street-level apartment. Neither of them noticed that the gray car had passed them as they talked on the sidewalk and had turned into a side street. Neither of them saw the dark-blue Cruisemaster that was parked on the corner nearest to Elena's home occupied by a man whose eyes were not intent upon the sports page of his newspaper but upon them.

  A few minutes short of an hour later Dr. Mark Gerber left Elena's apartment, feeling a glow of well-being he had not felt since Anna's sudden death.

  The blue Cruisemaster was slowly moving a block and a half away by the time Gerber started his car, moving as if looking for a street number.

  Gerber passed it.

  After two or three blocks it picked up speed behind him. The gray Hornet nosed out of its side street and took up the Cruisemaster's watching position.

  The driver sat and waited.

  * * *

  At least Nick didn't have to worry about fingerprints. Not that he intended being questioned by the police; it was just that he had decided some time ago not to leave his prints scattered around the world for the police of various nations to pick up at scenes of violence, store away for future reference or cross-file with Interpol, and then triumphantly trot out for his embarrassment when he turned up at some later scene and date in a different guise. AXE's Editing Department had devised a pair of incredibly lifelike gloves that looked for all the world like the skin of a healthy human hand. The intricate whorls were nearly all there, along with the short hairs, the nails, the tiny folds and the veins; but the fingertips were smooth and the palms were Editing's own personalized pattern.

  Unfortunately the skinlike gloves were so finely fashioned that they were no protection against flying glass.

  With his handkerchief wrapped tightly around his bleeding hand, Nick bent over Friedrich Hauser for a lightning search. He was not surprised when he found nothing of interest. Hauser, though, was Hauser down to the skin.

  Martin Bormann…! Well, it was unexpected, but it wasn't impossible. For years, rumors had persisted that the missing Nazi was somewhere in Argentina. It looked as though the rumors had been right.

  Nick straightened up from the messy lump that was Hauser's body and moved over to the window. Nothing was stirring in the street outside. The sound of the retreating car had faded out and the neighbors hadn't emerged to take its place. Probably all clutching their telephones and yelling murder, Nick thought. He toured the living room briskly and took his glass with him on his hunt for the kitchen and a back door. In the kitchen he washed out the glass, wiped it, and put it away with others like it. It wouldn't take the police long to discover that Hauser had had company, but it wouldn't hurt to stall them off a little.

  There was a door leading from the kitchen into a small back garden and another leading from Hauser's study onto a paved walk that curved to the street in front of the house. Neither of them were much good as rear exits but they would have to do.

  Nick searched through Hauser's study in the dim light, wishing he could turn a light on but knowing that any change in lighting would be spotted by a watcher. Holding his pencil flashlight in his aching hand he pulled at desk drawers and swiftly sorted through the contents. The top right-hand drawer of the solid desk was locked. Lockpicker's Special, he said to himself, and pulled it out of his pocket.

  Why was Hauser shot? he wondered as he worked. Seems obvious at first glance; maybe it's not so obvious. First question: Why would Bormann — if it was Bormann — reveal his secret to a fellow like Hauser? Maybe he didn't. Maybe Hauser accidentally found out something he wasn't supposed to know, least of all tell. Second question: Did he really know where Bormann was, or was he guessing? In that case, third question: If he was guessing, why was he shot?

  The drawer slid open. Nick's good left hand probed into it.

  Possible answer number one: His killers didn't know how much he knew and didn't want to take any chances. Possible answer number — just a minute, Carter. If you had been in their shoes, wouldn't you have waited to hear what he was going to spill and then shot both Hauser and the fellow he was spilling to? Or could it be that they wanted the so-called Karl Gruber of Achtung! to go around with his fragmentary story and either nurse it to himself or spread it about?

  Nick shook his head. Hardly. More likely the killer had an itchy finger and shot before
too much truth came out. And then he probably hadn't expected Hauser's visitor to come up shooting. So he and his getaway man had decided to hightail it out of there.

  There were personal letters in the drawer and some papers pertaining to Hauser's used-car business. Nick took them. But they scarcely seemed vital enough to warrant locking up. His fingers reached deep into the drawer and upward to stroke the underside of the desktop. A small piece of paper was taped to it. He worked it loose.

  Now if I had been in their shoes, he thought to himself, I might have second thoughts about leaving that fellow Gruber around. Maybe he saw something from that window as he was firing back; maybe he could recognize the gunman. And with that thought in mind, what would I do? I think I might just come back very quietly and have another crack at Gruber either before or after he talks to the police.

  The paper came out in one piece. Nick shone the pencil beam onto it and stared. My God. What a bloody fool. Keeps his safe combination in his desk drawer. Now Where's the safe? No doubt behind a picture.

  And I would certainly make every effort to get here before the police. I would assume that Gruber had called them and was waiting for them — or that he would do exactly what I am doing. And I would catch him at it if he didn't hurry.

  There was a safe behind a drab still life that hung at right angles to the outside wall with its side door and one high window. Nick's glove-covered fingers worked at the combination lock.

  It was still quiet outside.

  What had Hauser actually said about Bormann…? He certainly had given the impression that Bormann might have gone to Germany. Impression to whom? Any listener, inside the room or out of it. Logically, Hauser could have been expected to follow up shortly with — "He is in the Black Forest, my friend!" Or Hamburg, or Munich, or Berlin, or Bonn, or on the other side of the Wall, but in Germany.

  The dial clicked softly.

  So he was shot to prevent him from saying where in Germany. Or he was shot because the place he was going to name was not Germany. Too devious, Carter. Best ride along — until you have good reason to believe otherwise — with the idea that he was killed to prevent him from telling the truth, and that careful killers cover up their tracks.

  The safe swung open.

  The very idea of Bormann being alive and perhaps back in Germany with a couple of scientists could be a dangerous little nugget of supposition to carry around. It had been for Hauser. And it could be for writer Karl Gruber.

  A pair of binoculars came out in Nick's groping hand. He studied them quickly. Big, old-fashioned but very powerful. Made in Germany maybe twenty-five to thirty years ago. Why keep binoculars in the safe? Perhaps for Hauser they were a treasured reminder of the good old days. And he could reach from the safe, take a half-turn right, and look straight out of the high window at… That's right. Nick had scouted it a couple of days ago, even before meeting Hauser. Branson's house, the Branson he had thought was Judas.

  Nick raised the binoculars. A corner of the house next door leapt into his eye. Blank wall. He turned the huge, high-powered lenses slowly to the right. A side doorway, similar to the one near him, sprang into brilliant close-up from almost three blocks away. The arrangement of the houses between, and the angle of the one he watched, made it possible for him to get an unobstructed profile view of the two people who stood talking and gesturing at the study door of what had been Branson's house. One of the strangers was apparently the user of the study and the other a visitor. If the man who had called himself Bronson had received visitors at his side door — a couple of scientists, say — Hauser and his binoculars could have caught them as plainly as if they had been standing outside his own window.

  Nick left the binoculars on the desk top. The police might care to try them on for size. His ears straining for any change in the soft night sounds, he went on hunting through the safe.

  Money. Bundles of notes in several foreign currencies. A passport; Hauser's picture but another name and nationality. A large manila envelope stuffed with pictures, dog-eared and faded replicas of the stiff groups who had posed while their medals were still shiny and their uniforms still crisp. Jackboots and swastikas. Army vehicles in a parade. A reviewing platform. Close-ups of hard faces. Civilians and military around conference tables. Groups of men with tight clothes and tighter smiles. Familiar, hated faces, some of them; some of them unknown to Nick.

  He took what he thought would be of value to AXE and left the rest for the police. He was replacing the passport and the money when he heard the quiet footfalls in the back garden. By the time the footsteps had reached the kitchen door the drab painting was back in place and the desk drawer was locked.

  Nick catfooted into the tiny back hallway and listened. Anyone who had known him as the rather languid Karl Gruber would have been surprised to see the alertness of the bland face and the controlled and silent grace of the tall, loose-limbed body. They would have been surprised, too, to know the speed, strength and superb condition of that magnificent body; but that would have been nothing compared to their surprise at finding out that this man's fellow agents and his enemies called him Killmaster, the most lethal and dangerous man of all the lethal and dangerous men in the specialized service of AXE.

  There was a soft swishing sound from the back door as of something — celluloid, probably — sliding past the lock. Nick waited in the darkness, quietly tucking the loot from Hauser's safe into the waistband of his trousers and securing it with his jacket. If this fellow took any longer about getting in there might be a chance for a quick look at the bedroom. Nick took a couple of silent steps through the hallway toward the bedroom and heard the back door come open with a faint, creaking sigh. He pivoted and felt a little rush of wind against his face. Soft-heeled shoes came slowly, silently toward him. With any luck he would be able to have a little talk with this fellow before they were interrupted. Wilhelmina slid into his ready hand.

  He heard the siren a full two seconds before the small man who was carefully entering the back hallway, and regretfully realized that question-time was over before it had begun. Wilhelmina turned in his hand and became a stripped-down club instead of a wartime Luger.

  The man heard the siren, hesitated for a moment, then hurried toward the lighted living room. Apparently he assumed that Gruber was sitting up with the corpse and that he still had time to blow Gruber's brains out before the sirens stopped outside the front door.

  Nick flattened himself against the wall and snaked out one long, agile leg, and one long, muscular arm. The little man yelped with surprise and alarm. His feet shot out beneath him and his gun pointed ceilingward for one useless moment before clattering to the floor. He gulped and hissed some vile word. Nick brought a swift, relentless foot down onto his abdomen, shuttled Wilhelmina into his own uncut hand, and brought her down decisively on the man's temple. It really was too bad that he couldn't have put him out without marking him up, but there'd been no time for subtlety.

  He stepped over the small crumpled figure and headed for the back door. The sirens sounded as though they were about two blocks away. That was fine. It gave Nick time to duck through Hauser's back garden and somebody else's before windows started opening.

  Half an hour later he was back in the International Club, his original meeting place with Hauser, having stopped at the modest hotel room he kept under yet another name and cleaned himself up. Cleaning himself consisted of removing and hiding the filched papers and attending to his cut hand before pulling on half of his spare pair of Editing's gloves.

  He sat at the bar nursing his Scotch and talking idly to a fellow he knew only as Ruppert, one of the many Buenos Aires businessmen who hovered on the fringe of the German community without giving away too much about their own background. Nick was hoping that somehow, miraculously, he would get some lead on Bronson before having to go into hiding from the police who, sooner or later, were going to check on the magazine writer who had been so friendly with Hauser for the past couple of days.

&n
bsp; "You will be here long?" Ruppert asked, not really caring.

  Nick shook his head, his mind on Judas and Bormann and Hauser.

  "Leaving tomorrow."

  "Oh. Short trip. Enjoy it?"

  Nick shrugged. "It's always good to renew old acquaintances."

  Ruppert eyed him curiously. "Have you found many? You perhaps knew Hauser before?"

  "Hauser? No, just got talking to him. Wanted to find out where to reach Hugo Bronson — I have greetings for him. Speaking of Hauser, I wonder where he is? I was supposed to meet him here tonight."

  Ruppert raised a nostril and an eyebrow in unison.

  "I'm afraid Friedrich does not always remember his appointments. But if all you wanted was to send greetings to Bronson — did you say from Berlin friends? Or is it Bonn you're from?"

  "I am from Bonn," Nick answered. "The message comes from friends in Switzerland. The Von Reineckes," he invented rapidly.

  "Von Reinecke? Von Reinecke? I wonder if I have heard him mention that name?" Ruppert drew his brows together and tugged at his chin. "Ah, well, no matter. He has many friends." Ruppert reached into his pocket and drew out a small notebook. "I have it here somewhere." He riffled through the pages. "Ah! Care of Paul Zimmer, Wilhelmstrasse 101B, Berlin. In of course the Western Zone."

  Nick stared. "Uh… that's Bronson's address?"

  Ruppert looked at him with faint surprise. "Of course. Who else? You did want it, didn't you?"

  Two Down… And More to Go?

  "Oh, I'm glad to have it," Nick said sincerely, and took a large mouthful of Scotch. "The Von Reineckes will be so pleased. You are a good friend of Branson's?"

  Ruppert lifted one casual shoulder. "Acquaintance, through the Club. We all knew him."

  "Hmm," said Nick, wondering how far he could push all the questions that leapt to mind. "You've been the first man so far who's been able to tell me where I can find him."