by Nick Carter
There was a drainpipe around the back, custom-built for night visitors. For all Nick knew it housed an electrical current that could kill a horse, but it was unlikely; short of being downright lethal, it seemed to be a better bet than the doors or ground-floor windows. Nick drifted from shadow to shadow on his ridged rubber shoes with the hard inner lining and angled around the end of the block to the back of Paul Zimmer's house.
If he had been deliberately led to this address, whoever had refused to answer his ring at the door might well expect him to try again in some less orthodox way.
Nick hugged the wall near the drainpipe and waited. The house was as quiet as a crypt and, as far as he could tell, empty. But there was no way for him to know who might have come and gone via the back way while he'd had his eyes glued to the front. He didn't even know what Paul Zimmer looked like. According to the Berlin authorities he had come from Hamburg about a year ago and appeared to be an honest, respectable citizen. They did not have his picture or his fingerprints; they had no reason to. According to his neighbors and the nearby storekeepers, Zimmer was a middle-aged, ordinary looking man who lived alone, only occasionally had visitors though he got quite a lot of mail, and always carried his groceries himself.
Something scuttled near Nick's feet. A healthy looking mouse popped out of the drainpipe, saw the strange foot raised as if in menace, and hurried back into its pipe. Moments later it came out again and had a look around before scampering back in. It was alive, well, and impatient. Nick was pleased; at least the drainpipe wasn't loaded. He tested the pipe for strength. It seemed sturdy enough to hold him. He started up with his feet braced against the wall, his strong hands drawing him upward much as if he were an islander climbing a coconut tree.
His last few days in Argentina had been a frustration of waiting for Agent C-4 to arrive. By the time Nick had left only two things had happened: the killer he had slugged in Hauser's back hallway had strangled himself in his cell; and C-4 had brought him enlargements and identifications of the photographs Nick had marked.
He shinnied past the downstairs windows. Not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse. The thick curtains were motionless, and instinct told him that there was no one in the rooms. Yet he had the feeling that there was someone somewhere in the house.
One of the photographs had shown Hauser himself in uniform on the fringe of a group that included such criminal luminaries as Hitler, Von Ribbentrop, Goebbels, Himmler, Bormann, and several others whom Hawk had identified for him. Someone, presumably Hauser, had very lightly encircled the heads of Bormann and Hauser. A second photograph had shown a group of men in civilian clothes around a conference table. This, too, had revealed two faint pencil marks. According to Hawk, the picture was a group study of Germany's top wartime scientists, and the two figures pointed up by the pencil marks were Konrad Scheuer and Rudolf Dietz. Konrad Scheuer had gone to Britain and had been teaching and doing research at an English University lab for the past few years — until he had mysteriously disappeared only to reappear just as mysteriously (and much more briefly) in West Berlin. Dietz had gone to Australia after the war; now he, too, was missing.
Nick reached the top of the drainpipe and stretched his flexible, Yoga-trained body toward the window on the right.
The implications were that Hauser had identified Scheuer and Dietz as the two scientists who had visited Bronson-Bormann via the study door so clearly revealed by Hauser's powerful binoculars. And Scheuer had since been seen in West Berlin, only to vanish as mysteriously as he had come. The German informer who had revealed the sighting to AXE had heard it from someone who knew someone who had talked to someone who had seen someone… and the start of the trail was lost in the mist of rumor. But that Scheuer had been seen, someone was sure. Nick had studied the enlargements until he felt that he would recognize every figure in the pictures unless age and disguise had changed them completely; and he had followed the informer's trail until the dead end had stared him in the face and he had turned his search to Wilhelmstrasse 101B and the unsociable Paul Zimmer.
He crouched on the window ledge and squinted through dirt-smudged windowpanes at a dim upstairs landing. Still no sound from within. The window was shut but it slid open with a little persuasion. Nick let himself in and waited in a dark corner of the landing for his eyes to become accustomed to the thick darkness.
A carpeted stairway led down; nothing led up. There were four closed doors on the landing. After a long moment of listening and looking, Nick catfooted over to the first of the doors and opened it. A bathroom. Lavishly equipped with gleaming fixtures, soft towels, thick bathmat, and a cupboard full of cosmetics that included some shaving soap and quantities of aromatic powders and liquids. Nick sniffed appreciatively. Very feminine; very expensive.
The second of the doors opened with a creak that made him freeze into silence with one hand on Wilhelmina. But there was no sound after that one plaintive squawk, and when he went in after the probing beam of his pencil flashlight there was nothing to challenge him.
It was a man's room, furnished for a man and full of a man's personal possessions. And yet they were not so personal as to give away anything about the absent occupant: store-bought suits with Berlin labels, carelessly shined but sturdy shoes, underwear, handkerchiefs. No mail, wallet, keys, money, letters… It was for all the world like a room in a boarding house or transient hotel, except that even transients usually left more revealing trivia scattered about. The blank nothingness of the room contrasted oddly with the luxury of the bathroom. Paul Zimmer's room or his guest's? No way of telling. Nothing led back to either Buenos Aires or Munich.
Nick left the room and glided across the landing. Two more doors. One was a walk-in closet jumbled with linen and coats and suitcases. Yet there were no labels, no tags, no small giveaway items to suggest the personality of their owners.
The fourth door, leading to a room which he knew must face the front of the house, opened without the slightest sound. Nick stepped onto a soft carpet and sniffed an aromatic echo of the bathroom scents. The dim light from the street diluted the darkness so that he could see the furnishings. His eyes focused on one of them while his mind turned over two thoughts: One, he could have sworn that the drapes had been shielding the window during the entire length of his seige across the street, and now they were open; and two…
The piece of furniture that riveted his attention was fascinating. It was a bed, and it was occupied. What occupied it was an alluring arrangement of mounds and curves that were only partly hidden by a single coverlet and that were unmistakably, gloriously, lavishly feminine.
Nick's heart lifted a notch and he smiled in the semidarkness. The life of a spy was sordid and savage, but it had its compensations — sweet-smelling surprises, traps laced with honey, delightful detours into dalliance with beauty… He closed the door behind him. A nearby chair moved under his silent grasp and jammed beneath the doorknob.
He moved silently across the carpet and drew the drapes across the window. Next stop, a huge closet full of feminine frippery and a few male suits, and no one hidden within; a little dressing room and more low-cut gowns. Then back into the bedroom, low and even breathing, and the pencil flashlight aiming at the bed.
The coverlet was nothing but a soft sheet reaching no further than the waist. Above it were two superbly rounded breasts, a soft, smooth throat, a cascade of silky, yellow hair, and the face of a sleeping goddess.
She was one of the most incredibly beautiful women Nick had ever seen, and his experience was vast.
The shape beneath the sheet was that of Venus; the bared, twin mounds were invitations to undreamed-of pleasure; the soft skin, gently-molded features, unbelievably long eyelashes and flushed lips were pulse-catching perfection.
The lovely breasts rose provocatively and a sigh came from the parted lips. The exquisite body moved in the bed and lovely arms reached out. The goddess spoke.
"Hugo, my love… my sweet…" a thrilling voice murmured. "Yo
u are back, at last. Come to me, my darling."
The Man Who Wasn't There
"Mmhmm," said Nick.
He let the light play gently over and around her. Its beam fell onto an unusually well-equipped night table; there were two champagne bottles in the ice bucket and only one of them had been opened. Come to think of it, it was rather warm for May and he was a little thirsty.
"Please, liebchen." The low voice rippled through him. "Are you not coming to bed?"
"Uhmmmm." Nick growled sexily in his throat. This Hugo must really have something; his lady love could hardly wait. There were two glasses on the champagne tray. One was bottoms-up and seemed to be unused, and the other was dewy-looking and positioned where dreamboat would be likely to put it after sipping.
Nick jabbed the flashlight around the room, into the corners, even under the bed. Nothing stirred but the languorous figure inadequately covered — deliciously uncovered — by die sheet.
"Hugo, sweetie, what are you doing? Come to bed, my love, and let me feel you near me. Or shall we have a little drink first?"
"Uh-huh," said Nick, and tried to sound like a man busy taking off his trousers.
"Then you do it," the sleepy vision murmured. "You pour."
"Uh-uh," Nick muttered into his jacket. "You."
"Ahhhh, you are so masterful." The heavenly creature sighed and stirred. Nick doused the flashlight beam and waited.
In the thick darkness he sensed her reaching for the bedside lamp.
"And then we will make love together," she whispered, her breath catching a little in anticipation. Light flooded the bed and the truly beautiful woman who reclined upon it.
"Do you really think we should?" Nick asked hopefully.
She gasped. One graceful, ring-free hand leapt to her mouth and the immense, lash-curtained eyes became pools of alarmed surprise.
"You are not Hugo!"
"No," Nick agreed. "I am not Hugo. But perhaps I will do until Hugo comes along…? Don't be alarmed; Hugo has always said that any friend of his was a friend of mine. You were about to pour?"
"Oh! Oh!" The silky tresses fell forward as the lovely eyes looked down upon the two superbly naked hills that did so much to beautify the landscape. She grasped the sheet and pulled it up to cover her sumptuous bosom — no easy task, for the coverlet was skimpy and she was of a generosity not commonly seen. Nick watched admiringly.
"How did you get in here, anyway?" The brilliant eyes were wide awake and snapping angry fire.
"I thought Hugo would be in here, and I had to come without being seen. It is most urgent that I warn him of his danger. Do you know where I can find him?"
"Danger?" she echoed. The sheet dropped a couple of inches.
Nick perched casually on the edge of the bed. "I am sure you know that he has enemies," he said, eyeing the top of the sheet. "And it is most careless of him to leave you here without protection." He narrowed his eyes and made his tone harden. "That is something else I will have to warn him about."
She stared at him, seeing a strikingly handsome man with steel gray eyes, a generous mouth, and an air of authority. "But I do have… that is, he did leave…" and her words trailed off weakly.
Nick laughed softly. But there was a hint of menace in his tone. "Those men downstairs?" She nodded. "So sorry to disappoint you, my lovely," he said easily. So there were men somewhere downstairs. "But they are not what you think they are — nor what Hugo thinks they are. Now when did you say he'd be back? Not that I'm in such a great hurry now that I've seen you." He smiled down at her very gently, watching her eyes meet his and knowing without conceit that she was sizing up — and approving — his physical attributes.
"Why, I thought he'd be… well, I'm expecting him any minute." The sheet dropped another notch, revealing a cleavage that was big enough to fall into. "You will wait? But what is your name? Who are you?"
"Klaus," said Nick. "As in Nikolaus. And I am a friend, as I have told you." But his tone managed to indicate that he was slightly more than friend, that he was in some way Hugo's superior and somehow displeased though not with Gorgeous. "What is your name?"
"Brigitte," said the dazzling one. "Please do not be angry. He will be back soon. Perhaps you would like a glass of champagne while you wait?"
"That will be most pleasant," said Nick. She reached for the open bottle and the sheet slid down to her waist. Her body was roses and cream, and she looked ready for… practically anything.
"But a fresh bottle, I think," said Nick, miraculously dividing his attention between the marvelous peaks, the ice bucket, and her warm blue eyes. The seductive mounds quivered acquiescently, the bottle was deliciously cold, and Brigitte's eyes seemed to hold a tiny gleam of triumph. Why? he wondered. A mickey in the sealed bottle and not in the open one?
He was certain that neither the wire nor the cork of the bottle had ever been removed before. No false bottom to the bottle; not the smallest hole in the cork. Nick eased the bottle open with the tiniest of pops.
He poured two full glasses and clinked his against hers. "To Hugo's safe and prompt return," he said, and tilted back his head. She drank first; eagerly and thirstily. And quickly. He sipped and watched her.
They were silent for a few moments, and then he said: "How did Hugo manage to find someone as lovely as you? He has certainly managed to keep you secret from me."
Brigitte laughed. "He does not talk much, does he? Not even to me. With me, he does not seem to feel the need of talk." She took a long, slow sip of her champagne. The swelling breasts rose with the movement of her arm; languidly, carelessly, she pulled the sheet up to almost cover herself. "You are slow," she said, handing her emptied glass to him. "Have more."
Nick put both glasses down and reached for the bottle.
"Hugo treats you well, does he?"
"Marvelously," she purred.
"Huh," said Nick. "I don't think much of his care in selecting bodyguards for you. What do you know of those oafs downstairs?" He poured.
She smiled at him, lazy and comfortable as a cat. "Nothing. He is the one who left them here. You had better ask him. But can I ask you something?" The long lashes, surprisingly dark in contrast to her yellow-blonde hair, swooped down over the warm blue eyes.
"Yes, what?" Nick picked up her glass to hand it to her.
"No, put that down, please. For just one moment." Brigitte's eyes — magnetic, sirenlike, hypnotic — stroked over his face. Nick put the glass down and gazed at her. Something stirred inside him. When she spoke, her voice was a throaty, pleading whisper.
"Am I ugly? Are you such a good friend of Hugo's that you can just sit there and — and hardly even look at me? Hugo looks at me." She controlled the slightest of shudders. "But you. Are you ice, like the champagne? Do I revolt you?" She gave him a look that started his pulse pounding like a sledge hammer; a look that mingled longing with a trace of fear, hesitancy with boldness.
"Don't tempt me, Brigitte. I am far from ice. But even if I were, you'd make me melt."
"Then melt — just a little. Do you know that Hugo…" She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. "You said that you were not in such a great hurry to see him. There is no need to be so cold." Her hand brushed his cheek on its way to hide itself under the sheet. "Or are you so important and so tough that you have forgotten how to kiss?"
"I have not forgotten," Nick said gently. He leaned over her and pulled down the sheet, baring her magnificence down to her hips. She gasped a little and brought her arms up to encircle him as he lowered his lips to hers. She kissed like a witch burning in flames of desire; kissed like a passionate woman meeting her lover after months of agonized absense; burned against him as though she would weld the two of them together with her ecstasy. Nick's senses reeled. He was almost unbearably aroused. Her perfume wafted over him like a sweet sedative and the feel of her body made him twang inside. Her tongue was doing things to his that suggested a union far more intimate.
But her right arm didn't seem to be quit
e with the spirit of the moment. The left was clinging for two while the right was doing something very unloving over the tabletop. Nick saw one eye opening fractionally and closing again as the arm came back and twined firmly around him. Nick burned his kiss hotly into her demanding mouth and pulled away briefly to draw breath and clasp one of her eager breasts with a not-too-gentle hand. His swift glance at the glasses on the tabletop caught a glimpse of a little extra fizz and something white and powdery in his glass.
He bent over her again, closer this time so that the top of his body pinned her to the pillow. And he kissed as he had never kissed before, while his hands went under the sheet and stroked and probed until she trembled and lay bare. Slowly, then, with little false suggestive moves, he drew one hand free while she took the other and guided it where she wanted it. For a moment her body supported his while she went on scaling the peak of passion and his free hand roamed over the tabletop. Carefully, without hurrying, he moved her glass first and then his own. Then he held her closely with both arms and writhed his body against hers.
Suddenly he straightened up, breathing rapidly, harshly.
"No," he said. "No, Brigitte. Not like this. Wait until I have finished with Hugo. Then we will make love property." He trailed his hand up between her legs and over her body, letting it rest beneath one excited breast.
"Don't stop now," she gasped, squeezing his hand against her. "Let us be improper! Love me now and love me hard!" Her eyes sent sparks into his.
He kissed her again. "Later," he murmured into her hair. "Later, when we are sure we will not be disturbed. Then I will make love to you in a way that you never will forget." He freed one hand and reached for the glass he had exchanged with his own. "You have given me a thirst I must cool down. To us!" He raised his glass to her and took one long, slow sip that seemed much bigger than it actually was. "Beautiful Brigitte…"