Fraulein Spy

by Nick Carter

  She propped herself up languorously and let one hand trail over his trousered legs. It seemed to him that she was watching the dispatch of his drink with interest.

  "So you don't want to make love to me now. When is later, Klaus? How much later?" She reached for her glass and laughed softly. "If you think you are thirsty now — wait. Just wait. I will love you so that you are drained and dry. Then we will drink, and you will want more love." She drank. "Why do you not forget about Hugo? I see that you have barred the door. If he comes, I will call to him to go away — I am not in the mood for him tonight."

  "And does Hugo take that sort of thing from you?" Nick asked.

  Brigitte looked thoughtful. Her deep blue eyes seemed to consider. "He takes everything from me," she said eventually. "Too much, I think, sometimes. You know what he is," and a small pinch mark appeared between her eyes. "Hard. Too hard. Almost brutal. And no longer so young. You know." She gulped the cold, bubbly liquid. Nick sipped and nodded gravely. "But because he is old," she went on, "he is a little bit afraid of me. When I tell him stay out, he stays out. Otherwise…" She laughed gaily. "No love tomorrow night or the next night or the next night. So he must behave, is that not so?" She tossed back the dregs and handed Nick her glass. "More. Finish yours. Fill up; let us be cool." She laughed again as Nick finished his drink and thought to himself that she was finding something in the situation inordinately funny.

  He refilled the glasses, thinking: Could she have pulled a double switch?

  "Tell me," she said, "how you knew where to come. Hugo said he only told his friends in South America where he would be. Are you from South America? You don't look as though you're from South America."

  Her words were slurring just a little. To his relief, Nick felt as clear-headed as if he'd just stepped out of a cold shower.

  "Hugo seems to have made a number of small mistakes lately," he said smoothly. "But the worst, I think, was leaving you for me to find. What makes the old fool think he'll ever get you back? Here, your glass. A little more…"

  "Nice," she gurgled. "Very nice. Yes, more, please."

  The landing outside her door and the rooms across the hall were dark and silent. The floor below was as quiet as a grave. But beneath that, in a stone-lined, musty wine cellar, three men sat around a table and played cards. Two, young and thickset, seemed slightly on edge. The third was older, and though his clothes were soiled and in disarray, he bore an air of cold authority. The cards slap-slapped.

  One of the young men, Dieter, pushed back his chair impatiently. "It is too slow, this, Paul. How do we know what he is doing upstairs? How can we tell what success the girl is having?"

  Paul Zimmer smiled unpleasantly. "Young men are always impatient. You do not understand the niceties of careful planning. We knew the minute he came in, did we not?" He glanced at a signal board on the wall, a cunningly contrived adaptation of the bell-indicator in an oldtime butler's pantry. A blue light glowed next to the number 5. "And we have known, to the second, when he crossed the hall, entered the bathroom, entered my room, entered the other, have we not?"

  Dieter nodded. "Yes, but…"

  "And what do you think he is doing now, my good fellow? Eh? Curling up with a good book?" Zimmer barked with laughter. "It is all going according to plan, you can be sure. What can go wrong, hah? You tell me — what can go wrong?" With his thin lips curved back over his yellow teeth he looked more like a wolf than ever.

  Dieter shrugged sullenly. "Nothing, I suppose. Only I think we should get ready."

  "Ja, what are we supposed to do now?" the other massive young man, Hans, rumbled gutturally.

  Zimmer flexed his hands into ugly, clawlike shapes.

  "Think, Hans. Not too much, not to hurt yourself. Think of your muscles and how you are going to use them." Zimmer's eyes glittered. "Spring the rat from his trap and drag him down here where we can all enjoy him, each in our own way. How would you like that, Hans?"

  Hans grinned and rippled his shoulder muscles. "I like that. But what about the woman? Do we divide her up also?"

  Dieter snorted. "God, listen to the fool. Is this the animal you have given me to work with, Zimmer?"

  "You mistake yourself, Hans. That is not what the woman is for. One hand on her, and you are the one to be divided up. Understand?"

  "Ja, I only asked," Hans said with apparent good nature.

  "But the man," said Zimmer. Anyone watching him closely would have seen a little dribble of saliva coming from the corner of his mouth. "The man we do with what we will… as long as we keep him alive until he has told us everything we want to know." The saliva trickled down his chin.

  It was very much warmer upstairs.

  "A li'l more," Brigitte crooned. "Jus' a li'l more. And kiss me, lover. Love me love me love me… mmmmm! But gimme a glass first. Le's drink to us. Us in bed!" She chuckled softly.

  Nick refilled her glass. Brigitte was genuinely, deliciously tipsy. And unlike most women when they have had one or two or three too many, she looked even younger and more beautiful than before. Her startlingly blue eyes gleamed with delight and her skin was delicately flushed. She smiled, and endearing little dimples punctuated her cheeks. The intimate explorations of her fluttering hands, the abandon of her lovely, naked body, the obvious eagerness of her voluptuous breasts, all seemed without the guile or shame that would have made her lascivious. Sexy, yes, devastatingly. Lascivious… somehow, no. A baby doll. Lolita plus six or seven years.

  She leaned forward suddenly, splashing a few drops of champagne on Nick's knee, and planted a kiss on the side of his nose.

  "Handsome," she murmured. "Strong. Want you rape me."

  Nick kissed her in return and tickled her ear.

  "What's that funny stuff you put in my drink, Brigitte baby?" he murmured. "Makes me feel… makes me feel real good." He felt a little, just to prove his point.

  Brigitte giggled. "Oh, that. Tha's supposed to make you tell me story of your life, my Nikolaus, my Nicky."

  Scopalamine, sodium pentothal, something of the sort. Certainly was having a curious effect on her.

  "A bore, a blank, a waste of time 'til I met you," he answered soulfully. "Brigitte, honey, what is your real name, hmm? And what are you doing in this place?"

  She chuckled again. "Elsa Schmidt," she gurgled. "The Club thought Brigitte was such a wunnerful sexy name. Hugo thought so too. Hugo! Thasha laugh!" She matched the action to the words and laughed out loud. "Sho anyway they lemme go. Told them I had a sick aunt. Hah! Sick my foot. Dead three years. But more money than singing, you shee?" She looked up appealingly at Nick.

  "Yes, I see," said Nick, and now he almost did see. "And what's so funny about Hugo, honey baby?" He idly stroked her breasts.

  Brigitte laughed out loud. "There ish no Hugo. Never knew a man named Hugo in my entire life. Hugo'sh not coming back here tonight or tomorrow night or any night, my shweet, because there isn't any Hugo!"

  Beauty and the Beasts

  "There isn't… any… Hugo?" Nick repeated carefully. "Sweetheart, you're forgetting that I know him. Are you trying to tell me that he's using another name?"

  "No, no, you don't undershtand." Brigitte waved her glass emphatically, dribbling the last few drops onto her bare tummy. "Ooh! Cold! I tell you, there ishn't any Hugo. Thish man Zimmer shaw me at the Club one night, shee, and hired me, you know? Jusht a little trick he wanted to play on a vishiting friend, thass what he shaid. Put me up here, nice place to stay, champagne at bedtime… and all I have to do is tell a little shtory about shomebody called Hugo and ashk a few tiny little queshuns. Like, where you from. What you want. All that."

  "How did you know who to expect?" Nick probed. "Did this Zimmer describe me to you?"

  "No!" she muttered. "I thought you'd be some shriveled up meanface like ole Zimmer himshelf." She yawned suddenly. "Oh, I'm sho sleepy. It musht be terribly late. You come to bed with me now, Nicky? 'Cause you shee, Hugo'sh never going to come."

  Brigitte tugged
lightly at Nick's sleeve. Her eyes were almost closed.

  "No, but Zimmer might," Nick said grimly. "He's downstairs?" Brigitte nodded languidly. "Where?" "Cellar," she murmured drowsily. "How many with him?" Nick persisted. "Two. Only know of two. Shafe down there. Only come up when I signal you asleep. Won't bother ush, Nicky, Klaus, lover…"

  "What signal?" Nick demanded crisply.

  "No more queshuns, Nicky. I'm sho tired." She fell back against the pillows with her eyes closed and her lashes sweeping her cheeks. But she was not so tired that she didn't have strength left for one little giggle and a swift grab at the zipper in Nick's trousers. He clutched at his pants like an embarrassed boy, and grinned at himself as her hand dropped limply away and her head rolled to one side on the pillow.

  Some drug, that. Truth, sex, sleep. And then what — supposing he had taken it and she had given the signal? Down in the damp cellar Dieter stirred impatiently. "I don't like this, Paul." He scowled. "It's taking too long. I think we should go up."

  "Ah, ja," said Hans, looking up from the poker-shaped iron he was heating. "Too long."

  Paul Zimmer clucked and looked at his watch.

  "All right, go then. You may as well if you are going to stand here fidgeting. But help me to get ready first." He took something soft and flexible out of his pocket. Dieter took a rope off what had once been a wine shelf. "But don't overdo it. And remember, if he is fully asleep…"

  "I remember everything," Dieter growled. "It will all be very simple once we have him in our hands."

  Silence had settled again on the upper floor of the house. There was no sound in the fragrant-smelling bedroom but the girl's regular breathing and the stealthy opening of drawers.

  The drawers revealed nothing, nor did the suits in the closet give anything away. The room looked, Nick thought, like one equipped for a woman who was kept by a man who wanted nothing known about himself — or a man who very seldom visited the place. Or even a man who never came here at all.

  Only the picture was too phony. Two murders, followed by an address too easily given, a trap baited with one of the most lucious morsels of femininity he'd seen in years, and a soft, champagne-sodden voice saying Shweetie, there ishn't any Hugo… Maybe there wasn't; not here.

  He was at the bedroom door removing the barricading chair when he heard an alien sound coming from somewhere across the room. A faint, scrabbling sound, followed by a thump. Nick swung around and pulled Wilhelmina from her hiding place. Hugo, the stiletto, was at his best when he knew what to contend with. Pierre, the deadly gas pellet, was on reserve for special occasions. Wilhelmina was a well-rounded lady of talent who could handle most emergencies.

  Nick stalked the sound. It came from the tiny dressing room, and it was getting louder. Muted thumps. Heavy breathing. He flattened himself against the wall. Two men, his ears told him, one much heavier than the other, and from behind that open door they could see the bed and who was sleeping on it. They wouldn't be too pleased. The third man might be trying that locked bedroom door — and as he had the thought he flicked a glance across the room. In that one split second of inattention to the dressing-room door, he lost part of his advantage; the door flew open and a figure that seemed to be made of greased lightning streaked past Nick's outstretched foot and flung itself over to the far side of the bed. Nick had a fraction of time in which to slam the door hard against the incoming second man.

  He heard a yell of rage from behind the door and saw the figure across the bed raise its head and point a gun at him. The gun spoke with an angry whine as he threw himself to one side, fell to one knee, and aimed. Wilhelmina exploded into a bark of rage. The other gun fired again wildly; plaster fell from the ceiling above Nick's head and the gunman behind the bed slumped down out of sight. Simultaneously, the door beside him burst open and a gigantic figure threw itself on him with a snarl of animal hatred. Nick was ready, but not ready enough. Midway through his leap to his feet he felt the giant arms twist his body hideously. Wilhelmina barked once more, at nothing, and then she flew out of his hand. Off-balance, he went down, his head slamming against the wall. In a red haze of sudden pain and dizziness he saw the immense hands reaching for him again. He clawed upward, seeking the soft part of the thick bull-neck, and felt his head snap back with a windpipe blow that made him gag and see a thousand eye-tearing stars. Dimly, he knew that he was being lifted up again as if he were a baby in the hands of some horror-movie monster, and then it seemed that he was being spun miles above the earth — and then being flung violently into a canyon lined with jagged rocks. He blanked out.

  Then he was swimming up slowly from a vast depth that seemed to be a cave filled with swirling mist. The mist slowly cleared and he saw the room shimmering back into shape. There was no rock in this cave; just a pile of aching bone and pummeled flesh. His own.

  A huge man with bulging shoulders and long arms was leaning over the bed, breathing down on a little champagne doll with a delicious body meant for loving. Big hands cupped the magnificent breasts. Brigitte stirred. One of the hands moved to do something to the front of the bulging trousers. When it moved again to the soft breast it revealed the big man's intentions with obscene clarity.

  Nick went ice-cold and his eyes clicked into sharp focus.

  The creature slid heavily onto the bed and lowered itself over the girl. Big hands pinched the soft flesh and a voice rumbled thickly, "Not for me, hey? Huh… Only for me. Wake up." He thrust her legs apart and maneuvered himself ponderously.

  Nick's aching body obeyed him slowly but it did obey. Hugo snaked out of his sleeve. Nick was at the foot of the bed, near the almost-headless body of the gunman, when the giant sensed his movement and slid off the soft white body and turned on him, unsatisfied desire still burning in him like a red-hot poker.

  "Aaahhh! The woman is mine!" he snarled. His eyes glittered with passion and hatred, and he lunged.

  Nick crouched low and thrust Hugo upward with all his strength. The giant's feet stumbled against the bloodied body of his fellow-killer and threw him hard against Hugo's gut-biting, icepick blade. Nick jerked out the killing steel and stepped back, ready for a second thrust. The big man lurched toward him over the fallen body, holding one hand to his punctured gut and the other in an immense claw that scrabbled for Nick's throat. Nick dodged and struck. Razor-sharp steel sank into the side of the thick neck like a hot knife into butter.

  Nick stepped back and let the second body fall into an ungainly heap upon the first.

  Brigitte moaned softly as her eyes fluttered open. She looked at Nick, looked down at the crumpled bodies, and opened her mouth wide for what promised to be a piercing scream.

  "Be quiet!" Nick rapped. "There's still one more, isn't there?"

  She nodded dumbly, her eyes staring.

  "Then keep that pretty mouth shut until I find him. Then you can scream all you want. I'm going downstairs."

  He turned swiftly toward the dressing room.

  "No!" she yelped. "No! You cannot leave me with these — those — things! I will come with you." And she leaped off the bed with surprising agility and threw herself at Nick in all her naked, frightened beauty.

  "You can wait in the dressing room if you like," he said firmly, "but you're not coming with me."

  There was a moment's rather pleasant delay, in the midst of the carnage, while he persuaded her into the dressing room. She huddled into a chair while he inspected the pneumatically operated trapdoor through which their company had come, and smiled bravely at him as he lowered himself down the narrow ladder.

  The wooden steps led down to the ground floor and another open trap. Nick paused to look and listen before stepping into what could turn out to be a nest of poisonous snakes.

  It turned out to be a very ordinary looking cellar lit by a very ordinary light bulb, and it was bare. He lowered himself into it with one hand on the ladder and one hand on Wilhelmina. There was no one in the room and the storage closets were exactly what they seemed — reposi
tories for assorted household paraphernalia. But there was a door that led into a small room.

  It held a card table, several chairs, and a wall lined with shallow shelves in what had once been a wine cellar. There were also several locked cabinets. A wire-and-pulley contraption extended from the ceiling almost to the floor. Few people would have recognized it for what it was but Nick had seen it before, during his youthful days with the O.S.S. His body twinged with the memory of that hideous pain. A few feet away from it, on a rusting metal grille, was an object intended to produce the same result as the wire: fear, agony, breakdown, and giveaway speech. It was a poker-shaped object with a curiously curved hook on the end, and it was attached to an electric cord that was plugged into the wall. Nick smelled and felt its heat; he unplugged it quickly and pushed the thing into a dark corner.

  The cabinet locks could wait until later, but there was one lock that almost shouted to be sprung. A second door led from the wine-cellar cardroom into something that was almost certainly another tiny room. So far there was no sign nor sound of the third man. Either he was somewhere on the ground floor, or he had made a getaway, or he was behind that door. But the door was bolted on the outside.

  Nick scouted the area near the trapdoor and found a pushbutton switch with an insulated cord leading to the trap. He caught himself almost in the act of pushing it and stopped. If he left the door open, someone could come down and catch him unawares. If he pushed a switch he wasn't one hundred per cent sure of, he might set off a hidden charge that could bring the whole house down.

  He left the switch alone and warned himself to keep well in mind the possibility of a visitor from above. For that matter, he couldn't be too sure of the luscious Brigitte, although both instinct and reason told him she was no more than the pawn she'd said she was.

  He slid the bolt on the inner door with silent care, surprised at how easily it glided free. Wilhelmina filled his hand with her cool strength. The door opened inward; a smell of ancient earth and trapped air rushed out to meet him.