Fraulein Spy

by Nick Carter

  "No, no, no, no!" shrieked a tremulous voice. "Oh, God, McHugh, leave me alone!"

  "Ah!" Thud. The footsteps stopped. Scuffling sounds. "Got you, you damn old fool! What did I tell you would happen to you if you tried to get away from me, eh? Try this for an appetizer!" The light arced down and something tinkled as though McHugh had put something down on the stone floor.

  Nick heard a thump and a moan as he angled around a corner.

  Brian McHugh's back was toward Nick and his fist was in the stomach of the frail, elderly man he had called Rademeyer.

  Nick leaped like a cat and struck a sledgehammer blow at the base of McHugh's neck. But in that instant McHugh straightened up, drawing his arm back for another jab at the old man, and Nick's thrust landed low and to one side. McHugh spun around, his arms up and his feet dancing like a boxer's.

  "Jesus God, who are you!" he blurted, and his guard dropped fractionally. Behind him, the old man gasped at Nick's hideously flattened, masked face. Nick's bunched hands flashed. One low, in a feint. One high against McHugh's unguarded face. One low again, not a feint. McHugh staggered back and sideways against the wall. His hand reached inside his jacket while his foot kicked out. Nick crouched low and caught the outstretched leg with both hands and yanked upward with all his strength. McHugh's head slammed against the wall and his upper body slid down against its rough surface. The flashlight rolled and dimmed under his body.

  The old man, a dark blob of shadow in the near-darkness, was breathing in little sobs. He turned and made off into the thick blackness of the passageway at a stumbling run.

  Nick's arms flashed out and grasped at the hand McHugh still concealed beneath his jacket; he twisted mercilessly. Something snapped in McHugh's wrist. A high-pitched scream of pain tore from his lips. Nick slammed the hard edge of his palm under the man's nose and heard McHugh's head go back against the wall in a satisfying thud. Then he ripped open McHugh's jacket and tore the gun from its shoulder holster. He ejected the cartridges swiftly and dropped the empty gun beside McHugh's prone legs. No sense killing the fellow. Let him suffer, the swine, but let him live, and see what happens — where he goes from here.

  The old man's uneven footsteps faded down the passage.

  Nick reached under McHugh's body for the flashlight, and smashed its light against the wall. Then he turned to follow the man sometimes called Brown and sometimes Rademeyer.

  But McHugh was not through yet.

  The darkness beneath Nick's feet became a spitting pit of snarling mouth, flailing legs and reaching arms. McHugh's legs, suddenly alive with violence, snaked out and scissored around Nick's ankles.

  It was as if someone had whipped a rug out from under his feet. He fell heavily. Thick fingers grasped his throat and squeezed it savagely. Nick twisted abruptly and brought his own steely grip to bear on the vise at his throat, seeking and finding the twin nerve centers of the clutching hands. McHugh drew breath and gave a piercing, three-note whistle. Nick rolled again so that McHugh was beneath him and the crushing hands clawed at him from below; then he raised his body, one knee bent into a battering ram, and slammed himself down on McHugh.

  McHugh's breath belched out in one agonized grunt and his stranglehold became an ineffectual embrace. Nick's arms flashed out toward the other man's throat like a pair of striking vipers. His fingers curved to encircle the windpipe and sensitive carotids; and he squeezed without mercy.

  McHugh gurgled hideously. His fingers fell away from Nick's throat and plucked feebly at the stocking mask. Then his head fell back and he was still.

  If McHugh made it, fine. If he didn't, too bad. Nick left him sprawled where he was and headed down the dark passage after the professor.

  His pencil flashlight stabbed the gloom. The passage was straight and the walls were blank for about a hundred feet. Then narrow openings began to appear in the stone. Nick flicked the fight into them. Cells, their bars removed. Empty. He went on. The passage forked again.

  Nick hesitated. If he were on the run and expected to find an exit from this dungeon, he'd take the fork that appeared to lead toward the outside wall. He went down the right-hand passage at a loping run.

  It ended in a vast, bare room that might once have been used as a mess-hall for prisoners or Palace staff. There was no one in that dismal, musty room. Neither was there an exit.

  He backtracked swiftly to the fork and took the other turn. It was only a few seconds later that he heard the agonized wheezing from the darkness up ahead. And then he heard the three-note whistle again, near at hand and faraway in the same piercing breath. He flicked on his pencil-beam and headed for the wheezing.

  The old man was clawing at a heavy barred door at the head of a short flight of steps. An immense, double padlock secured a solid iron bar across door and adjacent wall. The gray head turned into the light, the eyes widened in terror. Dr. Brown, or Rademeyer, or whoever he was, beat frantically against the door with his feeble fists. His Voice crescendoed in a desperate scream for help.

  "Dr. Rademeyer, no! You can't get out that way. Don't be afraid of me. I'm here to help you." Nick's voice sounded strangely muffled through the stocking.

  "You lie!" whispered the old man, cringing against the bolted door. "A trap! Another trap! God help me…"

  "I am an agent of the United States Government," Nick said as crisply as he could. "You can come with me or wait for McHugh to catch up with you." Rademeyer sucked in his breath. "Don't be alarmed by the face," Nick added. "It's only camouflage. Now come on, Professor — let's get out of here."

  "Are you — really…?" Rademeyer gasped again and his face contorted.

  Nick's pencil flashlight stroked its beam over a tired, anguished face.

  "Yes, I am really," he said gently. "Have they hurt you?"

  "No… yes… beating…" the old man sighed. The words came out slowly, like drops of blood from a deep puncture wound.

  "I'll carry you," said Nick wondering how the hell he'd manage if he met trouble on the way. "Here, put your arm around…"

  "Ahh! No, you see…" Rademeyer slumped in Nick's arms and seemed to fold in half. "Cannot… You know… who… they… are?"

  "No, I don't." Nick picked the old man up as if he were a baby. "Tell me on the way."

  "No! Too late!" The old man stiffened in Nick's arms and suddenly grew heavier. There was a sigh like the last of the autumn leaves fluttering in a breeze. "Bormann… found us… for… Chinese… Comm…" The burden in Nick's arms quivered. All life flickered out.

  Nick lowered him to the cold stone floor.

  His eyes, his hands, his flashlight found nothing left to save: marble eyes, no pulse, no breath. A heart had taken all the shock and punishment it could bear.

  The three-note whistle sounded again. This time it was answered by another, a full-bodied tone that was not an echo.

  Nick thought quickly. McHugh had whistled up help and it had come. How could anyone else have heard…? He remembered something Julie had said earlier: Oh, they don't make Palaces like they used to. I'll bet you can hear the bedsprings… And no doubt someone else had already missed the Professor and his cheerful young assistant. It was useless to try to drag a dead shell from this dungeon; Rademeyer had already found his freedom.

  Nick would have liked to give the old man a more fitting farewell. To search his pockets seemed a sacrilege. But he did search, and found no more than a few bits of change.

  Whooo-wheee-whooo… Whooo-wheee-whooo… Whooo-wheee-whooo…

  The whistles and their echoes were getting very busy.

  Nick doused the pencil-beam and mentally retraced his steps. When he was sure of his way back he walked quickly down the passage to the fork. He stopped and listened. No more whistling. Not even an echo. This could mean that McHugh and his fellow-whistler had joined forces and were lying in wait for him. One or two of those cells?

  He padded along with the swift stealth of a panther in the night, sliding Hugo from his sleeve. But this time he needed his e
nemies alive, to let them lead him wherever it was that they wanted to take Gerber and Rademeyer. Maybe Elena could do that by herself; but maybe not.

  He passed the cells, knowing them by the extra breath of mustiness they gave off. If McHugh and friend were waiting for him there they gave no sign of it. He passed the place where he had left McHugh. McHugh was no longer there. Nor anywhere else in that passage.

  Nick reached the vault-like room that had been his introduction to the dungeon and felt a stab of uneasiness. It was close to the end of the trail and he hadn't met the whistlers yet. Either they were in the first turn-off that he'd passed up originally, or they were waiting at the low-fenced entrance.

  He found them at the entrance, each one flattened against a wall. One was McHugh, with something bunched in his hand. The other was the gorilla-like Mauriello.

  Special Surprise Number One

  Nick backtracked softly to a point from which he could see the entrance and yet not be seen himself.

  The outlines of the two men grew sharper as he watched. McHugh seemed to be holding a blackjack of some sort. Mauriello didn't seem to be armed.

  He waited. They waited.

  The bolted door that Rademeyer had found had been impregnable, its tremendous crossbar rusted into place and the two huge padlocks impossible to force.

  From where he stood he could have shot them both. But Wilhelmina was too noisy, and he wanted them alive. Hugo? No. Pierre…? No; not the place for X-5 gas. Pepito? No, much the same problem as Pierre.

  He stood and thought and watched and listened and waited. So did McHugh and Mauriello. But they had done their thinking: There is no other way out; he'll have to come out here.

  Maybe there was another way out. And grope around with the flashlight to find it? No. This would have to be it.

  He could run like hell past them and take them by surprise.

  And have them both on his back in a second. Or show his masked face to a startled public. Or take off his mask with a debonair How-de-do, gentlemen, my name is Carter.

  Startled public…? How long had he been in this place, anyway?

  As if in answer to his silent question he heard the distant shuffle and clip-clop of a couple of dozen feet. The two dark shadows between him and the only exit came a little closer to him and stiffened against their respective walls.

  Nick grinned to himself and reached into an inner pocket. If only he had a small firecracker! Knife. Keys. Matches. Filter case. Pierre. Lighter. Lighter? Pepito… The little marble-shaped pellet, so innocent until activated, came into his hand.

  "Come along, folks, come along now. Got a lot to see today!" Hubert Hansinger's voice sang out. "What's that, little lady?"

  "That little iron fence there," came a well-known voice. "What's down there? Some kind of dungeon?"

  "Oh, that," said Uncle Hube. The herd of footsteps came closer. "This one, you mean? I'm glad you asked me that, Miss Wyatt. It's off-limits to the public, but there's a rather fascinating story behind it. Now when this place was built…"

  Oh for Chrissake, blabbermouth. If you're going to talk about it, show it to the people. And show yourself, Hubie baby. C'mon, Uncle Hube.

  "…Probably a hundred years older than the rest of the place," said Uncle Hube. "Just let me get in there a minute, folks." His rotund form appeared in the opening. "There, now. What we need is a little light. And I just happen to have here…"

  Nick drew back his arm and threw.

  "Yuck! What the hell!" roared Uncle Hubie, all geniality swiftly erased by the impact of the little marble-like pellet against his shining forehead. "What stupid sonofabitch threw that frigging what-the-hell-is-it-Guard? Guard! There's someone in that hole!"

  Footsteps shuffled inside the doorway. Uncle Hube's flashlight sprayed into the darkness.

  "Ahah!" he roared triumphantly. "I see you, both of you! Oh no you don't! Come back here; there's no use running." The swinging flashlight splashed from wall to wall. Nick saw it from behind his concealing corner; and he saw the two men dodging like trapped moths. Mistah McHugh I am surprised at you hoo hoo hoo!" Hansinger's voice rolled through the vault and fragmented down the tunnels. "Come out of there and explain yourself at once."

  Brian McHugh turned reluctantly and faced the entrance.

  This'll be the moment of truth, thought Nick. Surely he won't take a chance on what anyone else'll find in the tunnel… Well, if he does, there's still Pepito's little sister, after all.

  Mauriello growled in his throat and made a move down the passage.

  "And you, too!" roared Hansinger. "What goes on here, two grown men playing games?"

  "There's someone in here," McHugh said hesitantly.

  "I know that!" Hansinger bellowed. "You. Tossing pebbles, for the luvva Pete…"

  "No, someone else is in here," McHugh said urgently. "Honestly, Mr. Hansinger, I didn't throw anything at you. I saw someone running in here like a sneak-thief so I came after him with Mr. Mauriello here."

  "And so your sneak-thief hides in there and throws pebbles, hey, just to be sure no one will notice him, is that it? Someone else threw it! A sneak-thief!" Hansinger's voice dripped scorn. "I suppose you know you could have hit me in the eye and blinded me?"

  "But I tell you, I didn't throw anything!" McHugh said desperately. "Mauriello, you know. Did I? Huh?"

  "Me neither," Mauriello grunted. "What's all this throwing something? I didn't see nothing. So what's the matter we can't go down this tunnel. That's maybe where the body's buried, hah?"

  "Unauthorized people inside tunnel kindly come out at once," said another voice from outside. "If you do not do so immediately it is my duty to call Police. I myself will search for the man you say is in there." Nick peered out very cautiously from behind his corner and saw the old Guard from the room with the mosaic murals.

  "Oh, all right," McHugh said disgustedly. He moved toward the entrance. Mauriello followed reluctantly.

  "You won't be welcome on one of my tours again, I promise you that," said Uncle Hube. "All right, come along now, people. Come along. And as for you two, I can only say…"

  "My sincere apologies," McHugh said smoothly. "A misunderstanding, I assure you. It was just that I was interested in the stonework down here, and then I thought I saw someone running."

  "Humph," said Uncle Hube. "Come on, folks. To the Mosque." Footsteps shambled away.

  "You, too, gentlemen," came the voice of the elderly guard. "No more lingering, if you please."

  "For God's sake," said McHugh. "T came here to look at the Palace. Who gives you authority to chase me out?" Mauriello followed him over the low guard rail and glowered beside him.

  "The City government, gentlemen," came the firm old voice. "I will see you to the doorway."

  Hooray! Nick shouted silently. Well done, you tough old buzzard, you.

  He inched himself to the low iron fence as the footsteps receded. Nick whipped the stocking mask off his face and stuffed it into an inside pocket. Then he smoothed out his shirt and jacket collar and looked out into the great entrance hall. Nick stepped swiftly over the railing and nipped behind a pillar, waited until everyone was out of sight, and then made a beeline toward the wide stairs at the rear of the main hall.

  Five minutes later he had seen enough of the upper levels to be able to talk about them. He came downstairs again with a few stragglers not of Hansinger's paying group.

  The old guard was nowhere to be seen. Nick and his group of stragglers walked into the sunlight.

  McHugh and Mauriello were standing at the gateway to the fort earnestly discussing something. But stupid of them to talk here in public, Nick thought. Then McHugh turned abruptly and walked out through the gates. After a moment Mauriello followed him.

  Julie was standing in the shade of a tree trying to change the film in her tiny camera.

  Nick left his borrowed group and joined her.

  "Finished that roll already?" he asked.

  "Already!" she snapped. "I've shot
about thirty-six pictures and there're only twelve on the roll. What kept you?"

  He told her rapidly while she delved into her bag for his cameras and another roll of film. Her eyes widened, and grew sad.

  "That poor old man," she said. "Wonder what they'll do now?"

  "Don't know," said Nick, adjusting his camera straps on his shoulders "Maybe they won't rejoin the plane after all. Unless they find some way to cover up. What happened to Mark and Elena?"

  "Went into the Mosque," said Julie. "I think she missed you in the Palace, but nobody said anything."

  "I got fascinated with the mosaics and the tapestries," said Nick. "And now I'm going to be busy with exteriors. Go find them. I'll join you in a minute."

  She nodded, thanked him graciously for helping her with her camera, and walked away with the graceful swaying motion that he found more provocative than the most seductive hula.

  He shot energetically for the next few minutes and managed to insinuate himself into Hansinger's party just as they were coming out of the Mosque.

  Mark and Elena came out a few seconds later. Julie glided along behind.

  "Oh, there you are," said Nick. "I've been so busy shooting, I thought I'd lost you. Marvelous, isn't it? Great pictures."

  "I'm sure they are," said Elena. A little sourly, Nick thought.

  "But enough for a while," he added. "What do you say we explore the Chandhi Chowk and then go look for some refreshment?" He flashed his most charming smile at Elena. She brightened perceptibly.

  "Good idea," Mark said heartily. "I'm getting rather tired of Uncle Hubie. He's gone a bit broody. Strangest thing happened a while ago…" Mark explained, with sound effects and gestures. Nick chuckled.

  "Sorry I missed that. That's what happens when you're sticking your eye into a camera all the time instead of looking at the real world. Well. Shall we go?"

  "Let's. Oh, have you met Miss Wyatt?" Mark swept her into the group with a welcoming gesture.

  "Briefly," said Nick, and nodded a friendly greeting.

  "You'll stay with us, won't you, Miss Wyatt," said Mark. "Phil's a genius at finding out-of-the-way drinking holes."