There were two of them. Big men in white trousers and jackets. Dr. Six's muscle boys. One of them was playing a flashlight carelessly about the gardens bordering the channel.
"This is all a lot of nonsense," said one of the men. "If the poor fool fell into the Bosphorus he is gone by now. That current is strong — his body is in the Sea of Marmara by now. We could be in our quarters drinking."
The other man grunted. "The
raki
will keep." He chuckled. "So will the American
Effendim,
in the cold water. Until the fishes are through with him. I agree that this is foolishness, but it is what the doctor ordered, no?" And he laughed at his own little joke.
"Yok."
said the other attendent in a surly tone. "I have the bad cold as it is. I need
raki!
Let us go."
"A minute," agreed the other. He flashed the light out over the narrow, black strip of water where Nick was hiding. Nick slid quietly under the surface. He had expected this, was prepared for it. He could stay under for nearly four minutes if he must. No sweat there.
He kept his eyes open under water, saw the filtered white flash of the light as it traversed the surface over him. Then it was gone. Nick waited a full two minutes before he came up again. The attendants were gone. Now for it! Nick waded in under the black archway to the landing stage he knew must be there. The channel would lead him into the very guts of the building!
Ten minutes later N3 was on a second floor balcony peering into a long room. Heavy velvet hangings had not been drawn across the French windows and he could see clearly. He watched Dr. Joseph Six and the three men with him in the room. They were grouped around a table examining something with great interest.
N3 allowed himself a grim smile. They were examining
their own
death! As he watched them the plan sprang full born into his brain. They were examining his weapons, which the Syndicate man in the plane had been thoughtful enough to bring back from the battlefield beside the Kardu River.
So ironic, as Dr. Six himself might have put it! He thought himself quite safe. The Greek islands must seem very near. He planned to enjoy his retirement and his money, did the good Dr. Six.
Outside the French windows N3, clad only in cruddy and bedraggled shorts, his lean body not of concrete after all, for it was slowly leaking blood from a dozen punctures in the tanned hide, bided his time and waited his moment. He was running on his last reserves of strength now and he knew it. But he would last long enough — long enough to kill the vulture faced man in there. The man who now was toying with Pierre, the gas pellet, turning it over in his long surgeon's hands.
The gas bomb puzzled them. Nick saw them pass it around and exchange comments. It came back to Dr. Six and he examined it again with a magnifying glass, his high brow wrinkled in thought. The Luger and the stiletto lay on the table at his elbow, but he paid them no attention. They held no secrets. It was the gas bomb, Pierre, that held their interest. Dr. Six handled it gingerly. He was cautious. The little round pellet was an unknown quality. Possibly, thought Nick, the doctor was remembering a certain atomic explosion that had taken place beside the Kardu?
It was time! While the pellet was in full view on the table. The doctor had just put it there and was talking now and pointing to the little gas bomb.
Nick Carter put on an expression of utmost anguish. He crashed through the French doors into the long room. The four men at the table turned in shocked surprise. They stared.
Nick staggered toward the table. "Hel... me... I... so sick! I... I dying! You please... help me!" He fell to his knees, his face contorted as if in great pain. He extended his arms to Dr. Six. "H... help me!"
Dr. Six was the first to recover his wits. He rose and came toward Nick, a pleased expression on his narrow blade-like face. "My poor man," he said. His tone was soft, nearly tender. "My poor fellow — so you've come back. How clever of you! We were worried, very worried. But it's all right now — certainly we'll help you."
He assisted Nick to stand, supporting the swaying AXE man. Nick pretended to be about to vomit. One of the other men said sharply, "Get him out of here! He'll ruin the rugs."
"Now... now," said Dr. Six. "Is that any way to talk about a poor sick man? But you are right — he must go to his bed at once. He is very ill — very ill!"
Nick clung to the doctor. "T-thank you," he gasped. "I... I appreciate! I... ohhhh... so sick!" He broke away from Dr. Six and lurched toward the table. The three men still seated there drew away in alarm. Nick fell over the table. As he did so he scooped up the little gas pellet. He twisted the dial control and dropped it on the floor in the same flashing and indetectable movement. He held his breath. He could not breathe again in this room!
Dr. Joseph Six had not survived so long by being a fool. He alone sensed danger. His vulture's face twisted in alarm and he moved swiftly toward the door. "I'll get one of the attendants," he said crisply. "
Ja
-we must put this poor man to bed. I think..."
The other three men were already dying. The doctor sprinted for the door. N3 went after him in a long diving tackle. He brought him down just short of the door. By now the deadly fumes were filling the room. Nick sat on the writhing Dr. Six. "Your turn now," he told the man, careful not to inhale, pushing the words out with little exhalations. "Your turn now, Dr. Six! Remind you of the gas chambers? But I'll tell you a secret — don't breathe and you'll be all right!"
The emaciated man was powerless against N3's strength. He kicked and clawed and held his breath. His feet, in shiny patent leather shoes, beat a tattoo on the rug. Nick sat on him and watched calmly.
Dr. Joseph Six held his breath as long as he could. He slowly turned purple with the effort. A minute passed — then the doctor could stand it no longer. He took his last breath! He stiffened and his face contorted and the scrawny body arched under Nick. He died.
"Inshallah,"
said Nick softly. "Allah — and Pierre!"
He left the body and went back to the table. One of the men had fallen to the floor, the other two were dead in their chairs. Nick picked up his Luger, empty now, and the little stiletto. It had been a long time and his own lungs were beginning to pain him. Still a minute or a little less. Time enough.
Nick surveyed the three dead men for size. It would have to be one of them. The doctor's clothes would never fit him.
He selected a man and dragged the body toward the door. It was, his lungs told him urgently, time to get out of there! Now!
Nick opened the door and peered out into a dark corridor. A single dim bulb shone near a staircase leading up and down. He dragged the body into the hall and closed the door. He breathed again! Sweet indeed.
Rapidly he stripped the dead man. The suit was of wool, heavy and hot, and it did not exactly fit Nick's great muscles, but it would do. The shirt was white, soiled now and sweaty from the dead man, but N3 put it on. He tied the dark knit tie, leaving the collar of the shirt unbuttoned so he wouldn't strangle. The shoes were impossible. Nick sighed and shrugged — he was a fairly well dressed man. With bare feet! So who needed shoes? He wasn't, after all, planning to walk back to Istanbul. He had a mass of Turkish money taken from the corpse — pounds, lira and
kurush,
small change, and surely he could get a taxi or rent a car somewhere. He thought he knew approximately where he was. On the Bosphorus about ten miles northeast of Istanbul. He remembered the cars he had seen flashing along the main road behind the sanitarium. Maybe he could hitch a ride into Istanbul. All he had to do now was get out of this place!
N3 did not feel quite chipper enough to whistle as he went down the dark spiral staircase. He had pushed the body back into the room and locked the door from the outside. The key was in his pocket. It might be hours before the attendants sensed anything wrong.
Nick had the little stiletto in his left hand, the reversed Luger as a club in his right — just in case. He could hear voices and the occasional slam of a door in the dim recesses of the huge mansion, but he saw nobody. There was a phone in the foyer, and for a moment he grinned and was tempted to call a taxi then and there, but decided not to tempt Fate too far. He went out a huge arched door of time stained walnut and down a long walk to double iron gates. They opened directly on the highway. A little sports car whizzed by as Nick walked out of the gates.
He stood for a moment on the blacktop, getting his bearings. To his right glittered the cheerful lights of what must be the Hotel Lido. That way back to Istanbul. To his left would be — this road must be the
Muallim Naci
— to his left would be
Sariyer
and on beyond would be
Rumeli Feneri
and the lighthouse where the Bosphorus became the Black Sea. He did not want to go that way! He turned to his right and began to walk. Fast. Wanting to put as much distance between himself and the sanitarium as possible. He was not home safe yet by a long shot. The Syndicate, and now the Chinese, had infinite resources. As he had good reason to know.
In any case his job wasn't over yet — there was still Johnny Ruthless! Three down — one to go. But first he needed sleep and food. Rest. His hurts tended. N3 was not of ordinary mortal flesh — or so his enemies swore — but even iron will bend at last.
There was little traffic now. Nick cursed under his breath. Earlier there had been a steady flow of cars. Now — nothing. He trudged on, loosening the choking tie at his throat.
Nick paused to light one of the dead man's cigarettes. He heard the car then, coming from behind him, from the direction of the sanitarium he had just left. It was a high powered job and it was closing in fast, its headlights great glaring eyes in the night. Nick decided to chance it. He stepped into the road and began to use his thumb in the time-honored signal of the hitch-hiker.
The big car roared down the road at him. The lights pinioned him against the night, like a bug on cork, and held him revealed in stark brilliance.
Nick kept signaling with his thumb. The car did not slow. The fiery eyes glowered at him. Very close now. Not slowing. Then Nick cursed and dove for the ditch along the road. Damn fool! Either drunk or — or deliberately trying to kill him? Maybe it hadn't been so smart to signal.
The car missed him by a foot or less. Nick, even as he dove for the ditch, had a fleeting confused image of the driver wrenching at the wheel. The car screamed into a long skid, tires burning and squealing and smoking as the driver fought the wheel.
N3 lay in the ditch and turned the air blue. He had the Luger and the stiletto ready just in case this was new trouble from the sanitarium. He waited, lying quietly, waiting to see what would happen.
The car came to a stop half off the road on the far side. It backed, turned and the lights crept back toward Nick, shafting over the spot where he lay in the ditch. The car stopped. A door slammed. A
tock-tock
of heels came along the blacktop. High heels. A woman!
Nick Carter got to his knees. He peered into the brilliance of the lancing headlights as the girl came into them. She was a redhead. She was carrying a bottle of whisky in one hand and staggering a little as she
tick-tocked
along on stilt heels.
She had the best pair of legs Nick had ever seen in his life. They were long and slim and curved and magnificent in black stockings. Her skirt was very short. Nick, from his kneeling coign in the ditch, could see well up her skirt to the band of darker stocking, a flash of garter tab, the swell of a white inner thigh over that.
The girl paused at the edge of the ditch and peered down at Nick. She was wearing a loose, thin frock of some light material. As she bent over Nick could see clearly the firm white pears of her breasts. No hint of a bra! The white pears jiggled tantalizingly not six feet away.
The girl swayed. N3 saw that she was very drunk. Her eyes — green? Her eyes were a bit glassy in the glare of the headlights.
"Hey," called the girl. "Hey, you down there! You all right, honey? I'm sorry — I didn't even see you till the last minute. You hurt, honey?"
The voice and accent were pure American! Middle-West American. Strange, Nick thought as he climbed out of the ditch. Strange, but not too strange. There were a lot of Americans around Istanbul these days.
"I'm okay," he said as he came up beside her. "You shouldn't be driving in that condition, though. You damned near got me."
The girl pouted. Her mouth was delectable, her lips moist and red. She swayed and clung to him. "I say I sorry, honey. Didn't mean hurt you. Say — whyn't we have a drink and you can forgive me, huh?"
Nick took the bottle from her. A drink was very much in order at the moment. He drank deeply — it was scotch — and handed the bottle back to her. "I forgive you," he said. "I'll forgive you even more if you can drive me into Istanbul. I've got to get there. It's very important."
It was, too! Hawk would be blowing his stack, waiting to hear from his Number One boy!
The girl swayed against him. Her delicate perfume teased Nick's nostrils. In spite of his absolutely beatup condition he felt a tinge of interest, of desire, and had to laugh at himself. What a beast he was! An animal! To even think about it at a time like this — but there it was!
Her unbound breasts were pressing against his chest now. She said, "I sorry, honey. Not going to Istanbul. Going home — live out at Plaj Beach. On Black Sea — nice villa there. Whyn't you come me?"
Nick was supporting her. She was clinging now, swaying and waving the whisky bottle back and forth.
"You were driving toward Stamboul," Nick said. "Or didn't you know that?"
"I was — driving to Istanbul?" The girl looked up at Nick. Her eyes were definitely green. Long and narrow and sultry eyes. Not quite so glassy now, he thought. Maybe she was sobering up a bit.