Run, Spy, Run

The man was about five ten — not short, certainly — but as thin as a piccolo, and dressed like a window cleaner. Denim trousers, sail cloth shirt. He hadn't bothered with the pail. Probably counted on just blending with the landscape and nipping in and out as fast as he could. It didn't work.

The face was plain and ingenuous even in death. No distinguishing features. There was nothing in his pockets. Not even a book of matches. No labels in the faded work clothes. Nick checked the heels of his shoes, the mouth and ears for hidden accessories. Nothing. The killer had come with only his knife.

The knife was a staghorn-handled destroyer, typical of what you could buy in an Army and Navy Store or those junk shops on Times Square. Nothing there, either. And the nothing left plenty to worry about.

Someone had sent a killer to Carter's room. Because of the plane incident, or because of something else?

Nick lit a Player's and thought: One killer?

Piccolo had come in through the bathroom window, as if on signal, the instant after the lights had gone out. There was no way he could have tampered with the box in the hall. Therefore there must have been a second man. But whoever had killed the lights was probably far away by now. No use looking for him. And no point in waiting around. Nick stubbed out his cigarette.

Too bad he'd have to leave a corpse for the chambermaid to discover. But secret operatives could have no truck with city police.

He placed the knife wielder in bed, dumping him unceremoniously under the blankets. He wrapped a hand towel around his ringers and pulled the knife from the wall. Putting the knife into the folds of the towel, he slid it into his briefcase.

The corpse mustn't be discovered until the next day, or it would serve no purpose at all. Check-out time was three in the afternoon and no maid would disturb a sleeping guest, no matter how badly she wanted to get through work and go home. Not even a guest who didn't answer a knock on the door.

But the knifer's friends were another matter entirely. If they felt like visiting, an unanswered knock wouldn't stop them.

Nick wiped off Hugo with almost fond dutifulness. Hugo had done the job well, as usual. Nick decided his suitcase could stay behind. A few items went into the briefcase: towel, knife, razor, book he hadn't finished reading on the plane, half-full flask. The only other things he wanted were on his person. Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre.

He wasn't worried about his signature on the hotel registration card. The Department had spent two months teaching him how to vary his handwriting to match assumed identities and produce admirably indecipherable signatures that looked like the real thing but spelled nothing and defied analysis. Actually, he had signed in as Willa Gather, but no one would ever know.

He spent several minutes thoroughly checking out Room 2010, then stepped cautiously out into the corridor and closed the door on the self-locking latch. He had left the keys to the room on the writing table. Then he hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle and headed for the stairway with his briefcase.

Piccolo's accomplice, if he were still about, was unlikely to show himself under the bright lights. Anyway, Hugo was ready for him. Nick climbed two flights, eyes alert for any sign of lurking presence, and made his way to the bank of elevators.

As things stood, the New York City Police would have a difficult case on their hands. Very likely insoluble. There was nothing here that could possibly lead back to Nick Carter. But the knifer's employers would soon know that their quarry was alerted enough to kill and run. That could make for a rather unpleasant future. Pity, in a way, that he had killed the knifer outright.

Still, there was no use moaning over spilt corpses. Especially ones that weren't your own.

* * *

Nick looked through the plate glass of the lobby phone booth, wondering how many of Them there were and what had happened to the second man.

The phone rang distantly several times.

"Yes?" Hawk answered with characteristic abruptness.

"Someone just sent a knife with a fine-honed edge," said Nick. "I refused the delivery."

"Oh. Wrong address?"

"No. Right address, I think. Wrong package."

"That so? What did you order?"

"An axe."

"Delivery man still there?"

"Yes. He'll be around awhile. Could be getting company — somebody to check on the delivery. But somebody else'll have to let 'em in. I think I'd better change hotels. Will the Roosevelt be all right for your package?"

"Fine for mine, if it isn't for theirs. Don't cut yourself."

The old man's voice was a little sour. Nick could practically hear what he was thinking. The case was only hours old and already N-3 had provided a corpse to confuse the issue.

Nick grinned into the telephone. "One more thing. When you send someone regarding this delivery, remember the front door as well as the service entrance. It may be a big thing."

"Don't worry about my memory." Hawk hung up.