Run, Spy, Run

Carter threw himself into the shadows and left it all behind, running swiftly through the trees, cutting across the measured lawns toward Central Park West. His world was one of ugliness and death, of running into trouble and running from it. Because if you were to live to fight another day, you had to keep out of the official spotlight. You had to run — even if it meant leaving messy corpses behind. Even the corpses of friends.

A siren swelled and stopped.

Nick slowed to a brisk walk, straightened his tie and combed his fingers through his hair. An exit showed through the tree-lined lane ahead.

The cops would have a dazed old driver, a pair of unsightly corpses, a mysteriously wrecked coach, and a dying man. And the enemy would know he had escaped again.

But Rita hadn't.

Whoever was behind this would have to pay for that.

And pay dearly.

* * *

It was ten-thirty when Mr. Hawk picked up his office telephone. Hawk seldom left the office until midnight. It was his home.

"Yes?"

"I'm asking for a fine cutting edge this time. Something that will take care of a lot of red tape."

Hawk's brows furrowed. It wasn't like N-3 to call so often in one day — something was very wrong.

"What do you have in mind?"

"A double-edged axe. The biggest. Jameson was driven out of this world tonight, and I don't think it was only because of me. I had to use Wilhelmina again. She barked, but she didn't finish biting."

"I see. And the one who was bitten?"

Nick told him rapidly, choosing the coded words with care, giving as much detail as he could but stressing the need for urgent action.

"Check back in two hours," said Hawk, and cut the connection.

Nick left the phone booth on 57th and zigzagged several blocks before hailing a cab on Third Avenue to Grand Central and a bar.

"Double Scotch."

He drank and thought.

If he had had any lingering doubts about Rita and her half-told story they had been shockingly dispelled when the driver of the shattered coach had deliberately sought her out first and pumped her full of hot lead. So someone was after both of them.

Plane explosion, pilot, frightened stewardess, knifer, watcher at the Plaza Fountain, coachman-killer. How did it make sense?

He ordered again.

More than an hour to kill.

He drank deeply and left in search of a phone booth. This time he called Hadway House.

The same female voiced answered, sounding tired.

"Miss Jameson, please."

"Miss Jameson went out and has not returned." The voice sounded final.

Hadway House was a hotel for career women, Nick suddenly realized. Of course those harpies would know who came and went, with whom and when.

"This is Lieutenant Hanrahan. We had a call from Miss Jameson earlier today in connection with a prowler."

"Not from my switchboard, you didn't," the adenoids said suspiciously.

"Are you on all day?"

"No, but I know what goes on in this house. It's my duty to…"

"It's your duty to cooperate with the Police," Nick said as coldly as he could. "Would you like a pair of uniformed policemen to interrogate you in your lobby?"

The nasal voice was flustered.

"Oh, no! That would be so bad for the place…"

"So would a prowler. Now. Miss Jameson made it very clear that she did not want to involve the hotel in any unpleasantness. She also said she would call the Precinct tonight and inform us if any further attempt had been made to molest her."

"Oh, well, if she hasn't called it must mean that she's all right…"

"Not necessarily, ma'am," Carter said meaningfully.

"Oh. Oh, but there wasn't any attempt to molest her…"

"Then you know about it," Nick cut in.

"Yes, but it was nothing! The poor girl was hysterical because of that dreadful business at the airport. This man was only an investigator, he wanted to ask her some more questions…"

"Did he call first? Or phone from the desk?"

"Well, no." The voice sounded puzzled. "He didn't, at least not from the desk. I don't know so much about the incoming calls, you see…"

"Then how do you know what he was?"

"Well, he said so, when we saw him coming downstairs after she'd screamed."

"Is that the kind of security you have in your hotel?" He was genuinely exasperated. "All right, never mind that now. So you saw him. What did he look like?"

"Well," and now she was on the defensive, "perfectly respectable, although not very neat. He was sort of short and fat and — and he was wearing a seersucker suit. Rather late for this time of year, but that's what he was wearing."

"Did you make any further attempt to question him?"

"No, of course not."

"Why of course not? Did you look at his credentials?"

"Why, no. He left, that's all. He just smiled and left. He seemed to understand she was hysterical."

"Has he been back?"

"No, he…"

"Did you talk to Miss Jameson?"

"No, she had locked herself in her room. She didn't even see him, wouldn't talk to anybody."

"All right. Thank you. Your name?"

"Jones. Adelaide Jones. And what did you say.?.."

"One more thing. She went out alone tonight?"