Run, Spy, Run

"Yes, she did. But — now that I come to think of it — she sort of joined a group of people and went out with them, but she wasn't really with them."

"I see. That's all."

"And what did you say your name.?.."

Nick hung up.

Eventually, when it was time, he called Hawk.

"Yes?"

"Did the tape-cutter work?"

"Fairly well. The bite was bad, but there was time."

"See it yourself?"

"I did." Hawk's voice was noncommittal. "Consultation will be helpful. Any suggestions?"

"Yes. But one thing first. Any word on that delivery?"

"Nothing yet."

"Pity. But I have a delivery myself." Nick still had Piccolo's knife in his briefcase. Perhaps he should have left it where it was, but there'd been no way of knowing who'd be first on the scene in Room 2010. "Afraid it's not much, but it's the best I could do before leaving the room. Unfortunately nothing to do with tonight."

"I'll arrange a pickup. The hotel you mentioned?"

"That's all right. It'll be at the desk, labeled Masterson. But for tomorrow's package, skip the hotel. Just in case. Can we consult somewhere else?"

"Hmmm." Nick could almost see Mr. Hawk tugging his left ear. "Might as well mix business with pleasure, for a change. Ford pitches tomorrow at the Stadium. Section 33 suit you?"

"Fine. We'll give 'im the axe."

"For a New Yorker, that's not a nice thing to say," said Hawk. "Sleep well."

"I always do," said Nick, and hung up.

Something Rotten at Yankee Stadium

Tony Kubek was swinging his bat experimentally in the batter's circle when Nick Carter found Mr. Hawk. Hawk was hunched over a scorecard making notations with a ballpoint pen. His open-necked sports shirt and pullover cap looked as though he lived in them, as though he wore them to cut grass on Sundays and devise things in his workshop to delight his grandchildren. As far as Nick knew, he had never married. He lived only for his dangerous, demanding work. But today, his lean, leathery frontier face represented lifelong baseball fandom at its most faithful.

Nick made himself comfortable, crossed his knees and watched Kubek go after the first pitch and send a line single to center. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed: "Attaboy, Tony!"

Hawk clucked approvingly. "The operation is big now, Nick. No time to lose. I'll have to get the package to you right away. And not quite the one I'd planned. You've given us something new to work on."

Nick nodded. "What've you got?"

"One. No return callers at the Biltmore. A-24 got in and went over your visitor. Nothing. K-7 got prints off the knife. Your window-washer friend turns out to have a minor record and a reputation as a hired killer. But nothing big's ever been pinned on him. We got one thing, though. He was contacted in his bar-hangout by a man in a seersucker suit. And we got a description. It matched yours.

"Two. A-24 spent the morning at the airport. A man of that description was seen on the observation deck some time before the explosion and for a while after it. But earlier, he'd been making inquiries about Flight 16. They remembered him because of that.

"Three. The so-called coachman lived long enough to curse both you and Seersucker and say his orders were to get the girl at any price. He got those orders from Seersucker who got his from overseas. From some damn foreigner, he said. And then, regrettably, he died."

"Well, that wasn't much use." Nick shrugged sourly.

"Not much, but it made us wonder how he got his orders. Not so easy, if they come from overseas. And there we had a little break."

The stands came alive with applause as Tresh drove a high fly ball to the left center field corner that bounced into the stands for a ground rule double.

"What break?"

"On what was left of your friend Seersucker we found a pack of cigarettes. And inside the cellophane we found a cablegram. It was sent from London the day before yesterday and it said: Watch Jamaica Flight 16 tomorrow provide welcoming committee if necessary. Hope this already arranged but best intentions sometimes fail. Essential maintain privacy of mission. Trust you will meet situation accordingly. It was signed 'Red'."

"Does that mean anything to us?"

"Not yet. There's more you'll need to know, but I've talked enough for the moment." He dug into his pocket. "When the hot dog man comes around, get two. My treat."

His hand closed a dollar bill into Nick's palm. Nick felt something hard and metallic folded into the wad. A key.

"Grand Central," murmured Hawk. "Everything you'll want for now. You can check with me later for any new developments. But I can tell you this. You'll be traveling again, and soon. First thing after the ballgame, get a haircut."

Nick looked at him indignantly. "I already did."