Run, Spy, Run

Nick saw high cheekbones, carefully reddened full mouth and deep, almost almond-shaped eyes that coolly viewed the action on the field. Slender, jeweled hands clasped an expensive-looking black leather purse. The flesh of the bare arms was tawny and sensuous; the body was supple, its movements relaxed. She looked like a tigress in the sun.

There was exquisite molding in the high, tilted breastline, trim belted waist and subtly curving hips. She was not the sort of woman usually seen at Yankee Stadium on a September afternoon.

Hawk said, "Interesting. I see you find her so, too. Don't break your neck."

"Interesting, indeed. But dangerous, maybe."

"I don't think so. Too obviously eye-catching."

"That could be what we're intended to think."

From the corner of his eye Nick could see the exotic newcomer smiling slightly at some private thought and casually opening her lavish purse. He waited, resisting the urge to spring at her and grab that slender wrist. But only a long cigarette holder appeared, followed by the cigarette to which she applied a silver lighter.

Hawk's blue eyes glittered frostily. He rose to leave. "Better get to Grand Central. If the woman is after you, we'll find out soon enough. And don't forget the haircut. Goodbye."

Nick knew finality when he heard it. He stood up, politely excusing himself.

His long legs took him up the steps in a loping stride. The woman flicked a glance at him as he passed, but the almond eyes held no interest and returned instantaneously to the ballgame. Carter felt oddly satisfied. Her aloofness was in keeping with her appearance. Perhaps she was all she seemed, a lovely sophisticate out at the ball park for reasons of her own. Perhaps she was interested in one of the players. This year they seemed to be as popular as movie stars.

Nick found a cab on Jerome Avenue and got in with alacrity, glad to be on the go again.

Hawk's key for locker 701 in Grand Central Station was burning a hole in his pocket. He was getting anxious to see the contents of the package which would give him more data on the strange affair of Senor Valdez and the bombed airplanes.

Locker 701 was situated in a long bank of hundreds exactly like it somewhere in the lower levels of Grand Central. A quarter went a long way when you wanted to store anything. For ordinary folk, secret agents, murderers — anybody who had something to park, hide, or deliver.

There was a plain, burlap package in 701. About 8 1/2 by 11 inches square, bound with sisal twine. The handwritten address directed it to: Mr. Peter Cane, Hotel Elmont, New York, N.Y. Carter recognized Hawk's firm, accountant-like fine hand.

He closed the locker and went into the nearest washroom. In the dime-bought privacy of a small cubicle he opened the package. He removed a stack of typewritten pages bound in pressboard. This he ignored, turning his attention to the personal items in the parcel. There was a passport, sparsely stamped; an ostrich leather wallet and a well-thumbed blue address book; a gold cigarette lighter, rather scratched and engraved with the initials P.C.; a matching pen and pencil set and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses; a crisp letter of introduction to the Curator of the British Museum from Professor Matthew Zedderburg of Columbia University; and a much-folded, worn envelope addressed to Peter Cane of 412 West 110th Street and purporting to come from one Myra Koening of Rochester, N.Y. The letter inside read: "Dear Peter, oh, Peter, I don't know how to begin. Perhaps with my dreams and my wonderful memories of that night, that one incredible night when the world turned over and…"

Nick grinned to himself and folded it back in its envelope. Trust Hawk to add romance to round out the impersonation! It was the sort of letter a single man would carry around with him for a month or so before discarding, a convincing touch of dressing for the role he was to play.

He opened the passport and saw himself with a crew-cut, horn rims, and a dedicated expression. Oh, yes — the haircut.

A rapid glance through the rest of the material suggested no immediate course of action other than a second trip to the barber, a final call on the Roosevelt, and a quiet couple of hours at the Elmont with his homework.

An hour later he checked in at the Hotel Elmont, a conservative ten-storied building on the upper West Side. On impulse, he used one of his indecipherable signatures rather than the one given to him by his new passport.