Run, Spy, Run

He heard a door creak. Shoe leather made a little complaining sound as somebody moved. Nick stepped back and flung the door open, away from him, flattening himself against the wall.

Light from the corridor spilled in, revealing a length of rubber hose curling across the hall floor. There was no time to see anything else.

Three quick, muffled splats of sound and tongues of gun-propelled flame licked into the room. Carter managed a credible scream of choked surprise and hurled the chair over backwards. At the falling sound, two men loomed in the doorway, dark and indistinguishable, guns jutting, their long barrels made ungainly by bridged contraptions that were silencers.

The two men fired again, a salvo of pinging shots that picked up the chair and flung it around in the room. There was a brief, hesitant lull.

Nick detached himself from the wall in a lightning-swift move and kicked his hard-toed shoe upward in a savage arc. It might have been a perfect place kick in a football game. As it was, the deadly weapon, employed with the finest French accent of Le Savate, caught the nearest man dead-center on the point of the chin. A dark fedora sailed from the crown of his skull as his head flew back. Nick moved swiftly around him in a flying crouch. The second man gave a croak of surprise and swung his gun toward Nick. He was too late. The karate blow, with the elbow pointed upward and the palm stiffened in a flying wedge of destruction, chopped viciously and landed with the impact of a sledgehammer. The man screamed his pain and collapsed on the threshold, his nose spouting great gouts of blood.

Time was running out. The hotel was showing signs of coming awake. A door slammed down the hallway. Voices rose in a querying clamor.

Talking to policemen was not one of the things Carter intended to do. He scooped up his briefcase, stepped swiftly over the moaning human wrecks in the doorway, and streaked down the hallway toward the stairs yelling, 'Tire!"

The smoke created a useful diversion. Behind him, the quavering voice of a guest took up his cry of "Fire!"

An even greater diversion than the billowing clouds of smoke would be the open door of the room almost opposite his, with the small metal tank that poured black smoke through the snaky length of rubber hose. That was going to take some explaining when those buzzards came to.

Nick thought of this with satisfaction as he checked his downward course on the second floor and headed for the fire escape. If there was anyone waiting for him outside, they weren't going to pick him off at the front door.

He reached ground and turned on to the crosstown street.

A red Jaguar was slowly turning the corner into Central Park West. Nick stared. The driver was wearing the black picture hat he had seen at Yankee Stadium.

Nick stepped back into the shadows. Shouts came from upstairs, but he knew by their muffled quality that they were directed to something within.

Moments passed.

The Jaguar turned smoothly around the far corner and headed toward him. He stepped from the shadows, his free hand ready to use Wilhelmina.

"That's far enough," he said, and put his hand on the slowly moving car. It stopped.

The woman looked at him calmly, only her raised eyebrows indicating any surprise.

"Get in," she said. "I was waiting for you."

"I thought you might be," Nick said easily. "I was waiting for you. Move over. Come on, move. That's better."

She moved reluctantly. Nick got in behind the wheel.

"I always feel easier when I'm driving," said Nick, beating a stop light. "I find conversation so much more pleasant. Did you enjoy the game?"

"Five to nothing, Yankees," she said matter-of-factiy. "A bore. Now tell me where you think you're going."

Nick turned north, then gave his attention to her. The limpid, almost Asian eyes and the wide red mouth were just as he remembered them. But the enigmatic expression had gone and she looked — what? — Not at all afraid Piqued, somehow.

"It doesn't matter where we're going, as long as we can talk. Let's start with this: Why were you waiting for me?"

She flashed an angry look at him. "Because I saw those two hoods go in and I thought…"

His voice lashed at her. "You saw them or you led them?"

"How could I lead them?" The marvelous eyes flashed with anger. "I was there all evening!"

"Oh, you were," he murmured. "Why would that be?"

"Why do you think? I had orders to keep an eye on you."

He hooted. "Hah! And to what purpose, may I ask? To make sure I was neck deep in trouble?"

The rear-view mirror showed nothing out of the way. He made a sharp left turn, just in case, and made for West End Avenue.

"Who gave the orders?" he asked quietly, studying her profile out of the corner of his eye. It was worth studying. He liked it very much. But lady spies were no novelty to him.