Run, Spy, Run

Rita wondered about him. But Max Dillman, in London, had said he was all right. She eyed her watch and checked the windows. 10:35. ETA was 10:50. Time to tell the passengers to fasten their safety belts, put out the smokes — and all the rest of it. This was supposed to have been her last trip. Tears misted her eyes. Stop that and get moving, she told herself.

She made the announcement in her low, crisp voice, and began the necessary duty tour down the aisle.

"Fasten your seat belts, please. We'll be arriving at Idlewild in fifteen minutes. Please put out the cigarette, sir. Here, let me do that, Madame Monnet. Everything all right, Señor Valdez?"

The steel hand flapped confidently.

The gradual banking sweep of the 710 Jetstar was almost imperceptible. Nick felt it, and made a final visual check of his companions. Everybody in place and neatly buttoned down. Well, that was that.

Rita came down the aisle toward him.

The gigantic spire of the Empire State Building sliced into the morning sky.

Rita leaned over Nick, pretending to adjust his seat belt.

"You're cheating, Mr. Carter. You didn't have it fastened," she said laughingly. Barely moving her lips, she added: "Will you help me?"

"I'd be glad to. How, when, where? And, incidentally, who?"

He watched the piquant oval of her face and waited.

She straightened up and said, with mock severity, "Really, Mr. Carter. You know I can't do that. But there's nothing to stop you telephoning me." She lowered her voice again. "Try to be the last one off the plane. Otherwise — it's Rita Jameson, Hadway House. Call tonight at eight."

He nodded and she turned away.

A drum of belated warning sounded in his brain. He'd been so fascinated by the question of Who that he really hadn't given much thought to the possibility of a trap. And it was a possibility that a man in his profession could never overlook.

Well, he was glad he had finally thought of it. But he didn't think it was a trap, somehow. It wasn't only that Rita was so very lovely; she seemed to be afraid.

Idlewild in the sunlight, a vast, concrete playground with wide ribbons of runways waiting to receive the great metallic homing pigeons.

Flight 16 came down with a long glide of controlled power, wheels bumping easily and pneumatic air brakes making small choking sounds. The pressurized passenger cabin was, thought Nick, as silent as a churchyard after midnight.

And then the storm of passenger voices and departure activity began. The flight was over and everybody was home safe.

The airstair was disgorging passengers rapidly. Nick stretched lazily. Two or three passengers were still wrestling with their hand baggage, but there was no point in making himself conspicuous by hanging around doing nothing. He picked up his briefcase and ambled to the exit.

"Got a coat for me?" he asked Rita, who stood on the airstair.

"Oh, yes, that's right," she said, nodding brightly. "One moment."

He waited. Behind him, he could sense the presence of the man with the steel hand.

"Excuse me, please, señor. I am in a hurry." The English was perfect, barely tinged with accent.

Nick stepped out on to the airstair and stood aside. Rita turned from the coat rack.

"Goodbye, Señor Valdez." She was smiling politely at the man with the steel hand. "I hope you'll honor us with a flight again soon."

The Brynner skull was now hidden by a brand new Panama. Thin lips curved slightly and the squat body inclined forward in the barest of bows.

"Thank you. We will meet again, I am sure. Pardon me."

He edged past Nick on the stairway and made his way quickly down to the tarmac. Nick admired the agility of his movements. The crippled arm was held normally and swung easily at his side.

Rita came back with Nick's coat.

"Well, on my way, Miss Jameson." Nick smiled at her gently, like a man who appreciated what he was seeing. A soft yellow curl was trying to escape the confines of her cap, and the breeze ruffled the top of her blouse. "Walk me down?"

"It's a little unusual, but why not?"

She walked a step ahead of him and said quietly, "Can't talk much now, but I need your help with a murder."

"Committing one?" asked Nick, slightly startled.

"No, of course not," she answered crisply. "Solving one. A hideous, monstrous thing."

They stopped at the foot of the airstair.

"I'll try," said Nick. "May not be up my alley, but perhaps we can find that out over a late dinner."

"Perhaps we can. Thank you." She smiled briefly. "Hadway House, remember?"

Nick nodded and raised his hand in a wave. She turned toward the stair and he headed briskly after the stream of passengers wending erratically toward the Exit gate. He was ready for some strong coffee and possibly four or five eggs. Still, his interest was divided between Rita and the fat back of the Señor. Ahead, the blonde Panama gleamed in the sunlight.