Macao (KM031), page 16
part #31 of Killmaster Series
Yet he had not been able to leave the girl alone. Succulent young girlhood was deadly bait for old and tired men. Daily the danger of exposure grew. Nick could see that the uncle’s dilemma had been harsh. To be caught, exposed, pilloried— an incestuous relationship with an only niece for over three years! It meant the absolute end of everything—fortune, career, even life itself.
The girl, now old enough to understand what she was doing, had precipitated matters. She had run away from Lisbon. The uncle, terrified that she would talk, had had her caught and confined in a sanitarium in Switzerland. There she had talked, raving under sodium pentathol, and a cunning fat nurse had heard. Blackmail.
The girl had escaped from the sanitarium at last—and had just kept going. She had not talked. She did not even know about the nurse who had overheard and was already peddling silence to the uncle. Nick Carter’s grin was hard. How the man must have sweated! Sweated and paid—and paid.
When you have been a Lolita between the ages of thirteen and sixteen your chances of a normal life afterward are not good. The Princess stayed away from Portugal and went steadily downhill. Booze, drugs, sex—the works. The uncle waited and paid. He was now very high in the Cabinet, had so much more to lose.
Then, at long last, Blacker had come to sell the dirty movies and the uncle saw his chance. If he could somehow get the girl back to Portugal, prove her mad, tuck her away, perhaps no one would believe her story. There might be whispers, but he could ride that out. He began his campaign. He agreed that his niece was hurting the Portuguese image in the world. She needed expert care, poor girl. He began to cooperate with Portuguese Intelligence, but telling them only half the story. He shut off her funds. A campaign of subtle harassment began to get the Princess back to Portugal, to put her away in a “convent”—thus discounting any story she might tell. Drink and drugs and sex had wrecked her. Who would believe a crazy girl?
Aski, with his superb Intelligence preying on Portuguese Intelligence, had stumbled on the truth. Seen a weapon to be used against the Portuguese Government, to force concessions. A weapon he was not going to use, after all. He was going to marry her. He wouldn’t want her smeared any more than she had already been.
Nick Carter got up and stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray. He frowned. He had a nasty feeling that uncle was going to get away with it at that—would probably die revered with full state and church honors. A pity.
He remembered the pointed teeth, then, and what Aski had once said: “I’m used to killing my own meat!”
Nick also remembered Johnny Wise Guy with the jade hilted paper knife in his heart. Maybe uncle wasn’t home free. Maybe—
He dressed and went out into the typhoon. The clerk and others in the ornate lobby stared at him in horror. The big American must truly be nuts to venture out in a bitch wind.
It was not really as bad as he had expected. You had to watch for flying objects, like store signs and ash cans and loose timber, but if you kept low and hugged the buildings it didn’t blow you away. The rain was something, though, a gray wave that swept laterally down the narrow streets. He was soaked in a minute. It was warm water, and he felt more of the slime of Macao being washed from him.
By some chance—it was that—he found himself in the Wan Chai district again. Not far from the Rat Fink Bar. It might be a haven, at that. He was debating it when he saw the girl. Wind had just knocked her sprawling into the running gutters. Nick hastened to pick her up, noting the lovely long legs, the full breasts, the good skin and rather demure look about her. As demure as a wind-tousled girl can be. She was wearing a rather short skirt, though not mini, and she did not have a raincoat.
Nick assisted the flurried girl to her feet. The street was empty but for them. He smiled at her. She smiled back, a tentative smile that became warmer as she sized him up.
They stood in the howling wind and gusting rain. “I take it,” said Nick Carter, “that this is your first typhoon?”
She clutched at her flying hair. “Y-yes. We don’t have them back in Fort Wayne. Are you an American?”
Nick made a slight bow and gave her what Hawk had often described as his “butter won’t melt in the mouth” smile. “I am. Can I help you in any way?”
She clung to his arm. The wind plastered her damp skirt to the good, very good, excellent, superb legs.
“I’m lost,” she explained. “I know I was a fool to come out, to leave the other girls, but I’ve always wanted to be in a typhoon.”
“You,” said Nick, “are a romantic after my own heart. Suppose we share the typhoon. After a drink, of course, and a chance to get ourselves introduced and straightened around.”
She had large gray eyes. Her nose was snub, her hair short and golden. She ran the gray eyes up and down the AXE-man’s big frame. She smiled. “I think I would like that. Where shall we go?”
Nick pointed just down the street to the Rat Fink Bar. He thought again of the Prince, very briefly, then did not think of him. “I know just the place,” he said. “Lots of atmosphere.”
Two hours and several drinks later, Nick made a bet with himself that the lines would be out. He lost. Hawk answered almost immediately.
“Glad to hear from you, son,” said the old man. “Your report was forwarded. You did a fine job.”
“Yes,” agreed Nick. “I did. Another name crossed off in the little black book, eh?”
“Not on an open line,” said Hawk. “Where are you? If you can get right back I would appreciate it. A little matter has come up and—”
“A little matter has also come up here,” Nick said. “Her name is Benita Dawson and she is a schoolteacher from Fort Wayne, Indiana. Teaches elementary grades. I am learning things. Did you know, sir, that the old methods are very much out? I see Spot—you see Spot—there is Spot—Spot is a good dog—all that is passe now.”
A short silence. The wires hummed over the long miles. Hawk said, “Very well. I suppose you have to get it out of your system before you can do any work again. But where are you—just in case I need you urgently?”
“Would you believe,” asked Nick Carter, “the Rat Fink Bar?”
Hawk, wearily: “I believe it.”
“Good, sir. There is a typhoon, also. It is possible I may be marooned for two or three days. Goodbye, sir.”
“But, Nick! Wait. I—”
“Don’t call me,” said Killmaster firmly. “I’ll call you.”
He went back to the booth where Miss Benita Dawson, of Fort Wayne, Indiana, was waiting for him.
The End
Nick Carter, Macao (KM031)
