Double Identity

Chapter 6 Death

Nick sighed and ordered another bottle of Pakistani beer. It wasn’t good but it was cold. And he needed an excuse for hanging about the place. So far he hadn’t seen any cops — maybe the owner was paying off — and he needed a haven for the next few hours. He had to figure out his next move. Quickly! And when he had it figured he had to move just as quickly. He would have to venture out of this safe hole — defying the curfew — and he would be damned conspicuous in the deserted streets. But there was no help for that. He had to get out to the Mauripur district, where the murdered man had lived, and do a little on-the-spot investigating. It should be most interesting to know why his double, the impostor, had killed again! This time his victim was an American: Sam Shelton, confidential attaché to APDP— Arms Procurement and Distribution Program. It had been Shelton who had implemented Washington’s order to shut off the flow of arms to the Pakistanis when the war with India flared. High policy, that, and Sam Shelton only the tool! Only carrying out orders. Yet the fake Nick Carter had killed him! Why?

Nick lit a Goldflake — American cigarettes were unobtain-able in Karachi’s cheap boites—and glanced furtively around. No one was paying him any attention. Or so it seemed. You never knew.

The dirty little bar was situated in the Malir-Landhi district on the muddy Indus River near Karachi Airport where, a few hours before, Nick had said a hurried goodbye to the crew of the Hercules C-130 who had flown him in from Chushul Airstrip in Ladakh. They had been a nice gang of young Americans, bent on raising a little hell in Karachi — maybe visiting one of the infamous bath-houses where the entertainment was varied and continuous before, during, and after your bath. Nick would have liked to have accepted their invitation to join them — even though their youth and effervescence made him feel a thousand years old.

He hadn’t, of course. Mission Deuce lay heavier on him by the passing second. He was a good week behind his quarry now — or so he had thought at the time. He had a man to find and kill and he had best be getting on with it. He said goodbye and plunged into darkened Karachi, improvising now and doubtful about his next move. It had been sheer luck that he had picked up a discarded copy of The Hindi Times and found that he was wanted for murder and escape! There it was, his picture, on the front page.

It was, of course, a picture of the phony Nick Carter — but the Karachi cops didn’t know that!

Nick finished his beer and lit another cigarette. He kept his face shielded by the paper and again surveyed the bar. It was jammed and smoke-filled now. Most of the patrons were men, though here and there Nick saw a prostitute in cheap Western finery. The men were a polyglot crew, mostly river and harbor workers with a scattering of lean Pathan tribesmen wearing pa jama-type trousers and dirty turbans. The stench of unwashed bodies was overpowering.

From the rear of the place came the sudden twanging of stringed instruments playing — to Western ears — a most unmelodic dance tune. There was a great surge by the crowd toward the music and Nick found himself and his corner deserted. Suited him fine. He stared down the bar and, through the mob, could see a fat woman wriggling her belly in a very basic version of the jhoomer, a Pakistani folk dance. The folk, N3 thought, would never recognize it! The layer of fat just above the woman’s scant covering wobbled and gleamed with sweat as she gyrated. Little cries of encouragement came from the crowd of men, most of whom were drunk. It was strictly a Moslem crowd, Nick noted with a sardonic little smile. What else? You didn’t see many Hindus around Karachi these days. If they were around at all they kept well out of sight.

He glanced at his AXE watch — it had survived the terrible passage out of the Karakoram Pass better than he had, his feet were still aching from frostbite — and saw that it was a quarter after twelve Karachi time. No point in stalling around here any longer. He was only postponing the trouble. He had to get out to Mauripur, find Sam Shelton’s house, and see what he could find in the way of a clue. Probably nothing — yet he must try. Reluctantly he began to push back from the table, dreading the empty streets, when he saw the incident at the bar. N3 remained in his chair, watching, as a hunch began to grow and develop in his quick brain. The man at the bar sounded like an American.

Certainly he was angry — and drunk. And broke. That was the real trouble. The man was broke and the bartender, a huge fellow in a dirty purple-striped shirt and a red fez, would not serve him. As Nick watched the bartender reached across the bar and shoved the smaller man brutally. The man fell amidst a clutter of butts, waste paper and spittle, his head nearly in an old petrol tin serving as a spittoon. He lay there for a moment, unable to rise, mouthing a string of foul curses in Hindustani — Nick caught the word bap, father, coupled with what seemed to be a species of incestuous monkey. Then the man on the floor swung into English, Americanese, and the result was delightful to hear. Nick grinned openly and enjoyed it, thinking that even Hawk could learn a word or two from this derelict!

N3 made his decision and acted immediately. It was his way. He had little to lose and possibly a great deal to gain. Even a bum like this must have a home of sorts — someplace to hide for the night. Anything was better than a hotel, even the cheapest, where he would have to show identification — and where sharp eyes would spot him as a wanted man.

He went to the fallen man and pulled him up roughly. The bartender looked on without interest, his swarthy face conveying his boredom and impatience with Yankees who were broke and on the beach. They were pigs! Useless pigs! One never got baksheesh from such as these. They drank cheap beer only and did not patronize the whores.

Nick tossed a 100 rupee note on the bar. “Bring whisky. Good whisky— American if you’ve got it! Tez! Hurry up!”

The barman was immediately servile. He had misjudged, then. This big one had money after all! And something else — an air of authority that was not to be trifled with. And yet another thing! The bartender pondered as he fumbled for the single bottle of precious American whisky — had he not seen the face of this big one somewhere before? Recently — quite recently! The bartender summoned his assistant and conferred with him for a moment in rapid Pashto. Both he and the assistant were Afghans.

The assistant studied the face of the big American who by now had gotten the drunk back to his table and succeeded in propping him up. “No,” said the assistant, “I have never seen him before. But if he is a friend of the Bannion, of that one, how can he be anyone important or worth anything? You are mistaken, boss. He can be of no consequence. I doubt they have a naye poise between them.” He went back to watch the belly dancer.

The owner crumpled the 100 rupee note in his pocket and took the whisky and two dirty glasses to the table. His assistant was, in fact, supposed to be a junior partner— but if he did not find out about the 100 rupees so much the better. And Ali could be wrong, too. He would keep an eye on this big American with money — just in case.

There was a folded copy of The Hindi Times on the dirty table. The owner used it to brush away the flies and ashes. The big American reached to take the paper from his hand. “Mine,” he said. “I haven’t finished with it yet.”

“Dwkh,” said the owner. “My sorrow, sir. Will there be anything else? You wish perhaps to view the dancing? I could, er, arrange a private performance!”

Bannion, the derelict, raised his head from the dirty table. He stared at the owner with red-rimmed eyes. “Get lost, you greasy fat son of a bitch! Who needs you? Beat it!” He turned to Nick. “Better watch him if you got any money. He’s a thief. They’re all thieves!”

The owner retreated a step, but did not lose his servile expression. He dry-washed his hands and stared at Bannion with disdain. To Nick he said, “I must warn you against this one, sahib. He is worthless — for many years now. He is a cadger, a dead beat! I—”

Bannion tried to struggle out of his chair, his face working with rage. “You’re gonna be a dead Afghan sonofabitch if you don’t get that lousy fat carcass out of here!” He collapsed into the chair again.

Nick Carter nodded to the owner. “Leave us alone.”

When the man had gone he studied the man called Bannion. Pretty far gone, he thought. Way down in a deep hole. At the bottom of the ladder. Hopeless. Still he might prove useful.

Bannion was on the short side, squarish in build, with a little pot belly. His three-or four-day growth of stubble was reddish mixed with gray. What was left of his lank hair, around a smooth pink tonsure, was of the same color. His eyes, as he stared back at Nick now, were watery and inflamed. He looked like a bad case of pinkeye! He wore a filthy old GI field jacket covered with grease stains and a pair of equally disreputable OD pants. Beneath the field jacket a ragged tee shirt was the color of dirt. Nick, very deliberately, making a thing of it, glanced down at the man’s feet. He wore old Army shoes, one with a heel gone. He was sockless.

Bannion said nothing while this scrutiny was going on. He scratched at his red beard and narrowed his inflamed eyes at Nick. Finally he grinned. Nick was a bit surprised to note that his teeth weren’t bad.

Bannion said, “Inspection over?”

N3 nodded curtly. “For now.”

“I pass?”

Nick restrained a smile. This was a cocky little bastard, no matter that he was the down and out.

“Barely,” he said. “I really don’t know yet You’re really a mess, aren’t you?”

The little man grinned. “You can say that again, mister who-ever-you-are. I’m the bum to end all bums! I’m a derelict and a hopeless, no-good bum! But all that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? So why bother with me? Why pick me up and bring me over here with all this good whisky that, as far as I can see, is going to waste. You don’t look like a do-gooder to me. And you aren’t carrying a prayer book and a tambourine, either. So what goes on, mister? And, while you’re telling me, can I have a shot of that panther pee you’re paying for?”

Nick shoved the bottle toward him. “Help yourself. Only stay on your feet, please. I think I might have a little job for you later. Not much later, either. Just how drunk are you now?”

The man seized the bottle and poured with a fairly steady hand. He jerked his head toward the bar. “Not as drunk as they think I am. That’s an act I put on sometimes — these bastards like to see a white man drunk and making a fool of himself. Makes them laugh — and when they laugh they buy drinks. Simple as that, mister.” He drank his shot in one gulp and hastily refilled his glass, then shoved the bottle toward Nick. “Thanks. Been a long time since I’ve tasted real American booze. Mostly I drink beer or Karachi rot-gut. Now, mister, what’s your angle?”

N3 felt a tinge of pity. He repressed it immediately. There were millions of these men in the world, all with a hard luck story, and he had neither time nor inclination to listen to another one. Yet this man might prove valuable in just this situation — it remained to be seen.

He replied to the question with another question. “What’s your name? I’d like to know something about you before I go on with this — not much, but a little. How you happen to be stranded in Karachi, for instance?”

The little man reached for the bottle again. “Mike Bannion,” he said. “Michael Joseph, in full. I used to be a newspaper man. In the States. In the world, for that matter. All around and about! That was ten years ago — when I landed here in Karachi after a story. I got the story — but I also got drunk. I’ve been drunk ever since. I’m going on being drunk as long as I can manage it. And you’re wrong about one thing— I’m not stranded. I’ve got a home, believe it or not. I’ve also got a wife and nine kids. I married a native— Moslem girl. Her old man hates me and disowned her. She’s fat and ugly now — having all those kids — but when I married her she was something. Now she takes in laundry to feed the kids and pay the rent and I shift for myself to get drink money. And that’s it, mister, the story of my life. Or all of it that you’re going to get— I don’t care how much money you pay me!”

Bannion took a deep breath, another shot of whisky, and stared with covetous eyes at Nick’s pack of Goldflake. Nick shoved the cigarettes across the table. “Help yourself.”

As Bannion lit up Nick studied him carefully. He must make up his mind in a hurry. Now. He decided to go through with it. It was a risk, but then he was used to taking risks. One more couldn’t make much difference. He took the copy of The Hindi Times from his pocket and opened it to the front page. He shoved it across to Bannion.

“Take a good look at that. Read the story if you can— then I’ll ask you a few questions. If you give the right answers, and are still interested, I think we’ll be in business.”

Bannion’s expression did not change as he studied the picture. He glanced at Nick once, then back again to the paper. Obviously he read Hindustani well. Finally he folded the paper and handed it back to Nick. He nodded slightly back of him toward the bar.

“If they spot you you’re in trouble. I notice there’s a reward for you — and these characters would sell their mothers for a plugged rupee. Unless they thought they could blackmail you first.”

Nick put the paper back in his pocket. His grin was faint, quizzical. “Perhaps that thought has occurred to you, too?”

Bannion grinned in return. He poured himself a drink. “It was the first thing that struck me, Mr. Carter. But we’ll see. That your real name?”

“Yes. But this is not a picture of me. It’s the picture of a man who is posing as me. He killed the American, Sam Shelton. I didn’t. It’s a very complicated story and I’m not going to try and explain it to you now. Maybe never. It’s all very top secret stuff. You’ll be working blind, with only my word for anything. Still interested?”

Bannion nodded over his glass. “Could be. I wasn’t exactly born yesterday, you know. And I couldn’t care less whether or not you killed this guy— I only want two honest answers out of you! Have you got money — lots of money?”

Nick smiled faintly. “Uncle Samuel is behind me all the way.”

Bannion brightened. “Good. Second question — are you working for the Commies? Because if you are, and I find it out, the deal is off! I might even get mad and lose my temper. There are some things even a bum like me won’t do.”

Nick grinned across the table. There was something likable about this little redheaded wreck of a man. Not his odor, or his looks certainly, but something!

“Just the other way round,” he said. “I’m agin. That’s all I can tell you.”

The bloodshot eyes regarded him steadily for a long time. Then Bannion reached for the bottle again. “Okay. I’m in, Mr. Carter. Short of murder, I’m in. What do we do first?”

Nick poured the drinks. “This is the last,” he warned Bannion. “I want you as sober as possible. After this one we leave — and we’ll need transportation. Got any ideas about that?”

“I’ve got a jeep outside,” said Bannion surprisingly. “The oldest jeep in the world. Name of Gae — that means cow in Hindustani. She still runs — barely. Where do you want to go, Mr. Carter?”

As they left the man from AXE said, “Call me Nick when you must call me anything — and don’t use my name anymore than you must. Never in front of other people! Right now I want to go to the Mauripur district — to Sam Shelton’s house. You know the district?”

“I know it. I even know the house — it’s on Chinar Drive. I used to drive a beat-up taxi around town until the Paks got sore and spoiled it for me. They don’t like white men working at their jobs.”

Nick followed him to a dark lane near the Indus. The night was clear and cool, with a hanging yellow lantern of moon, somewhat spoiled by the smell of mudflats and dead fish. In the faint light Nick could see ghostly dhows drifting with the current down to the Arabian Sea.

Maybe it wasn’t the oldest jeep in the world. Perhaps, Nick thought as he climbed in, it was only the second or third oldest. You couldn’t say that the paint job was bad— there was no paint. There was no glass in the windshield. The tires were worn down to the cord. The single headlight was wired on and bounced alarmingly.

Bannion had to crank — the starter having long ago gone to buy whisky, he volunteered without shame — and after an anxious moment Gae began to cough and wheeze and hawk up great blue gouts of stinking smoke. They took off cautiously as Bannion babied the tires. A coil of spring nipped at N3’s backside as they rattled and clanked and clunked down every dark alley Bannion could find. And he seemed to know them all. He carefully skirted the modern downtown section of Karachi. They came to a maze of miserable huts thrown together from every kind of material — packing crates, bamboo, mud blocks and logs, flattened oil and beer cans. The stench was appalling. They wound through this desert of misery by means of a single-lane knee deep in greasy mud. The ancient jeep huffed and puffed valiantly. The hovels, and the smell, covered acres.

Nick Carter put a handkerchief over his nose and Bannion snickered. “Rough, huh? Refugees from India in here — no place else to put ‘em. It’s a hell of a mess — even I live better than these poor devils.”

“Speaking of places to live,” said Nick, “after our little excursion tonight I’m going to need a place to shack up — a safe place where I won’t be bothered by cops or anyone else. Your place should do?”

“Perfect,” Bannion nodded and smiled, his teeth flashing through the red beard. “I thought you’d come to that! You’re welcome — part of the deal. The cops never bother me. I know most of them in the neighborhood and anyway I’ve been around so long they take me for granted now. I’m just the American bum!”

“Your wife? And nine kids?”

Bannion shook his head. “Not to worry. I’m bringing home some money, so Neva — that’s my wife — will be happy with me for once. The kids do what I say! No problem there, though you’ll have to keep out of sight. We’re one big happy neighborhood and the wives gossip something fierce — but we’ll worry about that later. Speaking of money — I’d better have some to show Neva.”

Nick fumbled in his wallet and handed the man a thousand rupee note. “That’s for now. There will be plenty more if we get along. If you do a good job and don’t let me down I might be able to do something about getting you out of this hole.” He let it go at that. Bannion made no answer.

They reached Drigh Road and headed west. It was a modern highway, four lanes, and well marked. Bannion pressed down on the gas and the old jeep sputtered and picked up speed. The speedometer didn’t work, but Nick guessed they were doing at least forty-five.

“This is the tricky bit,” Bannion said. “They patrol this pretty well. If we’re stopped it’ll be along this stretch.”

Nick glanced at his AXE watch. It was a little after one.

He heard a sound of planes overhead and glanced up. They were old prop jobs. Far across the city he watched lances of brilliant light spring to life and sweep the sky. There came the distant popping of anti-aircraft fire. Two of the searchlights caught a plane in their apex and held it for a moment, pinned to the black sky like a moth to cork. The plane slipped away. There came the remote crash-thud of a bomb exploding.

Bannion chuckled. “Hit-and-run raid. Tomorrow the Indians will officially deny it ever happened. The Pakistanis are probably raiding Delhi about now — and they’ll deny it too. Some war! A two-bit deal that neither of them wants.

N3 remembered Hawk’s words — somebody wanted this war. The Red Chinese!

They were getting into the Mauripur district now. Well-paved streets and large estates and compounds surrounded by thick-growing chinar trees. A delicate fragrance of cashew-nut bushes scented the crisp night air. The AXE man noted the street lights, dark now because of the blackout.

“This is where the money lives,” said Bannion. “And most of the foreigners. The place you want is just up here.”

Bannion slowed the jeep to a crawl. Even so the old engine made a fearful racket in the quiet night. “Turn it off,” Nick ordered quietly, almost whispering. “Park it someplace where it won’t be noticed by a patrol, then we’ll walk.”

Bannion switched off the engine and they coasted. They left the jeep in the clotted shadow of a towering Persian oak, and Bannion led the way down a strip of blacktop. He stopped in the shadows just short of where a white gate gleamed in the gibbous moon. At that moment, from afar on the outskirts of the city, a jackal wailed.

“They come in close looking for food,” Bannion said. “Tigers not a hundred miles from here.”

Nick told him to shut up and stand quietly. He was not interested in tigers, other than himself, and the only jackals he cared about were the two-legged variety. He whispered his instructions to Bannion. They would remain in the shadows, and stark still, for twenty minutes. If anyone was watching they should betray themselves by then. In the meantime Bannion, whispering into N3’s ear, was to fill him in on a few matters. Bannion obliged.

He had followed the Nick Carter case in the papers, of course, but only with cursory interest. Until tonight his interest in spies and secret agents had been nil — his chiefest concern being the next drink. Now he probed his alcohol-ridden memory as best he could.

Nick Carter — the man who looked like and was posing as, Nick Carter — had been arrested because of the alertness and loyalty of Sam Shelton’s maid, a Hindu girl. Hindus who worked for Americans were fairly safe in Karachi. The maid had admitted the man calling himself Nick Carter and had left him alone with Sam Shelton. Shelton, she told the police later, had appeared puzzled at first, but glad enough to see the man. They had gone into Shelton’s private office. Later the girl heard angry words and peeked through a keyhole just in time to see the stranger stab Shelton with a small stiletto. The girl had used her head, had not panicked, had called the police immediately from an upstairs phone.

By luck there had been a police car nearly on the spot They captured the killer after a terrific struggle in which a policeman was badly hurt. Once taken, however, the murderer had given no trouble. Not in the ordinary way. In another way he had been enormous trouble. He had identified himself as Nicholas Carter, an American agent, and had cheerfully confessed to killing Sam Shelton. Shelton, the man claimed, was a traitor who was about to defect. He had been killed on orders from Washington. To top it all off the killer demanded diplomatic immunity.

The real N3 whistled softly as he heard this latter. Clever devil! He wondered if the story had been rehearsed, or if the guy had simply made it up as he went along? Anyway it was fiendishly confusing — as the man had meant it to be. The cables and air waves between Washington and Karachi must have been blazing. Nick grinned sourly now as Bannion talked. He could almost smell the mutual distrust. And Hawk — his boss must be nearly out of his mind.

The best — or the worst — was yet to come. Day before yesterday the fake Nick Carter had escaped! Had been delivered from jail by a gang of masked and armed men who left three dead cops behind, plus one of their own. This man had turned out to be a Hindu thug well known to the police, which helped matters not at all.

Into this mess Nick Carter had walked! Unsuspecting. Hawk hadn’t known the details in time to warn him. Might not have warned him anyway— Nick had a job to do and he was on his own. It was a thing his chief was capable of — withholding information that might only complicate matters. It was a judgment call — and Hawk never erred on the side of making things safer and more comfortable for his agents. It was his theory that such solicitude only made them lax.

Nick could find but one small crumb of comfort — he was only two days behind the impostor now. It occurred to him that the man might still be in Karachi.

The twenty minutes were up. The moon ducked behind a cloud and it was very dark. Nick, walking on the grass, went to the white gate and vaulted it. Bannion was just behind him. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay and watch,” Nick whispered. “Be careful. I don’t expect you to take any risks or get in any trouble for me. But if anyone comes snooping, a police car, or anyone, I’d appreciate a warning.”

“I whistle pretty good.”

Nick remembered the jackal. “Whistling’s too obvious. How’s your jackal howl?”

Bannion’s teeth flashed in a grin. “Not bad. I scare the kids with it sometimes.”

“Okay then. That’s it. After you signal, and if you think there is any danger, you take off! I don’t want you caught.” Bannion would talk, of course.

“I don’t want to get caught,” Bannion agreed. He chuckled. “Not until I get the rest of the money anyway. But every cop in Karachi knows my jeep.”

“We’ll risk that,” said Nick. “Now keep quiet and hide. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

The house was low and rambling, much like a ranch house in the States except that one wing had a second story. Maid’s room, Nick thought as he studied the house from the shelter of a hedge. It was dark and quiet. He wondered briefly what had happened to the maid. Cops still holding her? Gone to relatives in India?

A tiny censor in his brilliant, superbly trained brain began to click and glow. But for once he ignored it, so intent was he on his purpose.

Nick moved across a cement porch without sound. He found a French window open, the jalousie raised. A second censor clicked in his brain. This time he paid heed. How come the window so conveniently open, so beckoning? Sloppy police work when they had sealed the house? Could be. Or could not be. So — he was being paid danger money for this mission.

N3 checked his weapons. Pierre, the gas bomb, was safe in the metal cartridge between his legs. Surely he wouldn’t need Pierre tonight. Hugo, the stiletto, was cold against his forearm. Sam Shelton had been killed with a stiletto, remember!

N3 checked Wilhelmina, the Luger. He jacked a cartridge into the chamber, muffling the sound beneath his borrowed airman’s jacket, and flicked off the safety. He went into the dark room beyond with a single fluid motion that was without sound.

Nothing. A clock ticked dutifully away, though its owner had no more use for time. It was blacker than a dictator’s sins! Nick felt his way along a wall, his fingers detecting flocked wallpaper.

He reached a corner and halted, counting the seconds, listening. After two minutes he dared the pen light he always carried. The thin beam disclosed a big desk, files, a small safe in another corner. He was in Shelton’s office.

Cautiously he approached the desk. It was bare except for a blotter, a telephone, and some sort of an official form pad. Nick held the light close and scanned the pad. It was a new one with only a few sheets missing. Nick picked it up gingerly — he had no means of knowing how clever the Karachi police were with fingerprints — and read the small black lettering. It was in gobbledy-gook. Officialese! U.S. Lend Lease style. It was a pad of requisition slips.

The dead Sam Shelton had been special attache for APDP — Arms Procurement and Distribution Program. There was a huge transshipment depot on the Indus northeast of Karachi.

N3 scanned the pad again. He turned it in the air so the little beam of light played across the top sheet at an angle, bringing up indentations, the impression of what had been written on the preceding sheet. Even without special technique he could make out a long list, written in a small hand, and at the bottom the heavy swirl of a signature. Sam Shelton.

Excitement began to build in the AXE man now. He thought he was getting close — close to finding out what the fake Nick Carter was after. He twisted the pad this way and that, trying to make out more of the writing. He was positive that one of the faintly limned phrases was— Consigned to—

Damn! He needed a heavy pencil, a soft lead, to brush over the impressions and bring them up. The desk top was bare. Nick found a drawer, the top drawer, and slid it softly open. There should be—

For a micro-second the man and the snake stared at each other. It was a krait, eighteen inches of instant death! Cousin to the cobra, but much deadlier. Death in less than a minute and no serum could save you.

Both the man and the snake struck in the same instant. Nick was just a shade the faster. His action was spontaneous, without thought. Thought would have killed him. His nerves and muscles took over and the little stiletto flashed down to pin the krait to the bottom of the drawer, just below the obscene flat head.

The krait lashed in a furious death agony, still trying to strike its enemy. Nick Carter gave a long sigh and wiped sweat from his face, watching the fangs still flickering a half-inch from his wrist.