Istanbul

Chapter 7 The Oldest Profession

It was the oldest and simplest trap in the world — you chase me and I'll catch you! It worked to perfection.

Both big men were waiting as Nick raced across the intersecting corridor in pursuit of the flitting, elusive figure in the dinner jacket. It was an amateur's mistake and N3 made it and never quite forgave himself for it — but at the time he had only one thought. To get his sinewy hands around the throat of Johnny Ruthless.

The man nearest the corner kicked at Nick's legs as he ran past. Nick went sprawling, knowing even in that racing desperate moment before he hit the floor that he had been tricked. As he fell he turned his head, watching, and saw the remaining man come fast with a short length of cord in his hands. That was it, then! Thuggee! They were going to strangle him. Quick and noiseless — and most painful!

Two big men against one big man! As Nick hit the hard splintery floor and rolled over on his back he knew that these men must consider the odds pretty good. So did he. Yet even then, just before the brawl, he knew this was going to be a tough one. Nick had never underestimated an enemy in his life — which was why he was still around.

As the first man leaped to pin him down Nick hooked a foot around the man's calf and kicked hard at the knee with his iron shod heel. A fast way to break a leg. This man slipped away from it, spun, and kicked Carter brutally in the ribs. It hurt. Nick rolled away from the second man, with the cord, who was trying to catch at Nick's ankles with it. Nick kicked him in the face. The man fell sideways, cursing. By now Nick guessed they had orders not to kill him unless they must — the cord was just to choke him into submission. Johnny Ruthless probably had a few questions in mind. With the amazing computer-like speed of the human brain — even locked in this sweating, grunting, cursing struggle — Nick thought of Dr. Six and the operating table that must be waiting!

Both men smelled of fish. Nick noted this as the largest man came at him in a long stretching dive with gnarled brown hands like talons. They were getting a little more than they had bargained for and Nick could sense their thoughts — they had somehow to tie down this wildcat in the crazy tight suit, use their weight, maul him and smother him.

All this time Nick had the Luger in his right hand. They were ignoring it. They knew he didn't want to use it.

As the diving man came in Nick whipped the Luger against his face, slashing and cutting with it. The thug grunted and instinctively flinched away. Nick whipped him again, back and forth, driving him off as he kept an eye on the fellow with the cord. That was the baby to watch!

The cord man was circling, trying to close, to toss the loop over Nick's head. Nick leaped about a foot in the air, twisted, and tried to get the man with a savate kick in the groin. He missed. And slipped as he came down. The man with the cord gave a little grunt of triumph and raised the looped cord, leaping in, at the same time hissing something to his companion.

Nick Carter did three things nearly at once. He was off balance and outnumbered and getting a little tired of the whole mess. Also he was, just a trifle, beginning to weary. The past twenty-four hours had been damned tough.

Nick dropped the Luger. He shifted his feet ever so slightly, like the champion heavyweight boxer he was, and crossed his right to the cordman's chin. The impact of knuckles on flesh and bone sent a flash of pain as high as his elbow. The cordman's knees sagged, he turned with an odd silly expression on his face and began falling.

N3 whirled to see the remaining thug diving for the Luger. He had expected that. It was bait, the Luger.

Nick had only to hold out his arm, straight, with the stiletto pointing like a sixth gleaming metal finger. The man impaled himself on the blade, running on it with a certain crazy eagerness, unable to stop, looking down and watching the sharp steel slide into his guts like a fork into butter. He ran right up against Nick, this nameless hoodlum already dying, and for a moment they stared into each other's eyes.

There was pain in the Turk's eyes. Pain and total misapprehension about what was happening to him. What could not be happening to him! His mouth opened and his tongue came out and blood gushed down over a black-stubbled chin. He began to fall slowly. Fall toward Nick, pressing heavier on the stiletto that was killing him, pushing it farther and farther into his stomach.

N3 stepped quickly back. He whipped out Hugo and let the man fall the rest of the way, crashing to the floor, whipping about like a gaffed fish. Nick took a moment to breathe. He looked down at the dying man, still writhing and bubbling blood. In a voice as cold as an Arctic wind Nick said: "See how you like floating around the Horn, you son of a bitch!"

Nick scooped up the Luger and put it away. He snapped the little stiletto back into the arm scabbard and moved for the main corridor. As he rounded it he saw Memet, the cop who was supposed to have been guarding Leslie Standish, coming through the curtains at the far end.

Memet spotted Nick and quickened his pace. Nick saw the wariness in the man as he came toward him. Memet's hand slipped under his jacket to his armpit. Damn it to hell! Couldn't the man have waited one more minute!

N3 knew he must look like Frankenstein after a hard night. This Turk cop was going to be suspicious as hell. Memet was going to ask questions, a lot of questions, and when Memet saw what was around the corner…

Nick went into his act. He staggered and fell against the wall, gesturing to the plainclothes-man, calling out in a croaky voice.

"Imdat! Imdat! Polis! Cabuk gel. Effendim Standish!"

Memet ran toward Nick. In his hand now was a squat, black bulldog revolver. "Ne? Ne? Nerede?"

Nick staggered into the cop, clutching at him, twisting between Memet and the bodies in the short corridor. He pointed to the office door. "Suraya bakin! I but came to deliver a message and this I find. Come! See!"

Nick grabbed Memet's arm and pulled him along toward the office door. He kicked it open and pointed with a trembling finger. "Surada!"

Memet hissed in surprise. He pulled away from Nick' and took an instinctive step into the office, toward the body by the desk. The revolver in his hand dropped.

It was enough. Nick Carter gave the man a violent shove, sent him spinning crazily across the room. Nick slammed the door and turned the old-fashioned key, all in one faster than lightning motion. The key in the office door had been in his mind from the moment he saw the cop.

Nick ducked low, hugging the wall, and ran for the main corridor, knowing what to expect. It came! From the office came a bellow of rage and a nasty fusillade that ripped the door and sprayed murderously down the short hallway. A slug tapped at Nick's padded shoulder as he made the turn into the corridor.

That did it, he thought, as he straightened himself and his tie and brushed at the front of his suit. He had a little: blood on him, not much, and though he looked villainous enough it shouldn't matter in a place like Le Cinema Bleu. If only there were no polls in the immediate vicinity! Memet would be using the phone on Leslie Standish's desk by now — and Le Cinema would be ringed by radio cars within minutes. How many minutes was the question — would he and Mousy have time to get away in the Opel? If they were nabbed the mission would be properly screwed. Finif Kaput/ Fubar and snafu! They would spend the next month or so in a Turkish prison trying to explain matters.

Nick thought of all these things before he reached the curtains leading into the bar proper. Then he was nearly knocked down as the curtains swirled and the bartender and a group of curious patrons came surging through. They were all talking at once and nobody paid any attention to Nick. In fifteen seconds he was out in the driving cold rain, hot-footing it along a narrow cobbled lane that crooked away up hill toward the cul-de-sac where Mousy was waiting in the Opel.

Mousy would be wondering. Probably he had heard the shots. This area was quiet and deserted at night except for the comings and goings of such odd-balls as frequented Le Cinema Bleu and an occasional caz joint. The main red-light district — strictly supervised and licensed by the police — was several blocks to the west.

The cobbled hill grew steeper. Nick, usually as sure footed as any of Istanbul's million or so cats, slipped and slithered on the round stones made doubly slippery with rain and assorted garbage. This was old Istanbul where, if you wished to get rid of something you simply tossed it into the open gutters.

He passed beneath a solitary street lamp, a barren globe struggling ineffectually against the gray rain bullets. Just ahead lay the cul-de-sac. Still no sign of police, no banshee cry of sirens in the night. Something was holding up matters. Nick shrugged deeper into the now sodden coat. Good. It looked like they would make it after all. Back to the Hole and a couple of good shots of raki. Nick Carter felt himself warming at the thought. It would be good to see Mija again, too. To watch her graceful movements and wonder how soon it would happen with them.

N3 pushed the thought of the woman away. It did not belong here in this miserable dark wetness. Business before pleasure, always. And business was bad!

Actually, Nick thought as he left the faint halo of the street light and headed for the mouth of the cul-de-sac— actually it was back to the old drawing board! They had been balked at every turn so far. Any possible lead that Leslie Standish might have furnished had died with her. Not even KILLMASTER could make a corpse talk!

Nick was not allowing himself to think about the blonde, Marion Talbot, at the moment. Probably she had been in the ladies' room. Or maybe there was another exit that Mousy didn't know about. Certainly the girl, Defarge's secretary, had never come back into the bar. She hadn't been in the office. Or in the little court. Nick doubted she had gone up the rope ladder.

N3's firm lips hardened just a trifle. He knew who had gone up the rope ladder! They would meet again.

He went very cautiously as he approached the gaping dark mouth of the dead-end alley where they had parked the Opel. With Mousy's nerves the way they were — well, it would be a hell of a note to get it in the guts from a torn gun wielded by one of your own crew.

Nick came to a soft-footed halt at the corner of the alley. The darkness here was nearly total. Stygian. The only sounds the soft weep of the rain, the gurgle of water in the filthy gutters. Nick wondered if Mousy had fallen asleep. Probably not. The little guy was too nervous for that.

Nick put just the brim of his sodden fedora around the corner and called out: "Mousy? Mousy? It's N3! No trouble! N3, Mousy! Okay?"

Silence. The rain cried a little harder.

"Mousy!"

Nothing.

Nick Carter felt it start then. The superb warning system that was an integral part of him, that had saved his life so many times, began to function. In the back of his brain a little alarm bell began to sound. Danger!

Long ago Nick had learned his bitter lessons. There was a time to freeze and a time to move. This was a time to move. Let the splendid body and the trained mind take over. Act now, think later!

Nick had the Luger cold in his hand as he went around the corner and into the little cul-de-sac. He saw the dull glint of the Opel in the clotting tar shadows, heard the drum of rain on the metal roof, kept moving. Kept on moving — not to the car door, not to where something, or someone, sat hunched at the wheel, but on and beyond to the rear of the car. Now down — down flat in the filth and wet of the dirt alley and under the car and squirming back toward the front. Now stopping, listening, flat and making one with the ground near the door of the driver's seat.

Waiting. Listening. Striving to feel and sense what was out there. Who was out there. Around him.

Nick, his face in the mud, allowed himself a cold inward smile. They were there, all right! He knew it as surely as though they had greeted him with lights and shouts and a brass band. He knew who was out there, and why they were out there. What he didn't know was — how many and where hidden? Mousy and he had arrived in the dark and had parked the car and gone straight to Le Cinema Bleu. There had been no time, nor thought, to case the alley.

So now N3 lay in the mud beneath the car and wondered about doorways and arches and windows and fences and recesses — any one of which might be concealing his death. But there was a remedy for that — draw fire! Anyway he wanted to know about Mousy. He already knew, to be sure, but he must be positive. And it was as good a way as any to draw fire.

They were being remarkably patient. His swift reaction must have confused them a bit. Nick's lips twisted in something that was half snarl, half sneer. Had they really expected him to come sauntering up to the car and ask for a match?

At that moment a siren wailed, a lost soul calling in the rainy night. Nearby its mate answered. Both were converging rapidly on the vicinity of Le Cinema Bleu.

Took them long enough, Nick thought, but this should do it. They don't want the police anymore than I do, so if trouble's coming it will come now. And it was coming.

Nick rolled halfway out from under the Opel, reached up and twisted the knob on the driver's side, thrust clawing fingers until they felt cloth. He jerked hard, sliding back under the car as he did so. Something came tumbling out of the car to fall with a sullen splot into a puddle beside Nick. He reached, explored rapidly with his free hand — poor little Mousy had taken off that silly dress before they killed him!

Three or four flashlights came on simultaneously. All were beamed from near the entrance of the alley or across the street from it. Two were from doorwavs there. The hard stalks of light slashed at the Opel. Nick had only time to see the great black gaping slash in Mousy's throat. See how the little man's head flopped. Another throat cut nearly to the backbone!

Nick wriggled rapidly backward as the tommy gun let go from a doorway across from the alley entrance. The front of the Opel exploded in a storm of metal and glass.

He reached the rear of the Opel and stood up, hugging the car. The machine gunner let go another burst from across the street. Slugs crawled over the battered car like leaden lice. Deadly biting lice. Nick held his fire, moulding himself to the car. using every inch of cover.

The machine gunner appeared to be doing all the work. The others were handling the lights. Nick leaned out and fired rapidly four times with the Luger, liking the vicious kick of the weapon in his hand. Two of the lights went out. A man yelled in pain. Someone cursed in the dark not far from the alley entrance. Nick fired at the sound. The man screamed.

The tommy gun raved again. He moved to the other side of the car and started firing at the lights again. They were nervous now, the lights, moving in erratic zigs and zags as they tried to spot him.

Wilhelmina went empty. Nick reached into his coat pocket for another clip. He heard the sound of leather in mud behind him and whirled. They had planted a man back there!

Steel glistened as the figure came out of the dark at him. Nick went to his knees, the stiletto already in his hand for the upward disemboweling thrust.

The single remaining light splashed on the running man. He flung up an arm, as though to ward off the light — and the bullets that trailed it. Nick heard someone scream a command, but it was too late. The man was blown backward in the hail of lead — running backward with his hands clutching his belly, he fell, still backward, splayed in the mud.

Sirens again. Much closer now. Nick slipped the new clip into the Luger and began firing at random at the alley mouth. The last light fell and rolled into the streaming gutter, still burning. Nick kept firing. They would be going now, without saying goodbye.

Silence. Then, somewhere down the street, came the nervous rasp of a starter. An engine roared. Tires screamed.

More silence. Nick reloaded the Luger a third time and stepped carefully out from behind the shredded Opel run, do not walk, to the nearest exit!

Too late! Two police cars, one from each direction, squealed to a halt at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. The scene was bathed in garish white light. Nick saw a body lying in a gutter, washed around by dirty foaming water. Good! At least one. And a body would keep the cops occupied for a time. As would the Opel and the other body behind him, the man who had been shot by mistake.

Now all he had to do was get out of this bag he was in. Sooner or later, probably sooner, the cops would stop gabbling among themselves and start searching. Nick darted to a wall of the alley and started working his way back. Farther and farther into the trap that might have an escape hatch — and might not.

The Turkish police acted with speed and efficiency and Nick Carter found himself cursing them for it. They had gotten a blazing high-powered spot light into operation and it opened up the black throat of the alley like a white lancet. N3's luck was in. He had stumbled and fallen over a pile of debris just as the light went on. Now he lay and cursed fervently, pressing his face into some particularly noisome garbage, while the long bright finger poked around him.

For once Nick found himself not damning his suit, which up to now he had considered the work of a demented Turk tailor. It was of a crappy brown color and, when smeared with garbage as it now was, it provided perfect camouflage. He lay unmoving, his face buried in filth, and the light passed over him without any hesitation. When it passed Nick cocked one eye and followed the white beam as it traversed on down the alley. What he saw did not bring any great joy to his heart. It was a dead end, all right. The alley ended in a short flight of shallow wide stairs leading up to houses — at least he counted three or four doors before the light went out.

Nick waited five minutes or so, listening to the shouts and commands as the police worked around the shot up Opel. They would get around to searching the alley, but he had a few minutes grace. What to do with it? He could think of only one way out — so that would have to be it. It would mean laying a fresh trail, perhaps starting the chase all over again, but there was no choice. He would have to go through one of those houses. Whether the residents liked it or not!

N3 carefully began to crawl on his hands and knees up that sewer of an alley, that reeking cloaca of old Istanbul. He plodded on — squish— squash— shaking his hand out of a nasty mess of something, thinking that at least he couldn't get any cruddier than he now was. No man could.

At last he reached the stairs. The very end of the dead end. He judged it safe to stand erect now. The cops were still clustered around the Ope! at the far end.

Nick reached the top of the stairs. Three doors were set into a blank facing brick wall. No windows. He moved lightly, testing and feeling. The first door — locked.

N3 thought of simply kicking it in and barging right on through and out into the street beyond, then thought not. Why raise a fuss until it was necessary? It would be a damned shame to end up in an Istanbul jail after all he'd been through!

Second door — locked.

Third door — it opened just as he was reaching for the knob. A female voice said: "Effendim! You come in, no? You come in, Effendim. Evet? I make nice for you."

"Evet," said Nick Carter, a trifle wearily. "Evet. I will come in. But you will not have to make it nice for me. I will make it nice for you— with many Turkish pounds if you will show me a way out of here."

Nick slipped through the door and closed it behind him. He leaned against it and glanced rapidly around. From long habit, this, for surely there could be no danger here.

Unless you counted his hostess — she might be dangerous in the proper, or improper, circumstances. She was short and fat and very brown. Her hair was thick and greasy. She had a large splayed nose and quite a few warts and moles. Her eyes were bright and shiny black, now fixed on him in happy anticipation. This, Nick thought with an inner shudder, surely must be one of the free-lances! No police department in its right mind would give her a license — not if they cared anything about the reputation of their city.

The woman smiled and Nick saw that she was toothless. She came toward him, holding out her hand. "Backsheesh! Lutjen oturunuz"

Nick handed her a sheaf of pound notes, without letting her see the wad in his pocket. He looked around for another door and saw none. There was a window covered with a heavy drape. He went to it, pulled back the drape and opened the window. A terrible smell came into the room.

Nick Carter, not for the first time that night, was truly disgusted. He swore softly to himself, then turned to the woman. She gave him a toothless smile and started to undress. Nick held up a hand. "Yok!"

She already had her blouse off. Nick regarded the pendulous dugs with something akin to illness. He pointed to the window and asked if it were the only way out.

The woman nodded brightly. She told him the sewer was down there — the big sewer that flowed into the Horn. She seemed puzzled — Why was Effendim so interested in sewers?

"Thank you," Nick told her. "You have saved my life. Anyway my liberty. You are truly a daughter of Fatima. Goodbye."

Nick began to climb out the window. It was probably a long drop down to the slough but it wouldn't hurt him. It would be — soft.

The daughter of Fatima gazed after this crazy Effendim in puzzlement.

The Effendim let go and fell twenty feet into what the French call merde. It sounds a little like murder — and it is!