Ruby Red Death

Seven

At noon Carter descended to the lobby. The desk clerk caught his eye and beckoned him over. It was a message from Lorena: Room 712, the Americain.

Carter went to a phone booth, called the hotel, and asked for room 712.

“Yes?”

“How about lunch?”

“Sounds marvelous,” she replied.

“The Papeneiland is near you.”

“Twenty minutes,” she said breathlessly, and hung up.

Carter dialed a second number and waited several rings before it was answered. There was no vocal response from the other end of the line, just silence.

“I would like to speak to Mortimer, please.”

“Who wants him?” came the gravelly reply.

“Nick.”

“A minute.”

It was almost five before the familiar voice came on the line. “Mr. Carter, is it?”

“It is, Mortimer. How goes it?”

“The usual aches and pains but I manage to get around. What can I do fer ya?”

“I have a job. It starts here and goes over the frontier. Probably take a couple of weeks. Want to talk about it?”

“Love to. Business has been terrible, it has, what with this AIDS problem. All me girls are thinkin’ of becomin’ secretaries, they are.”

“At the place around six. Be dark by then.”

“That’ll be dandy, Mr. Carter. We’ll have us a pint.”

“Cheers, mate,” Carter said, and hung up.

He walked to the main canal and turned up Prinsengracht to number Two. He passed the tunnel entrance to the café’s cellar that once led under the canal and was used by seventeenth-century Catholics as a secret way of getting together for worship. The Papeneiland claimed to be the oldest café in Amsterdam, tracing its history back to its first coffin-maker owner who served drinks on the side when business was slow.

“One, sir?”

“Two, for lunch,” Carter replied.

He was shown to a table in the depths that needed the candle on the wall to read the menu.

Lorena appeared right on time, looking a bit frumpy in a scarf, a loose-fitting tweed coat, and knee-high boots.

“Welcome to Amsterdam,” she said, brushing his lips with her own and taking the opposite chair.

“I’m having beer.”

“Fine,” she said with a nod.

The waiter brought a second beer and two newspaper-sized menus. Lorena waited until he was gone before she spoke.

“Thank you for taking this on.”

“I didn’t have much choice. A very hard lady named Ilse let me know that if I didn’t, she was going to make a corpse out of me.”

“Ilse tends to exaggerate.”

“Oh?” Carter said. “How well do you know her?”

“Not very well, but she is devoted to my brother.”

“I know. And I don’t think she was exaggerating.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“A little,” Carter admitted, “but I’ll get over it. The stakes are too high not to.”

“How does he look?”

Carter decided to be blunt. “Like any dying man with the wolves nipping at his heels.”

Lorena took it without blinking. “You had problems?”

Carter told her the whole story. At the part about burying the woman in the snow he thought she might crack, but she held up.

“Then the situation is much worse. He has many enemies in the agencies of the other Eastern bloc countries.”

“That’s his problem,” Carter said. “Mine is satisfying his demands and getting that list. What about Fabian Huzel?”

“I’ve been following him for the last three days. He is as wily as a fox. He has a house in the Boorstadt district west of the city. Also two flats. One is in Dijkstraat, off the New Market. The other is on Amstrel on the canal. He never stays in the same place two nights in a row. He also has four cars scattered around the city. He constantly changes them.”

“A very cautious man.”

“Very. The house and both flats are like fortresses. He even keeps dogs in all of them. I managed to get close to him twice on the street. He’s armed at all times, a pistol under his coat in the back and another in an ankle holster. And I’d say from the looks of him he can use them.”

“What about business?”

“Legitimately, he’s a member of the Diamond Exchange, but he’s rarely there. He also has a small shop on Potterstraat where he buys and sells... legally. It probably makes a pittance compared to his fencing. The shop is run by one of his mistresses.”

“One?” Carter replied, cocking an eyebrow. “How many does he have?”

Lorena smiled. “Four, besides the one in the shop. He’s like a pimp, only they don’t sell their bodies. They are contacted by thieves all over Europe and the Middle East when the thieves make a score.”

“Huzel picks up and pays off through his mistresses?”

She nodded. “Huzel himself never actually meets the thief. The police can’t touch him.”

“Not an easy man to pin down,” Carter murmured. “But there must be a way. In the meantime, let’s eat.”

They ordered hutspot, a steaming beef stew with kale, potatoes, and sausage, all of it washed down with excellent beer. Over coffee they resumed the discussion.

“How about routine?”

“The women contact Huzel if they have anything. He picks all of his messages up from a service.”

“My God, Lorena,” Carter growled, “you’re making this as difficult as hell. From what you’ve told me, there is no way of figuring any one place he might be.”

She leaned forward, her voice scarcely a whisper. “There is one thing. It’s a little bit of a long shot, but...”

“What is it?”

“He’s flying out tomorrow morning. The first leg is to Paris, but I did a little bribing and found out that he’s bouncing from plane to plane. The last leg is from Lisbon to Buenos Aires.”

Carter’s eyes narrowed. “That means he’s on his way to meet our pigeon. Doesn’t leave much time...”

“Nick, I think I’ve found two weaknesses, maybe the only ones he has, and they could put him into the open. Huzel is deathly afraid to fly.”

“So?” Carter said, listening with only half an ear now, his mind racing, trying to pick apart what Lorena had already told him.

“As I said, it’s a long shot, but... well, the other weakness is his mother.”

“Lorena...”

“Let me finish. His mother’s ashes are interred in a tomb in Christ’s Church. That’s in Ijmuiden, about ten miles west of Amsterdam. I hit on it when I was going over the file my brother sent me on Huzel.”

“I went over that file,” Carter said. “Wait a minute. I remember now. He visits that tomb every Sunday afternoon. But what good will that do us? Tomorrow is Friday.”

“I was out there, Nick. I had a cup of tea with the caretaker, told him I was a writer doing a story on cemeteries. I got the conversation around to people who regularly tend the graves. Huzel comes so often that the caretaker remembers him. Nick, he remembers several other times — other than Sundays — when Huzel came out to the grave.”

Carter’s eyes were wide. “You mean he’s so afraid of flying that he goes out and talks to Momma before he takes off?”

Lorena nodded. “The dates match with the travel record we have in his file for the last six months. It’s a long shot, but...”

“But it’s better than nothing,” Carter said, dropping some bills on the table. “I’ll call you at your hotel.”

Lorena grasped him by the elbow. “Why don’t you just come by?”

“A lot to do, but I’ll try.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek as they parted in front of the restaurant.

He took a water taxi on the canals as far as he could go toward the western part of the city. He got off at Leidsestraat, the wide boulevard that led to the highway into the west country. He found a cab idling at the curb when he climbed the stone steps from the water’s edge to the street.

“Ijmuiden, Christ’s Church cemetery.”

Twenty minutes later he gave the driver some bills to wait, and walked the old cemetery until he found the Huzel tomb. Then he walked the perimeter, checking out every tree and finding the caretaker’s shack.

Basically the area was level, but there was a rise about forty yards from the entrance to the tomb. There were a few trees and two large grave markers that could be used for concealment.

It would have to be done from there. Anywhere on the road itself or the approaches to the tomb would be too open.

He returned to the taxi and had the driver troll the streets of the village until he spotted a long-term parking lot beside a grocery co-op. One look told him that it was also used as a commuter lot for the bus stop into Amsterdam. The coin machines would belch out tickets for up to a week’s duration.

“Where to now?” the driver asked.

“Back to the city,” Carter replied, checking his watch. “Just drop me a little east of the Damrak.”

The driver’s eyebrows shot up a bit, but he flipped his windshield wipers back on and slipped the taxi into gear.

Carter could almost read the man’s thoughts. There was no way a local could figure out a foreigner’s tastes. The well-dressed gentleman had visited a fine old cemetery, and then wants to be taken to the red-light district!

The seat of sex in Amsterdam is not as loud or as garish as the Reeperbahn of Hamburg, but it is just as varied and every bit as alive.

Twice Carter almost got lost. The little shows that advertised sex aids, live sex, peep shows, and the eerily crimson-lighted windows with scarcely dressed women were so much alike that it was difficult to find a landmark.

At last he spotted the sign and turned into the Yum-Yum Club. A king’s ransom in guilders got him by the bored matron at the door. Through dingy velvet curtains he stepped into the dimly lit main room of the club.

The show was on. On a slightly elevated stage, a young man and a not-so-young woman were locked in anything but love. It was all carnal to the soft accompaniment of flutes and violins.

“You like a table down front? Good to see all the action.” He was shorter than Carter but twice as wide, Chinese, and looked a little like a young Mao Ze-Dong with muscles.

“No, the bar will be fine,” Carter replied. “I have business with Mr. Potts. Tell him that Nick is here.”

“I will do that.”

Carter was halfway through a stein of beer when the Chinese returned.

“This way, please.”

Carter was led up a flight of stairs, down a corridor, and up to a door marked Office. He could easily have found the way himself, but the Chinese looked like a man who liked to do his duty.

Carter rapped on the door and a voice like velvet said, “Enter.”

The office was like day compared to the club below’s night. It was a pleasant air-conditioned room that offered Oriental rugs, a mahogany reading table with an assortment of newspapers and magazines, all in Dutch, a mahogany settee, and, in the corner and protected by a desk, an almond-eyed girl with porcelain-smooth off-white skin and straight black hair. She wore a bright print dress and an exotic silver necklace, and she finished a line of typing before she glanced up.

“You are Mr. Carter?”

“I am.”

Apparently there was no intercom because she rose, smoothed her skirt, knocked at a dark-stained door. She opened it and, coming up on one foot and showing nice legs, stuck her head around the edge.

Carter didn’t hear what was said, but the result was satisfactory. Pivoting on the same leg she came to rest, the door swinging wide and her balance regained. Her smile and shy nod were his invitation to enter.

He smiled his way past her and entered hell.

Mortimer Potts’s inner sanctum was chaos, litter and rubbish piled floor-to-ceiling across the whole room. A huge desk sat in the middle of it all, and behind the desk, Mortimer Potts.

He was a little, thin man, poorly dressed in a baggy suit, a soiled shirt, and a frayed red tie. A few wisps of stringy hair flapped about on top of his head like remnants dropped from someone else’s comb.

“Mr. Carter, gar, it’s good to see ya again!” He stood, extending his hand, and Carter moved forward to shake it.

It was his smile that made Mortimer Potts lovable. His lips were thin like his wrinkled face, but when they parted, revealing a dentist’s nightmare, his grin lit up the world.

“Mortimer, you haven’t changed a bit. Haven’t seen you in a year or more and I swear it’s the same suit.”

“’Course it is! Gar, I buy a new suit and the tax people’ll say I’m makin’ money, they will!” He swept old magazines, newspapers, and a few mouse droppings off a chair. “Have a seat, lad. Jolly good of you to bring some business me way, Mr. Carter. Times has been bad.”

Carter sat. “How’s Miriam?”

“Died, she did. Three months ago, poor thing.”

“Three months ago? And you haven’t remarried yet?” Mortimer had a way of picking wealthy, fat, shrewish wives, but he always seemed to outlive them. To Carter’s knowledge, the dearly departed Miriam had been number six.

“Ah, I think them days is over fer ol’ Mortimer. I just ain’t young like I used ta be.” He rubbed his hands together and flashed another wide grin. “But enough of me sorry troubles. What will ya be into this time?”

“First,” Carter said, “can you be away for a couple of weeks?”

“Oh, lord, yes. Got me that Chinee brother and sister. They run the place now, really. And honest? They account fer every penny. What’s up?”

Carter told him on a need-to-know basis.

“An’ ya want me to stay with him in this bloody castle?” Potts exclaimed when Carter had finished. “Why not just kill the bugger?”

“Can’t do that. I may need information out of him along the way. I’ll set up communications from wherever I am to you, and you get out of him what I need.”

“Ah, an’ ya know I’m good at that,” Potts cackled. “When do ya want to snatch him?”

Carter stood and began pacing, ignoring the debris in his path. “That’s the problem. We’ve only got about fifteen hours.”

“Ah, dear me. What are we gonna need?”

“An ambulance, or a closed-in vehicle with red crosses that could be mistaken for one. It should look like it comes from a private hospital.”

“Go on,” Potts replied, scratching on a pad.

“A motorbike, old, something we can just dump in a canal. Three uniforms, a driver, nurse, and intern. Some medical papers showing he has a rare disease...”

“Terminal?” Potts asked, glancing up from his notes.

“No, but life-threatening would be good.”

“No problem. Go on. Passports?”

“I should think we can use our own,” Carter replied, “but you might add medical identification.”

“Very well. How will you take him?”

“That’s the sticky part,” Carter sighed. “He’s a very nasty character, has a reputation of shooting people when they get too near him. I’ll need an air gun, powerful and accurate.”

“A pellet?”

“Or dart. We don’t want to have to perform any surgery to get the pellet out.”

“That, of course, will be the hardest part, but I think I can do it. Where are you stayin’?”

Carter almost gave him his own hotel, then remembered. “The Americain, room Seven-twelve. Don’t use my name, just ask for the room.”

“The nurse?”

“Yes.”

Potts stood. “I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll call as soon as it’s done.”

At the Americain, Carter climbed the service stairs to the tenth floor, then walked down to the seventh.

“Yes?” came a whisper in response to his knock.

“It’s me.”

The door was opened at once and he slid inside.

“I ordered a tray of sandwiches and some beer.”

Carter kissed her lightly and slipped out of his coat. They sat side by side on the sofa and ate.

“You went to the cemetery?”

“Yes. It’s not perfect, but it will do. Do you think that old caretaker would think it odd if you showed up for coffee in the morning?”

“No, I doubt it. Why?”

Carter dropped a small vial in her lap. “Two of those in his coffee. He’ll go out like a light and stay out for about three hours. Chances are when he wakes up he’ll think he just made a boor of himself and fell asleep on you.”

“Good. What then?”

He explained the whole plan to her, and where they would be taking Huzel once they had him.

“Can we trust this Mortimer chap?”

Carter nodded. “Honor among thieves. If Huzel wanted to put the snatch on me, Mortimer would be more than happy to oblige. But since it’s the other way around and I’m paying him first, he’ll see it through to the end, guaranteed.”

He finished the rest of his sandwich and sat back to light a cigarette.

“How do we work it once we get to Argentina?” Lorena asked, clearing away the tray and settling in beside him.

“I have another friend. His name is Otto von Krumm. You’ll go in with him as his daughter. Otto will be posing as an ex-Nazi. The two of you will put the fear of God into Glaskov. Hopefully, between you, Otto, and myself, we’ll have him so confused he won’t know what to do.”

“I don’t understand...”

“You will. I’ll go through the whole thing with you tomorrow night at the castle. In the meantime, come here.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said with a laugh, and slid across the sofa into his arms.

She put her arms around him, and her warm, firm breasts, her long thighs, her lips, and her belly all seemed to press against him at once. When he touched her he felt her quiver like a thoroughbred. They clasped each other furiously in a tangle of arms, legs, hands, and lips. She lay back on the sofa and let him take her with her head hanging over the edge and one foot on the floor, like a schoolgirl furtively making love in her parents’ house.

When they finally came back to their senses, she laughed at the sight of her torn skirt, her panties crumpled into a ball on the floor, her unfastened bra and her sweater pulled up around her neck.

“Shall we go into the bedroom and act like adults this time?” she asked, grinning.

“Not nearly as much fun,” he chuckled.

Then the phone rang. She answered it and handed it to Carter.

“Hello?”

“Got everything, Mr. Carter. Right down to the little dart all dipped and ready.”

“Good work, Mortimer. Pick up the nurse in front of the Americain at six in the morning. Where’s the motorbike?”

“In the alley behind the club. Key’s on a string in the gas tank.”

“See you then.” Carter hung up. He turned to Lorena. “I’ll go out very early and make sure the two back gates of the place are sealed off so we get no unwanted mourners from that end. When you get there with Mortimer, go straight to the caretaker’s cottage and make sure he’s taken care of.”

She nodded her understanding and Carter stood, and then frowned when she saw him righting his clothes.

“You’re not staying the night?”

“Can’t. I’ll stay in my own hotel. And sleep.”

“Damn,” she murmured, “just like a man.”

The kiss at the door almost made him change his mind.