Run, Spy, Run

Aunt Jemima

The man with the broken arm spent ten minutes in the lavatory. Nick timed him. He waited restlessly outside the door, evincing all the impatience of an uncomfortable passenger in urgent need of privacy. The plane hit a small air pocket, and he was able to lurch and groan convincingly. Janet Reed flashed him an anxious look.

"Mr. Cane," she said in a low voice, "don't you think you'd better go back to your seat and wait? You don't look well at all. How about another pill?"

"No to both, thank you very much," he moaned. "Now that I'm here, I'll just stay put. Don't worry."

"All right," she answered doubtfully.

"Ohhhh!" The muffled sound and his tortured look were sufficient.

"Well, please call me if I can help."

The lavatory door opened and the man came out. Behind him, as Nick stood at the ready, he heard the other door click. The man with the cast looked blankly at Nick, said "Excuse me," and stepped sideways into the aisle. Julie moved quickly ahead of him and briefly blocked his path. Nick took the face and body apart in a lightning survey. Bland features, small scar on left side of mouth, heavy beard starting to show under the film of powder that gave the illusion of a clean shave, eyes that held all the expression of a dead fish. He moved stiffly, supporting his bandaged arm in his good hand. Nick wondered why he did not use a sling, then stumbled gratefully into the lavatory and closed the door on the automatic lock.

The cubicle was no more than a comfortable stall equipped with sink, commode, chair with strap, and shelving for towels. The wall light had an electric razor socket. A small porthole showed a view of blue sky above a bank of clouds. Nick made a rapid inspection. Nothing out of the way on shelves, wall, floor, fixtures. He ran the water from both taps into the shining sink. Steam rose, but nothing else. A clean piece of soap lay in its hollow.

Nick wrapped a paper tissue round his fingers and felt inside the toilet bowl. Nothing. A fresh roll of tissue hung conveniently near at hand. He took it off its rod, replaced it when he saw there was nothing in the tube. He washed his hands.

When he returned to his seat, Julie murmured: "You really are beginning to look sick. Find something?"

He shook his head. "I'm starving to death. Maybe we can order some sandwiches for you, and I'll lap up the crumbs. Let's call dreamboat."

"I'll call dreamboat," she said, and did.

They were silent until Janet had come and gone with their order and then the sandwiches. Nick took one from Julia's hand.

"Watercress! What a diet for a growing boy."

"Good for the tummy," said Julia placidly. "By the way, it struck me that our friend's plaster cast was just a little loose to be effective."

"Oh." Nick raised an eyebrow. "Something struck me, too. But nothing very conclusive. I don't think he used the bathroom. Not for its primary purpose, anyway. Of course, people have been going in and out all morning, and I've seen Janet go in a couple of times to keep things tidy, so I can't be sure. The bowl was damp, but not wet. The soap was dry. Tissue unbroken on the roll."

"You mean he just went in to look around?"

"That, or more likely he wanted to be alone to look at something he brought in with him. No, he didn't leave anything there," he caught her glance, "I'm sure of that"

"Then he did something to the cast."

"I would say yes. But we don't have enough to go on. If I were sure of anything I might be able to get the Captain's cooperation. But as of now, we're stymied."

The jet engines throbbed smoothly. Occasionally someone rose to stretch his legs. People talked and dozed.

Nick settled back and watched. His two main objectives were Lyle Harcourt's seat and the general area occupied by the man with the broken arm. The latter was too far forward for Nick to see directly; Nick could only see him when he stood up.

Flight 601 was two hours out of London when the bandaged man stood up again. Nick shook Julie. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and he breathed in the fragrance of her hair and skin.

"Julie, honey."

She came awake instantly. "Is this it?"

"I think so." The closer they got to London, the sooner somebody had to make his move.

The man with the bandaged arm went into the lavatory. Julie stiffened.

A woman with a crying baby opened the door opposite and entered. Both signs read "Occupied."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Much the same thing as before, but this time I'll go first. With any luck the baby'll keep that one busy for a while. But follow me down the aisle in a minute and get yourself a forward seat — his, maybe — and be ready to beat me to the punch if the woman comes out first. I've got to see what's going on in there. Okay?"

She nodded.

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and left his seat. Several passengers looked at him as he passed. His jaw was working and his face was pale. It was Yoga, not airsickness, that brought about the pallor, but they were not to know that.

He brushed against Janet Reed in the aisle again, turning his body sideways and avoiding her eyes.

"Mr. Cane," she began solicitously.

He shook his head dumbly and went on his way. When he got to the pair of occupied cubicles, his expression was that of a man praying for death to deliver him. He sighed, and leaned against the outside wall of the one occupied by the man with the cast and strained his ears for whatever there was to be heard. From the corner of his eye he saw Julie coming toward him, her purse open and a comb in her hand. She reached the vacated forward seat and stopped, looking at him with lovely, sympathetic cat eyes.

"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, "can't you get in?"

He shook his agonized head and turned away.

His ears were primed for the slightest sound.

The baby was still crying. Water splashed into a sink.

Three minutes crawled by in which the only sounds were coughs, low conversations and the pulsing of the jet engines.

Then he heard something else.

Faint, slapping, sliding sounds. The soft, clothy sounds of someone dressing or undressing.

Carter tensed. Still not enough to go on. If he were wrong and burst in like a fool, he'd lose all hope of stopping whatever was going to happen. If anything was going to happen.

Then he heard the sound that removed all doubts.

It was a coarse, tearing, cracking sound. Given his memory of the lavatory as he had last seen it, and his suspicions of the man who had just entered, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

Nick had heard that familiar combination of sounds, too many times, in dressing stations all over the battlefields of Europe. The tearing, ripping sounds of bandagesbeing removed and plaster-of-paris casts being cracked apart.

Why should anyone remove a brand-new bandage?

The baby gurgled and stopped crying.

Right or wrong, he had to act — now.

The belt around his waist slipped quickly off into his hands. He adjusted it rapidly and clamped the metal buckle over the doorknob, fitting it over the lock mechanism like a vise.

Carter adjusted the tongue of the buckle and stepped to one side. Julie had taken her .22 lighter out of her bag and was watching with rapt attention.

It took only two seconds for the power train of fulminate of mercury — similar to that of the U.S. MI grenade — to ignite and energize a quarter ounce of nitro starch.

The lock blew and the door caved inward neatly, almost noiselessly. But not completely. Nick flung the battered barrier to one side and threw himself past it into the tiny room. Behind him, the Jetliner came alive. Someone screamed. Not Julie. He could hear her speaking in a calm reassuring voice.

A clutter of trailing white bandage and plaster lay discarded on the floor. The broad-shouldered man had swung around to face him, his right hand free of its bandage and raised to his mouth as if in a gesture of shock. The hard edge of Nick's palm slashed at the thick neck, and two sinewy arms turned the square body and snaked about the man's back. A strangled foreign oath split the air. Suddenly, the man's back undulated powerfully and Nick found himself slamming backward until he was cruelly checked by the wall.

The man's face loomed close to his. It was mottled with rage and surprise. A knife, point upward, sprang into his fist and jabbed viciously forward. Nick rolled swiftly and the blade clanged against the wall. The man lost his balance and staggered, clutching the metal rail of a shelf, leaving himself wide open.

Nick brought his right knee up in a savage jab which found the lower vitals. There was a high-pitched groan of agony and the man doubled over, clutching his body and wheezing bitterly. Nick followed up with a chopping thrust of his hand into the base of the man's skull.

The man lay inert, crumpled into a half-sitting position against the seat. The main job was still to be done.

Ignoring the clamor at the door and an insistent male voice demanding to know what the hell was going on, Nick crouched beneath the sink and found what he was looking for.

The man with the false broken arm had lined the underside of the sink with the plaster of paris which had bound his arm. It clung damply to the curvature, dropping little fragments to the floor. There was no mistaking the copper blasting cap device and the connected watch timer that jutted ominously from the doughy mass of plaster.

Nick worked swiftly, removing the cap and timer.

Julia stood in the doorway, a restraining hand on the arm of an angry pilot. In a controlled, authoritative voice, she was saying something about security, government agents and enemy saboteurs.

Nick filled the sink with water and doused the detonating mechanism. Then he scraped off the remaining plaster from underneath the sink. Wrapping the hardening mess in the bandage he placed the innocuous bundle in a waste container.

"Captain," he said, not stopping in his work, "Is there some way we can jettison this stuff? It's out of action now, but I shouldn't like to take a chance."

The pilot was pushing Julia to one side. He was a stringy, tanned young man with a moustache and sharp, intelligent eyes.

"When you've explained all this. And you'd better do that now."

"In a minute," he answered crisply. Nick was leaning over his victim. He went through the pockets. The wallet, passport and driver's license identified one Paul Vertmann, Munich businessman. That was all. There was no weapon of any kind other than the knife that had failed to kill him.

Nick rose. A knot of people clustered in the forward aisle. Janet Reed's beautiful face was white with fear and incomprehension.

"Please ask everybody to return to their seats. I'll see you in your compartment — this isn't for the passengers."

"You'll tell me now — in front of everyone. And come out of there."

Nick sighed and stepped through the doorway.

"All right, then, say this much. An attempt was made to kill one of us on board. To blow up the plane and everybody with it, just to get one man. That won't happen now. Now please have the passengers go back to their seats."

The Captain barked an order. Janet pulled herself together and began shepherding the passengers back to their seats.

"Now what is this, and who are you?" The tanned face bristled at him.

"I'll show you the proper identification in your cabin, if you don't mind. Meanwhile, if you have some manacles on board, or rope, we'll tie this fellow up for delivery in London."

"Henderson!" the Captain rapped, without turning. "Handcuffs!"

"Right!" a voice came back.

Lyle Harcourt walked firmly down the aisle toward them.

"Excuse me, madam." He gently pushed his way around Julia.

"Captain, I think this may have something to do with me. What happened, Cane?"

The young Captain's manner changed. "You, sir?" he said, amazed but respectful.

Harcourt nodded. Nick explained in a rapid undertone.

"The man on the floor had what we call an Aunt Jemima kneaded inside his false cast. Enough to blow this plane and all of us to kingdom come. Harmless by itself, but when triggered with a blasting cap — well, it's over now. But I'd like to talk to you in more privacy, sir."

"By all means." Harcourt looked dazed but in full control.

"Peter! Peter!" It was a scream from Julie. "Look!" She was pointing at the figure on the floor.

Nick swung around, his hand on Wilhelmina.

The man had rolled slightly in his huddled position. The face he turned to the ceiling was a ghastly suffusion of black and purple mottling. A strangled gasp escaped the tight throat. Nick cursed and bent over him. It was too late.

Harcourt and the Captain spoke at once.

"Good Lord, what's happening to him?"

"Now what, for the luvva God?"

Nick stood up, defeat shining bitterly from his eyes. He looked past them at Julia. Her eyes were downcast, her face was pale.

"L-pill. He won't be doing any talking. Skip the 'cuffs."

"I thought he was unconscious," Julie said helplessly. "How did he do it?"

"Roof of the mouth," said Nick. "Fixed in place with a layer of gelatin. Body heat dissolves the gelatin... and that's it."

Harcourt frowned. "I don't understand. Why, that would only take minutes, and a man wouldn't have to be unconscious..."

"It's the way they play," Nick answered. "He may not have taken it if I hadn't forced his hand. Perhaps he would have waited to be sure his bomb worked, and gone up with us in a blaze of patriotic glory. But I rather think he meant to go before the rest of us. Cheating, to the end," he finished bitterly.

"The true fanatic." Lyle Harcourt shook his head. "Captain, Mr. Cane... let's seal that door and do our talking somewhere else."

"Right. Henderson, get this door closed and wait right here. Don't let anybody near."

A uniformed youngster nodded and stepped forward.

"Now let's go forward and get this whole thing sorted out. Because so far, I don't get it."

"That's what I wanted to do in the first place," Nick said drily. He motioned for Ambassador Harcourt to precede him and closed his hands over Julia's fingers.

It was the curse of espionage, that people very seldom "got it."