Run, Spy, Run

Something Rotten at Yankee Stadium

Tony Kubek was swinging his bat experimentally in the batter's circle when Nick Carter found Mr. Hawk. Hawk was hunched over a scorecard making notations with a ballpoint pen. His open-necked sports shirt and pullover cap looked as though he lived in them, as though he wore them to cut grass on Sundays and devise things in his workshop to delight his grandchildren. As far as Nick knew, he had never married. He lived only for his dangerous, demanding work. But today, his lean, leathery frontier face represented lifelong baseball fandom at its most faithful.

Nick made himself comfortable, crossed his knees and watched Kubek go after the first pitch and send a line single to center. He cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed: "Attaboy, Tony!"

Hawk clucked approvingly. "The operation is big now, Nick. No time to lose. I'll have to get the package to you right away. And not quite the one I'd planned. You've given us something new to work on."

Nick nodded. "What've you got?"

"One. No return callers at the Biltmore. A-24 got in and went over your visitor. Nothing. K-7 got prints off the knife. Your window-washer friend turns out to have a minor record and a reputation as a hired killer. But nothing big's ever been pinned on him. We got one thing, though. He was contacted in his bar-hangout by a man in a seersucker suit. And we got a description. It matched yours.

"Two. A-24 spent the morning at the airport. A man of that description was seen on the observation deck some time before the explosion and for a while after it. But earlier, he'd been making inquiries about Flight 16. They remembered him because of that.

"Three. The so-called coachman lived long enough to curse both you and Seersucker and say his orders were to get the girl at any price. He got those orders from Seersucker who got his from overseas. From some damn foreigner, he said. And then, regrettably, he died."

"Well, that wasn't much use." Nick shrugged sourly.

"Not much, but it made us wonder how he got his orders. Not so easy, if they come from overseas. And there we had a little break."

The stands came alive with applause as Tresh drove a high fly ball to the left center field corner that bounced into the stands for a ground rule double.

"What break?"

"On what was left of your friend Seersucker we found a pack of cigarettes. And inside the cellophane we found a cablegram. It was sent from London the day before yesterday and it said: Watch Jamaica Flight 16 tomorrow provide welcoming committee if necessary. Hope this already arranged but best intentions sometimes fail. Essential maintain privacy of mission. Trust you will meet situation accordingly. It was signed 'Red'."

"Does that mean anything to us?"

"Not yet. There's more you'll need to know, but I've talked enough for the moment." He dug into his pocket. "When the hot dog man comes around, get two. My treat."

His hand closed a dollar bill into Nick's palm. Nick felt something hard and metallic folded into the wad. A key.

"Grand Central," murmured Hawk. "Everything you'll want for now. You can check with me later for any new developments. But I can tell you this. You'll be traveling again, and soon. First thing after the ballgame, get a haircut."

Nick looked at him indignantly. "I already did."

Hawk allowed himself an inspection. "Not enough. Crew. You're going to be the young college type."

Nick groaned. "What next?"

"Next you'll do the talking. What else do you have for me?"

Carter told him about his conversation with Hadway House while his eyes searched for a hot dog man. This morning he had been to the barber and then called Max Dillman in London. Max had confirmed everything Rita had said, adding that she was a damn fine girl and that it was a bloody awful thing, about Steve. He had met them both through the travel business and she had come to him with her heartbreak after the explosion that took Steve's life. Certainly, it had been an explosion. They'd tried to pin a drunk charge on him at the hearing but it didn't wash. Not with the people who knew him. Sure, she'd been pestering the eyeballs off the authorities, and then she'd had the letter to lay off. And then it turned out that no one in authority had sent the letter.

"What does she mean about the baggage tag?" Carter had asked him.

"Didn't she tell you herself?"

"I didn't want to press her any more, just yet." Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to tell Max that she was dead. "Thought if I checked with you first I might just make it easier for her."

"You could be right. Well, the point about the baggage tag was that he never — and I mean never — carried a bag with him. It was a kind of thing with him, pilots have these bugs. He had a clean shirt in every port — used a locker and he wouldn't carry a bag. So it raised an ugly thought. Strange bag, strange explosion. That was no crash, boy, no pilot error. I know these kids."

"You knew them, you mean.

"Okay, Max. I don't suppose the letter was ever traced?"

"Not a chance. It did one good thing, though. It made 'em start taking her seriously. But they still didn't buy the tag story."

They had talked a little more, around the edges of the subject.

"Good to hear from you, Nick," Max had finished. "Help her, will you?"

"I'll try," Nick had said woodenly. "Thanks, Max."

A hot dog vendor wandered down the runway, hoarsely touting his wares. Nick beckoned and ordered two. Hawk grunted and took a frank carefully.

Mickey Mantle stepped up to the plate with two out and Tresh parked on second base. The stadium erupted into cheers.

"I checked London, too," said Hawk. "It's a cover-up. They don't think there was any pilot error."

"My God, they could have told her that." Nick bit savagely into his hot dog.

"They didn't think it wise. Someone had gone to so much trouble to plant false evidence that they thought they'd better bite."

Nick finished his hot dog in silence.

" 'Get the girl at any price'," Nick muttered. "A pair of killers for her and a pair for me. They wanted her, I gather, because she was getting too nosey about the bombings. And me? Because they knew somehow, she'd come to me for help. Silence us both, d'you reckon?"

"I reckon." Hawk wiped mustard off his fingers.

"Anything more on Steel Hand?"

"Some. Dossier in your package."

They watched for a moment. Foul ball.

Nick stirred. "But it looks as though we've got Killer No. I, doesn't it? Seersucker, the man who got his orders from 'overseas'?"

"That's one little goodie I've been saving for you," said Hawk. "It appears that the cablegram was not addressed to him."

"But you said..."

"I didn't. The cable was sent to an A. Brown at 432A East 86th. More on that later. Underneath the printed message there was a penciled note. It said: Re above. Meet me 9:30 a.m. Idlewild Cobb's Coffee Shop. Alert all hands. Destroy at once. It was initialed A.B."

The low murmur of the crowd broke into a roar. Mickey Mantle had swung his bat and the ball landed four rows back in the right center field bleachers.

"Good grief, why didn't the fool destroy it?"

"Tucked it away in a hurry, probably, and forgot about it. To err is human, after all," Hawk said complacently.

"Yes, but why in the world did A.B. send the original..."

Hawk cut in with some impatience.

"A.B. did send it and Seersucker kept it. We have to draw a winning card once in a while."

"The second murderer was wrong then, huh? Seersucker didn't get his orders directly from overseas. And we have another enemy to contend with. God, they're roaming around in veritable packs." He lit a cigarette, and flicked away the match, instinctively making another quick survey of the nearby seats and aisles. It was at that point that the tall young woman in the smart gray-and-red cotton knit dress and black picture hat stepped gracefully down the stone stairway and took an end seat in the row directly behind Hawk and Carter.

The woman was as out of place in the ballpark as Hawk was in.

Nick saw high cheekbones, carefully reddened full mouth and deep, almost almond-shaped eyes that coolly viewed the action on the field. Slender, jeweled hands clasped an expensive-looking black leather purse. The flesh of the bare arms was tawny and sensuous; the body was supple, its movements relaxed. She looked like a tigress in the sun.

There was exquisite molding in the high, tilted breastline, trim belted waist and subtly curving hips. She was not the sort of woman usually seen at Yankee Stadium on a September afternoon.

Hawk said, "Interesting. I see you find her so, too. Don't break your neck."

"Interesting, indeed. But dangerous, maybe."

"I don't think so. Too obviously eye-catching."

"That could be what we're intended to think."

From the corner of his eye Nick could see the exotic newcomer smiling slightly at some private thought and casually opening her lavish purse. He waited, resisting the urge to spring at her and grab that slender wrist. But only a long cigarette holder appeared, followed by the cigarette to which she applied a silver lighter.

Hawk's blue eyes glittered frostily. He rose to leave. "Better get to Grand Central. If the woman is after you, we'll find out soon enough. And don't forget the haircut. Goodbye."

Nick knew finality when he heard it. He stood up, politely excusing himself.

His long legs took him up the steps in a loping stride. The woman flicked a glance at him as he passed, but the almond eyes held no interest and returned instantaneously to the ballgame. Carter felt oddly satisfied. Her aloofness was in keeping with her appearance. Perhaps she was all she seemed, a lovely sophisticate out at the ball park for reasons of her own. Perhaps she was interested in one of the players. This year they seemed to be as popular as movie stars.

Nick found a cab on Jerome Avenue and got in with alacrity, glad to be on the go again.

Hawk's key for locker 701 in Grand Central Station was burning a hole in his pocket. He was getting anxious to see the contents of the package which would give him more data on the strange affair of Senor Valdez and the bombed airplanes.

Locker 701 was situated in a long bank of hundreds exactly like it somewhere in the lower levels of Grand Central. A quarter went a long way when you wanted to store anything. For ordinary folk, secret agents, murderers — anybody who had something to park, hide, or deliver.

There was a plain, burlap package in 701. About 8 1/2 by 11 inches square, bound with sisal twine. The handwritten address directed it to: Mr. Peter Cane, Hotel Elmont, New York, N.Y. Carter recognized Hawk's firm, accountant-like fine hand.

He closed the locker and went into the nearest washroom. In the dime-bought privacy of a small cubicle he opened the package. He removed a stack of typewritten pages bound in pressboard. This he ignored, turning his attention to the personal items in the parcel. There was a passport, sparsely stamped; an ostrich leather wallet and a well-thumbed blue address book; a gold cigarette lighter, rather scratched and engraved with the initials P.C.; a matching pen and pencil set and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses; a crisp letter of introduction to the Curator of the British Museum from Professor Matthew Zedderburg of Columbia University; and a much-folded, worn envelope addressed to Peter Cane of 412 West 110th Street and purporting to come from one Myra Koening of Rochester, N.Y. The letter inside read: "Dear Peter, oh, Peter, I don't know how to begin. Perhaps with my dreams and my wonderful memories of that night, that one incredible night when the world turned over and..."

Nick grinned to himself and folded it back in its envelope. Trust Hawk to add romance to round out the impersonation! It was the sort of letter a single man would carry around with him for a month or so before discarding, a convincing touch of dressing for the role he was to play.

He opened the passport and saw himself with a crew-cut, horn rims, and a dedicated expression. Oh, yes — the haircut.

A rapid glance through the rest of the material suggested no immediate course of action other than a second trip to the barber, a final call on the Roosevelt, and a quiet couple of hours at the Elmont with his homework.

An hour later he checked in at the Hotel Elmont, a conservative ten-storied building on the upper West Side. On impulse, he used one of his indecipherable signatures rather than the one given to him by his new passport.

His room turned out to be a modest, clean little affair on the seventh floor. The tiny bathroom was windowless. Nick locked the door, hung his jacket over the knob and placed the parcel on the bed. Then he loosened his tie and prepared for work. A swift check of the room showed nothing to be wary of. The windows faced Central Park, offering a vista that had somehow lost appeal. The face of the building was blank and featureless except for the windows; only a fly would be able to navigate so sheer a façade. The fire escapes were on the other side of the building, well away from his room.

Nick opened his Liggett's bag, empty of all but his briefcase and its welcome contents, and took out the flask.

Glass in hand, he settled down to inspect Hawk's present. Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre had taken the parcel's place on the bed.

The bulging wallet contained a number of cards, licenses and memoranda that would all need memorizing. A résumé informed him that Peter Cane was an instructor at an Ivy League college, a young man with an apparently great future in archaeology. It was just as well he'd been in on that Bahrein expedition, he reflected, or he'd have had more studying to do than he could handle. But Hawk had counted on Nick's past experience to help him with the present. The rest of the information on Peter Cane dealt with his background, his personality, and his family history. The letter from the girl, hinting at a touch of gentlemanly restraint and possibly shyness in his character, fitted in nicely.

A hundred and fifty dollars in cash rounded out the contents of the wallet. A separate envelope revealed a thousand dollars in traveler's checks for Peter Cane, and a neat, satisfying pile of fives, tens and twenties for Nick Carter. The total budget was over five thousand dollars. Nick riffled the bills. Automatically, he split the pack and began worrying the bills into creases and folds to take away some of the newness. He had no intention of spreading them around in the guise of Peter Cane, underpaid instructor, but if he did have to dip into the reserve fund he certainly wasn't going to flash wads of brand new money.

The blue address book was filled with names, phone numbers and street addresses of people in places like New Haven, Princeton, Bennington, and so on. Most of them were male and clearly in the academic field. A sprinkling of feminine names relieved the New York area. And there was his sister's address in Yellow Springs. How very homey.

The pressboard binder with the stack of typewritten sheets was the next item to command his attention. He read swiftly but with care:

The bulk of the file contained dossiers and reports from CAB, eyewitnesses, foreign authorities and airline officials; reports from the insurance companies connected with the wrecks, giving details of the various claims made by relatives; and the complete biographies of the first three diplomats involved. There were one or two gaps in the story of Valdez, but that was to be expected under the circumstances. No doubt more information would soon be available.

The one glaring, inescapable fact was that four men had died in airplane tragedies — four men who had held positions of power that the Red Chinese might be exceedingly happy to see vacated. Each man had stood in the way of some kind of Red Chinese power grab.

Surely not coincidence but master plan.

British officialdom, as a result of Hawk's personal call, had conceded that their conviction of pilot error in the case of the World Airways crash had been bolstered by the bottle-littered condition of the pilot's apartment, discovered after an anonymous tip; that the pilot's fiancée, Miss Rita Jameson, had repeatedly insisted that pilot Anderson was moderate in habit, had spent the early part of the evening with her and retired chastely for the night; that they had discounted her story, believing it to be the natural loyalty of a woman in love; that Miss Jameson had persisted in attempts to re-open the investigation; that she had received a politely worded official letter asking her discreetly to refrain from further enquiry, as her actions were an embarrassment and a hindrance to the investigating authorities, who had indeed not closed the case; and that, after waiting for some time to be further questioned or informed, Miss Jameson had discussed this letter with the authorities and all parties concerned had then realized that the communication was a forgery, designed, apparently, to forestall further interference. However, new evidence had come to light as a result of the continued investigation, and authorities agreed that it would be impolitic to encourage Miss Jameson's interest. The new facts being so appalling in their implications and the spuriousness of the letter suggesting something so sinister, it was felt that every effort should be made to pursue the inquiry in absolute secrecy, and that Miss Jameson should be advised to leave matters in the hands of the experts. She was also to be left with the impression that, the letter notwithstanding, they had as yet had no reason to ascribe the crash to any cause other than that already suggested.

In other words, Rita had been given the brush-off and forced to turn elsewhere for help.

The individual accused of planting a bomb on board the Afro-American Airlines plane via his father's suitcase had insisted that his father had himself suggested that heavy insurance be taken out, and that he, the son, had had no access to his father's suitcase for days before the crash, had not even been aware of the flying schedule. All those questioned in connection with insurance claims had similar stories. In fact, the authorities had all but given up the possibility of murder-for-insurance, but had allowed the public to go on believing in it since no other official theories could be made available.

Into the AXE files had come the story of each of the disasters as they had occurred. To Hawk's inquiring mind they had suggested a pattern. Consultation with other federal intelligence agencies had determined that AXE, the trouble-shooting arm of the cooperating services, would spearhead an investigation based on the possibility of international sabotage.

As to local events, a brief report revealed no conclusive link between the explosions and the attacks on Carter and Rita Jameson, but strongly supported Nick's own belief that each incident formed part of the same picture. The cablegram certainly provided a tie between Rita, Nick, and Flight 16, if not conclusively between that flight and the three previous disasters. As for A. Brown of 432A East 86th Street, he was apparently an infrequent user of a sparsely furnished walk-up apartment at that address, checking in daily for mail and messages but seldom sleeping there. Agents had staked out the place but were doubtful that their quarry would show. A description had, however, been obtained from the landlady and fingerprints had been lifted from various surfaces in apartment 4G.

Investigation of all facets of the situation was still under way. Further information was expected — Nick read on to the end.

So far, what they had was four dubious plane disasters and four dead diplomats. But Senor Valdez and his steel hand just didn't quite fit into the pseudo-accidental pattern of insurance schemes and pilot errors, of greedy relatives and lethal suitcases and inexplicable baggage tags. Senor Valdez had blown himself up, not by choice and almost certainly with his steel hand. How had that been accomplished, and by whom? Where did such a bizarre circumstance fit into the pattern presented by the first three catastrophes?

Now, once again, Nick went through the wallet, address book and personal documents of Peter Cane. Age. Height. Weight. Birthplace. Parents. Siblings. Education. School record. Friends. Sports. Other interests. Travels. Credit cards. Bank plate. Social Security number. Health Insurance. Club memberships. And so on, and so on, over and over again, until the information was printed on his brain.

A faint rustling noise came from the hallway. He snapped erect in the chair, all senses alert. A corner of something white was edging under the door. Carter rose soundlessly, reached for Wilhelmina, and glided over to the wall near the door frame. As he flattened himself against the wall, a white strip edged into the room.

The faintest of footfalls receded down the hall. He waited for a minute or two after the sound had faded, and then toed the letter toward him without putting his body in range of the door.

The envelope was inscribed with his new name.

It contained an airline ticket for Flight 601 from New York to London, leaving Idlewild Airport very early on the following morning. The ticket was made out in the name of Peter Cane. There was no need to wonder about the sender of the envelope: The a-n-e in "Cane" had been written in such a manner by whoever had sent the ticket that it looked like a-x-e.

Hawk was obviously ready to move.

Nick sniffed the envelope. His nostrils flared with the soft, subtle scent of a rare perfume, something exotic that he couldn't quite place. But it certainly wasn't aftershave lotion.

The party who had delivered Hawk's envelope was a woman.