The Golden Serpent

Chapter 12 The Mortal Kiss

Five minutes after the first beating began Nick passed out. It did not avail him for long. He came back to consciousness to find that nothing had changed, except that now both he and the swan bed were water soaked. They had dumped buckets on him. He was still tied to the bed, spread-eagled, naked as a newborn babe, and his tormentors were still there. Both of them. The Bitch and Erma. In the green eyes, and in the yellow eyes, he could discern no hint of mercy. Quite the contrary. Absurdly, but quite consonant with the surrealistic quality of the scene, a long forgotten quatrain of Kipling’s came back to him.

“I’ve got no rifle,” Nick groaned. He did not know that he spoke aloud.

“What do you say?” It was Gerda von Rothe, who had been sitting in a chair near the bed, a Tommy gun snuggled across her knees. “What is this about a rifle, Jamie?”

The AXEman managed a tortured grin of derision. “Nothing, memsahib. I was dreaming, I guess. About death. And cool waters.”

The Bitch loomed above him, one big hand on her hip, the other holding the machine gun. She had changed into riding breeches that ballooned over high, shiny black boots. She wore a black shirt open at the throat, unbuttoned to reveal her magnificent breasts. On her left arm she now wore a scarlet brassard with, a swastika etched in green. The Crooked Cross!

“I see you’re in uniform,” Nick said. “Showing the true colors at last, eh?”

Her large white teeth glinted at him. “For only a little time. Then I must go back to playing my role as before. But never mind me — it is your true colors I am interested in, Jamie. That is not your real name, of course, as we both know. What is it? And what are you after? You would not, by any chance, be working for the Mexican Government?”

He knew he must be careful in the lies he told. He had tried the ignorant, gold tramp, Jamie bit on the way back to this bedroom and it had earned him a gun butt in the back of the head. That cover was blown forever. What could he substitute for it? Then Nick had an inspiration. Tell her part of the truth — she would never believe it.

He said: “You ever hear of a man called El Tigre? A bandit?”

The Bitch nodded. “Of course. He hides out around here, somewhere in this vicinity. My guards keep a sharp eye on him. I think he would like to raid this place, to loot it, but he does not dare. So what of it?”

Come dusk, Nick thought, come dusk and you will see what of it! If El Tigre kept his promise. Stuck to the plan. And if the AXEman could keep his share of the bargain. At the moment the latter did not seem likely.

“I work for El Tigre,” he told her. “I’m a plant. My job was to get into the castle and spy out the land, get all the details. The Tiger is planning on taking you, sister, sometime next week. And that,” he lied, “is the truth.”

Gerda von Rothe stared down at him, contempt in the green eyes. “Is that the best you can do?”

Nick nodded. “All a man can do is tell the truth.”

She went back to her chair. “Erma!”

Nick Carter had never dreamed the day would come when he would be afraid of a woman. He was afraid of Erma. Not a physical fear exactly, he knew he could endure her worst; it was rather because she was a woman, after all, and the sight of her left a nasty green trail of nauseous slime in his belly. He looked at her now and forced a grin and, more to bolster his own courage than out of defiance, said: “The Gestapo sure missed a bet when they missed you, baby doll.”

Erma stood beside the bed and gazed down at Nick with slitted yellow eyes. She would have been ludicrous had she not been so sinister. She was dressed as before, in a man’s trousers and shirt, but now she also wore a brassard with a swastika on it. And where her lumpy potato face had been red before now it was pale, livid, with dark circles beneath her eyes. She breathed hard as she stared down at Nick. She licked her thick lips with a blunt, coated tongue.

“The Gestapo missed no bets,” she told him. “I worked for them as a young girl. It was pleasant work.”

The whip she held was long and shiny and black. Six lashes of plaited leather were attached to the stock. Erma drew the lashes through her fingers and licked her lips again.

“That figures,” said Nick, eyeing the whip. “You turn in your father and mother? Cousins, too? By the dozens, I’ll bet. You whip them too?”

“Some I whip,” said Erma stolidly. “Some I do other things to — some I just kill quick. You I will not kill quick.”

The Bitch said: “Get on with it, Erma! And be careful — not too much around the private parts. I may have use for him later.”

Erma raised the whip. The muscles writhed in her great biceps. Nick closed his eyes. Here we go again. He tried to remember how bad the pain had been before. He couldn’t. Funny, that. You could never exactly recall how pain felt. You just had to experience it over and—

Erma brought the whip down across his naked chest. Nick groaned. He had promised himself he would not — but he groaned. Six white hot lengths of wire were dragged across his flesh. Again. Lower this time. The pain was steady now, with no respite, and he heard himself yelling and lurching and tugging at the cords that held him to the bed.

Still lower now. She was flailing at his belly with liquid fire, but careful to avoid his genitals. Saving me for stud work, Nick thought just as he screamed again.

His upper legs now. Then down past the knees and across his calves and shins. Sweat dripped from the woman’s blotchy face, ran in salty little streams from under her piled corona of yellow-gray hair. Her eyes were slits, her mouth a stretched pale anus. The big arm went up and down, up and down. Nick felt himself passing out again. It was not to be borne. Let go... let go and fall into the deep hole, the black hole of unconsciousness. Let go!

“That’s enough for now,” said Gerda von Rothe. “I want him conscious. Get the alcohol, Erma.”

Nick kept his eyes closed, hovering on the verge of the dark pit. He knew what was coming and braced himself for the sting. And got an idea. Maybe he could buy a little time. Anything — anything but that whip again.

He heard the heavy tread of Erma coming back from the bathroom. He squinted. She was carrying a large bottle of rubbing alcohol. She sprinkled it over him, into the raw bloody stripes, and his flesh screamed at the new torment. And though he tried, he could not restrain his tongue.

“Nice of you,” he murmured. “After all, you wouldn’t want me to get blood poisoning.”

The Bitch was standing at the bed again. Was that a gleam of reluctant admiration in her green agate eyes?

It was. She said: “You are quite a man, Jamie, or whatever your name is. You are perhaps the sort of man I have been looking for all my life. It is too bad that you had to spoil it.” There was genuine regret in the shrug of her big shoulders. Regret and something else. She was staring down at Nick’s midriff. Her tongue whipped around her lips like a small red snake. Nick glanced down at himself and, despite all the lingering pain, could hardly restrain a laugh. Of all times, and places, to have a reaction! But there it was. The whipping had somehow aroused him. Now his reaction was arousing her, exciting this sadistic bitch who was so well named.

Desperately the AXEman sought for some ploy, for some way to exploit the situation. Sex and Death were the yin and yang of existence — in his case he just might be able to change Death to Life. But first, time — he must gain a little time!

“Have I spoiled it?” He managed a faint grin. “Can’t we start over, Gerda? I’ve had enough. I can’t take any more. I’ll do anything you say — be anything you say. I’ll help you fight off El Tigre when he comes next week. Only don’t let her whip me any more. Please!”

Again the reluctant shrug. She tore her eyes away from his body. “It is too late. I cannot trust you.”

“All right, but don’t torture me. Kill me quickly.” He was “acting” desperately now. Somehow he had to keep her interest, keep her aroused, goad her into the fantastic act of which, he was betting, her twisted mind was capable. Then, and only then, he might have a chance.

“I... I can tell you some things, Erma! Things you don’t know — that you should know. I did overhear Chung Hee and Harper talking after you left.”

She was in her chair again, lounging, the machine gun on her lap. Erma was at the tall windows, her back to them, pulling the bloody lashes slowly through her fingers. Nick realized that she was not missing a word.

Gerda von Rothe patted back an artificial yawn. Nick thought it was feigned boredom, for her eyes never left his body.

“What could you possibly tell me about Harper and Chung Hee that would be of any interest? The Chinese is dead and Harper soon will be. He is hiding somewhere around the castle now, but he cannot get away. Anyway I know all about them. Not that it matters now. They are finished.”

“Maybe not,” said Nick. “Did you know that Harper was a Russian agent? A double! The Kremlin knows about this little setup, Gerda. They were trying to toss a monkey wrench into the Peking machinery — you don’t think they’re going to let you new Nazis get away with anything. The Russians hate Nazis a lot worse than they do the Chinese — that’s only a matter of politics. With you people, with the Nazis, it’s a deep blood hatred.”

He had shocked and surprised her. The green eyes broke off their avid devouring of his middle and swiveled to meet his own. “You seem to know and understand a great deal. Certainly you do not talk like a bandit. But this claim of yours — that Harper is a Russian agent. Why should I believe you?”

This part was easy. “You saw Chung’s body, or Hurtada, or whatever. Harper killed him. I saw it, remember. He had to. Chung was going to kill him, on orders from Peking. They had found out the truth about Harper. He was a Russian agent, all right.”

A soft flow of obscenity oozed from her red mouth. “I think I believe you, Jamie, whoever you are. The clever bastard! All the years he has worked for me and I did not suspect. I did not even know that he was working for the Chinese until he and Chung moved in and took over.”

From the window Erma said, “You are talking too much, Gerda.”

“Shut up,” said The Bitch. “What matter if he is going to die anyway? And it amuses me to talk just now. So shut up — and bring me some whiskey and soda. Hurry up.”

Erma shot a malevolent glance at the AXEman as she left the room. The message in the yellow eyes was plain. You might be fooling her, they said, but you are not fooling me.

Nick said, “You see — I did tell you something you didn’t know. Shouldn’t it buy me something? Like an easier death? I can’t stand any more torture — I’ll go out of my mind.”

The Bitch laughed at him. “I do not really care one way or the other. But whipping you gives Erma pleasure, you see. Real sexual pleasure. Poor thing. She does not have much fun these days. It is a pity.”

“My heart hurts for her.”

She laughed again. “You would not understand. You are too normal. So beautifully normal, Jamie. I think I shall continue to call you that until — well, until it is over. It is a nice name. I really wish it were your own, and that things were different. You are a superb man, Jamie. The best I ever had — and I have had many.”

He had to keep her talking. “One thing I would like to know before you kill me — are you really seventy years old? It can’t do any harm to tell me now.”

The Bitch came to the bed. With the cold nose of the Tommy gun she poked around at his private parts, a lascivious grin on her wide red mouth.

“No harm at all,” she agreed. “I will, in fact, my Jamie, give a boon to you who are going to die. I will answer any of your questions. It does not matter.”

“Well, then? Are you really seventy?”

She was enjoying herself. She poked him hard with the Tommy gun and he winced.

“Of course I am not seventy, you poor fool. I am thirty-six. It was all a hoax to promote the sale of White Lily creams. My name is not even Gerda. It is Gretel. Gerda was my mother’s name. When she died I buried her secretly and took her place. It was all Harper’s idea — he is a clever bastard and very good at his work. It was he who handled all the publicity, who built up the legend that I was seventy and had been preserved by my creams. It was good — it made us rich and it was good cover for my real work.”

Her eyes had left his flesh now and there was a fanatic glow in them.

“Der Tag?” Nick kept his tone soft and low.

Her eyes burned down into his. She flung her right arm up in the Nazi salute. “Yes! The day! It will come again. Be sure of that. Not the old ones, but the new. The Hitler Youth, as I was, will come into their own. Hitler is not dead. Hitler will never die. Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” It was Erma. She came toward them, a tray of drinks balanced on one huge hand, the other raised in the salute. “Heil Hitler! And now, Gerda, I think it is time we killed this one. After a little more whipping, of course.”

The Bitch smiled in amusement. “You do not have to pretend any longer, Erma. He knows I am not Gerda. I have told him the truth.” She poured herself half a glass of whiskey and drank it neat. Nick moistened his lips. She saw the movement and poured more whiskey in her glass, then held it to his lips. Nick choked and sputtered as the fiery stuff flowed down his gullet.

As The Bitch took the glass away she patted Nick’s head and looked at Erma. “I am not sure I want to kill him just yet. Perhaps I will give him a choice, my good Erma. A chance, perhaps I should say. There are still the cells, you know. After all, the stupid Americans have one song that makes a great deal of sense — a good man is hard to find!”

“Not the cells, please,” said Nick. “I saw them. And what was in them. I hate rats. And I hate starving.”

Gerda von Rothe — he was always to think of her so — half filled her own glass again and drank. This time she chased the spirit with soda. Nick felt a micro-inch of hope grow in him. If she got drunk enough — but that was a toss up, too. She might just blast him with the Tommy gun.

Erma had been staring at her mistress with open mouth and wide eyes. “You are a fool, Gretel. You would risk everything just to have sport with this carrion! This man.” There was venom in the word. “When there is so much to be done — such a terrible mess to be cleaned up, so much to be hidden, buried. And the man Harper has not yet been found.”

“To hell with Harper,” snarled The Bitch. “We have wrecked his car and all the exits are guarded. He cannot get away. In time we will hunt him down and kill him like the rat he is — but not now. Right now I am going to have some fun with Jamie boy here!” She tossed the machine gun to the startled Erma, who nevertheless caught it deftly and immediately swung the muzzle toward Nick’s defenseless belly.

“Gretel! What are you — have you gone stark raving mad?” There was genuine shock in the big woman’s voice. She stared with bulging eyes as her mistress began to strip off her clothes. In less than a minute The Bitch was down to her lovely tawny buff, as naked as Nick himself. She took a knife from beneath the cushions of the chair and approached Nick. As she bent over him, her big breasts, as firm and cool as ripe melons, brushed his wounded chest. She moved her breasts provocatively on his flesh. Daubs of Nick’s blood stained the long nipples.

The Bitch swayed over him. He saw that she was a little drunk already. Two half glasses made a glass — and that was a lot of whiskey. Especially if she had no great tolerance for it. His hopes went up another peg. He might be able to weasel out of this yet. It would take a miracle — maybe he was going to get one.

She was about to cut him free. Erma was glowering in helpless anger, her finger on the trigger of the Tommy gun, itching to blast him. Careful. So careful.

To stall her, because he wanted to give the booze a chance to work a bit longer, he said: “You promised you would answer questions, Gerda — I mean Gretel. I’ve got one more that’s been worrying me. Those plates. The counterfeit plates. Who made them? Where did you get them?”

The naked woman swayed, the knife poised, her green eyes a trifle out of focus now. “Huh? Oh, the plates, Jamie. You want to know about the plates. So that’s it — that’s who you are, Jamie. You’re a Treasury agent! A stinking United States T-man! I should have guessed it before.”

It did not matter now. The next few minutes would decide his life or death. Nick Carter nodded. “All right. I am a T-man. I was after the plates and I found them. I destroyed them. But I would like to know the truth—”

She put the point of the knife against his chest and drew a bloody half inch slit. “So you shall, Jamie, so you shall. I keep my word. Those plates were genuine, the real thing. Our people stole them back in 1941, just before Pearl Harbor. It was one of the great all-time coups of the Abwehr.” She saw the disbelief in his face. “It is true, I tell you!” The Bitch was shouting now. “They were Germans, remember, and they had put their minds to accomplishing the impossible. They did it. They stole the plates and replaced them with excellent forgeries. And it was the forgeries the stupid Americans destroyed! While the real plates were in a vault in Berlin. But my people could never produce the proper paper, a paper good enough, so the plates could not be used. When the war was lost, my mother and I came to Mexico. Her lover came with her — and he brought along the plates, which he had managed to steal. They were not Nazis, those two, not good Germans. But they saw a chance to get rich on the deeds of other men, greater men. I was only sixteen then and could do nothing, but I knew. I knew and I watched and I waited. The lover died first. Then my mother. Then I had my chance. I planned for years — then those Chinese devils moved in on me. And that is enough of talking, my Jamie.”

The Bitch was slashing at the cords that bound Nick. She tossed the knife toward Erma and slipped down beside Nick on the swan bed. “Now, lover, show me once more how good you are! Make me swoon. If you completely satisfy me I will not kill you just yet. I will put you in a cell and keep you for other times.” She giggled drunkenly and saliva ran from the corners of her wide scarlet mouth. “I may even feed you, Jamie.” And she wriggled under him.

Every movement was torture to his flayed and bloody flesh, but Nick found himself capable. Amazing. Over his shoulder The Bitch said, “Keep the gun on him every second, Erma. If he makes one false move you have my permission to kill him.”

The drunken laughter echoed wildly around the vast bed chamber. The Bitch sank her teeth into Nick’s ear. “Come on, Jamie. Come on, big lover man. Sing for your supper.”

It was not exactly singing, but then he wasn’t exactly Tommy Tucker. As he fell into a steady rhythm Nick was thinking at least two moves ahead. And working on the capped tooth with his tongue. Under the cap was a tiny pellet of cyanide. He had obeyed orders and brought it with him. Now it might pay off. Might. Almost as big a word as if.

The Bitch had her eyes closed. She began to moan softly. Nick risked a covert look at Erma. The fat woman was still in the chair, the Tommy gun ready, but she was leaning forward and he saw the excitement on her mottled features. That might help him. Excitement might throw off her aim just enough—

He managed to tongue the cap off his molar. He moved the cap to one side of his mouth, not daring to use a finger to get it out. He could feel the little cyanide pellet in his mouth now, smooth and deadly. It was made of gelatin, that pellet, and it was already beginning to melt. He had to get rid of it. Now!

Nick emitted a long, simulated moan. He clamped his mouth down hard on the open, moist, red cavern of Gerda’s mouth. He had not kissed her before and now he took her by surprise. Then she responded to the kiss. Her tongue was a moist dagger stabbing into his mouth. Nick deftly tongued the cyanide pellet into her mouth. This was the crucial moment. If she suspected — if she felt the pellet—

He gave a tremendous thrust that brought a scream from her. She arched to meet him. He felt her swallow convulsively. It was done. Now to conceal the fact until the pellet melted. And when it did — to conceal her death until he could get a chance at Erma.

The Bitch, all unaware of the death working in her, was clinging and wriggling frenetically. Nick let one of his outstretched hands stray carelessly toward the edge of the bed where he had seen her turn off the alarm. He would have to turn it on. The sudden deafening clangor might throw Erma’s aim off a bit. He needed every bit of help he could get — because he was going to have to jump that Tommy gun!

Gretel von Rothe arched her long spine and tried to scream. Her green eyes opened wide for a moment and stared into Nick’s. In that split second of time, her last on this earth, he read fear, terror and realization. Then the green seemed to fade and she went lax in his arms. Now if only Erma would mistake the death convulsion for that of love—

“What is wrong? What you do to her?” He heard her get out of the chair and start toward him. He flopped over, nearer the edge of the bed, his hand seeking beneath it. Desperately he played for time. “Wrong? Nothing is wrong. She just, well, you know. And you know she always sleeps afterward.” Where in hell was that lever, or button, or whatever the hell it was?

Nick’s finger touched a tiny switch. He flipped it over. As he did so the huge double doors of the bedroom slammed open. Maxwell Harper stood there, swaying, his shirt front one big gout of blood. He pointed a pistol at Erma and fired.

And missed.

The alarm bells let go with a hellish clangor. Erma swung the Tommy gun toward Harper and let go a burst that caught the big man in the belly. The blast of lead swept him back out the doors, spinning and clutching at the walls for support.

Killmaster came off the bed in a long plunging dive. It was the only chance he was ever going to get and he knew it. But he was Killmaster now and he summoned his last strength for the effort. No illusions. It was kill or be killed.

He got in under the burst of slugs. Flame seared his face and powder pocked his flesh. He drove a right hand into one basketball-sized breast, over her heart. Erma gasped, her mouth opened and she dropped the Tommy gun. Nick hit her again in the belly, his fist sinking deep into hard flab.

Erma poked the fingers of her right hand into his eyes. She grabbed his right arm and pulled him forward and sent him crashing to the floor in a hip throw. Nick felt as though a boulder had dropped on his skull. For a moment he had doubts. God, she was tough!

But she had thrown him right on the Tommy gun. He picked it up and sighted on her — she was charging like an enraged water buffalo — and pulled the trigger. The gun jammed. Nick threw it as far as he could and ducked the karate chop. He slipped and fell and she tried to kick him in the genitals. He rolled away in time, but felt his flesh rip and burn as her shoe tore along his leg. She had razor blades in the tips of her shoes.

Erma charged him again. Filth poured from the anus-like mouth. The yellow eyes were crazy with hate. Nick launched himself at her. He butted her in the stomach. She sat down, winded, but when he lunged at her again she rolled back, put up her stubby football legs, got her feet into his belly and tossed him over her head. He landed with a tearing shock that nearly finished him. This kid knew all the tricks!

She came after him. He was dazed and nearly helpless for the moment and she got behind him. He felt his head yanked back, brutally, and something ropy, sleek yet fibrous, woman smelling, slipped around his throat. His air was cut off!

Erma was strangling him with her hair. With one of the long braids she wore coiled around her head. Now she was using it like a thuggee cord. The room started to whirl and turn black. The pressure was inexorable, terrible, and he could not break the hold. His tongue was protruding between his lips, his teeth biting into it, his whole magnificent and wounded body racked and dying for lack of air.

One thing — one chance. He felt backward, his hand groping down between the thick soft-firm muscular thighs. She was kneeling behind him, legs wide apart. He reached her crotch, rammed his hand, his nails, brutally into her and began to pull her apart. As from a distance he heard her scream. The rope of hair fell away from his throat.

There was time for one breath. No more. She was rolling away from him. He swiveled, caught her in the face with his elbow. Under the fat chin with his locked double-hands. She cursed and swung at him and Nick reeled back from the blow. My God! What an Amazon.

She kicked at his groin, attempting to castrate him with the razor blades. Nick tried to catch her jaw with a right cross, missed, and the terrible blow pulped her nose. Blood gushed.

Erma rushed at him again. Nick ducked and threw a full body block at her knees. She went hurtling over him, her raw face a mask of blood. He heard a crash of breaking glass. Then he heard Erma screaming. Screaming and screaming. All the way down.

Nick Carter stood staring vacantly at the shattered window. He swayed. He was naked and covered with blood. The alarms were still going like mad, only now they all seemed to be coming from his skull. It would never have occurred to him, but an astute and knowledgeable observer might have compared him to a figure by Michelangelo that had somehow managed to return from Hell.

He staggered to the bed and flipped off the alarm. The moment the bells ceased to clamor he was aware of a different sound. Gunfire. Shouts. Screams. Grenades.

Nick wavered back to the broken window again. It was dark out. Rain was falling in black slanting sheets.

He remembered. El Tigre!

Painfully he went to the long closet and pulled out some clothes. Pants, a shirt, shoes, anything put on any old way. He had to get out of this hell-hole of a castle.

As he passed the swan bed on the way out, he cast a last look at the naked Bitch. She was on her back, eyes staring at the ceiling in fixed green contemplation. Nick flapped a hand in the direction of the bed and went out the double doors.

He fell over Harper’s body and for a moment could not get up. It would be so nice to lie there. Forever. To sleep—

“Amigo? You are alive?”

Nick opened one eye and peered up. El Tigre, wrapped in bandoleers, his sombrero tilted rakishly, was staring down at him. In one hand he carried a rifle, in the other a bottle of The Bitch’s prize scotch. Behind him, grinning at Nick, was the brother Pancho and a couple of bandits.

El Tigre repeated his question. “You live, amigo?”

“You tell me.” His voice seemed to be coming back from Echo Canyon. Nick tried to get up, failed, and settled for his hands and knees. El Tigre squatted beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. His grin was wide and white and there was a hint of awe in his eyes. “I owe you much thanks, amigo, for helping me. You did a job, but magnifico. Never have I seen such a battlefield in my life. It was very easy for my men. Again all my thanks.”

Nick held up a hand. “De nada, Señor. But you’d better take it on the lam — and fast. The Mexican cops are due any minute — and God knows who else. I don’t want to be caught here, either. Can you lend me a horse?”

El Tigre was helping him to his feet. “Anything, amigo! But of course — anything at all.” He turned to snap orders at Pancho and the other bandits, then back to Nick: “I spit in the milk of the police! But gracias”

Nick started to lurch down the corridor. El Tigre stopped him with a firm hand. “Momentito, amigo. Have you forgotten my promise to myself — this yearning I have for the raping of The Bitch! I have not. Where is she, then?”

Nick started to explain. Then he thought the hell with it. He was too tired. He jerked a thumb at the double doors. “In there. Go ahead. She’s not dangerous now.”

El Tigre patted his shoulder. “Wait for me, amigo. There is time. I have sentries who will hold off the police for a little time. This will not take long, I can assure you.” He took a long swig from the bottle and handed it to Nick. “Ahh — at last my dream is come true.”

Nick watched him disappear into the bedroom. He grinned faintly. What a fooling El Tigre was going to get.

When the bandit chief did not reappear immediately Nick went to the bedroom and glanced in. He grimaced and clung to the door for support. Slowly he shook his head. This was a first — even for Killmaster. He had seen some strange and terrible things in his line of work. Never anything like this.

El Tigre was fulfilling his promise to rape the woman. Even in death.