The Golden Serpent

Chapter 9 Instant Murder

After a lavish breakfast — Nick had not realized how famished he was — served from a buffet before an open fire in a huge refectory, with transparent bone china and vermeil, Gerda von Rothe took Nick down a series of long dank passages to what she called the library. It was a tremendous room with a ceiling like that of a cathedral. It was lined with books, thousands of books, and there were wheeled ladders to reach the top shelves. Seated before another fireplace, in which you could have roasted several oxen — it was always dank and chill in the castle, she said, in spite of the central heating — they talked. But first The Bitch gave him back the Webley and his hunting knife, which she took from the drawer of a huge Louis Quinze desk.

As she handed them to him she said, “You will use your own weapons, Jamie. The knife would be more silent, but you must use your own judgment. If you use this gun and there is ever any trouble, your bullets will be found in the corpses. It seems most unique, your revolver. I have never seen one like it. Where did you get it?”

“I stole it from a guy,” he said gruffly. “A long time ago. It can’t never be traced to me, so don’t worry.”

“I am not worrying.” She tapped his chin with a thin black leather riding crop she was carrying. She would, he imagined, always be carrying some sort of whip or goad. She would probably feel naked without one. Just another facet of her nasty personality, of this incredible gothic persona.

She had changed into slacks and simple white blouse, and her silver hair was again caught back with the golden bangle. On her feet were highly polished black flats.

“I have been thinking.” And she told him what she had been thinking. A faint chill coiled up and down Kill-master’s spine. She was going to force his hand.

“Why wait?” The wide scarlet mouth smiled at him, the big white teeth glinted. “This room is huge and the books will absorb most of the sounds you make. I suppose,” she sounded regretful, “that you will have to use the gun after all. You will not be able to surprise them and get close enough to use the knife. No — it will just have to be with the gun. I’ll lock the door when I leave and give orders that no one is to enter this room. When you’re finished I’ll come and help you with the bodies.”

Nick stared at her. He let his mouth drop open. “You mean you want me to do it here? In this room. Right away?”

She drew the tip of the riding crop across his face. “Why not, Jamie? The sooner the better. I should have thought of it before. You see, I’m supposed to see them today to discuss business, and we always do that in this room. I’ll give them a few drinks first, to relax them and get them off guard, then I’ll make some excuse and leave the room. Then you do it. Very simple.”

“Not so damned simple.” He couldn’t pretend to be that dumb! Not even Jamie McPherson was that dumb.

“How will you explain me? They don’t know who I am — they don’t even know I’m in the castle. They’ll be suspicious the minute they see me. You said they knew how to take care of themselves, Gerda. Anyway look!” Nick put the big Webley in his belt and pulled the bush jacket over it. “See? It sticks out like a sore thumb. Those guys would spot it in a minute. No — you better let me figure out my own time and place. I—”

Whistttttt — the riding crop cut across his lean cheek. Not hard enough to draw blood but with a hurting sting. Nick took a step back, fighting for self control. If he lost his temper now he would ruin everything. He cringed. “Hey — don’t! That hurt. I was only trying to—”

“Don’t,” The Bitch said softly. “I told you — don’t try to think. I’ll do that. There is so much you don’t know, Jamie. Come here and I’ll show you how you can take them by surprise.”

He followed her to a shelf of books near the fireplace, saw her press a spatulate finger against the spine of a book. It was Dickens’ Dombey and Son.

A small section of the wall swung open noiselessly. She stood aside for him to enter first. It was a tight little cubicle, unheated, lined with dark paneling. Gerda pulled the section of shelves shut behind her. The washed and perfumed odor of her big golden body filled the tiny space. If sex had a distinctive smell of its own, Nick mused, this was it.

She was pointing to a narrow slit in the wall. “Take a look, Jamie.”

He found that he could see most of the library. Some of the books were shorter than others, and the space above them was covered with a fine black netting. She touched his shoulder and pointed to a set of earphones hanging from a nail set into the paneling. “With those you can hear everything that is said in the library. But they won’t be able to hear, and they can’t see you because of the netting. All you have to do is wait until I leave — I don’t want to be a witness to the actual killing, you see — then pick your time and open the section and go in and kill them. It should be easy. They’ll never suspect. They know nothing of this room.”

He nodded grudgingly. “Yeah. Like shooting fish in a barrel. So when do I do it?”

“Right away. Why delay? It’s storming outside now and the visibility is bad. They may not even be seen coming here from the labs. Not that it matters. They’ll simply disappear, not be seen again.” She touched his face with the riding crop. “You take care of those two, Jamie. I’ll take care of... of the others.”

And you’ll take care of me, too. No doubt of that. Aloud, he said, “That part bothers me a little, Gerda. They’ve got friends, huh? What happens when they turn up missing?”

Tap — tap — the leather of the crop cold on his cheek. “I told you. I’ll handle that. I can promise you, Jamie. When they are gone the, er, friends will go also. They will just pack up and leave. All right — I’m going to call now and tell Harper and Hurtada I want to see them. You will stay here. Any last questions?”

He could think of none. The time for questions was over. From now on it was going to be a deadly rat race and each man, or woman, for himself. Then a thought struck him. “Better test the earphones,” he told her. “I don’t want nothing to go wrong.”

“Nor do I.” She leaned close to him, pressing her big body, the full, tilting breasts, against him. Her lips moved across his cheek. “Don’t bungle it, Jamie. You know what happens to you if you do. But if you do it right I’ll show you what Paradise is like.”

She pressed a small lever and the bookshelves swung open. She went out and they closed. He watched her through the slit in the books. She went to the desk, then turned and stared at the shelves. “Can you hear me? If you can, rap on the paneling.”

Her voice was small, metallic, but quite clear. He rapped on the wall and saw her nod. She picked up a phone on the desk and dialed once. She waited, patting one foot, tapping on the desk with the riding crop, a sullen frown on her arrogant face.

“Harper? This is Gerda.” She was scowling at the phone. “I must see you at once. You and Hurtada both. Yes, of course it’s important or I would not bother. Yes, damn it. I said it was. Both of you come to the library as soon as possible. We must have a talk. Right away, damn it!”

The Bitch slammed down the phone. She looked at the bookshelves and winked, then went to a tall cabinet in a corner of the library and took out bottles and glasses. Nick could hear her humming softly as she went about her preparations. One of Brahms’ short pieces from Liebeslieder. What a character she was — made Lady Macbeth look like a saint!

It would be a few minutes before the two men arrived. Nick made good use of the time. He played a hunch. It was dark in the little room, and he had no matches or lighter, so he had to feel around the paneling in the dark. He kept the earphones on — luckily the flex was long enough for roaming.

If there was a back way out of this hidey hole — and he was betting there was — it should be in the back panel. He felt over the slick wood with his fingertips, pressing and rapping gently, listening for hollowness. Nothing. He kept trying. He was about to give up in despair when his fingers touched a slight protuberance in the paneling, a scroll or arabesque of some sort. He pressed it, heard a faint clicking noise, and a section of the paneling slid back. A waft of dank air swept over his face, smelling of mold and dust and old bones. He had found his way out. God only knew where it led. Probably to some charnel pit where the Dragon waited.

He left the panel open and went back to the eye slit. Gerda von Rothe was seated at the desk, sipping at a highball and tapping her big round thigh with the quirt. Without looking in his direction she said: “They’ll be here any minute now, Jamie. Just keep your mind on the job and do it quickly, get it over. And remember — they’re very tough. Don’t give them a chance!”

There was a tapping on the library door. The Bitch shot a glance at the hidey hole and said, very softly, “Here they are now. Gut Glück, Jamie.” He had noted before how she lapsed into German when she was excited. He watched her vanish into the blind spot at the end of the library. Cold air was blowing in from the tunnel behind him, chilling the back of his neck. Why not take off right now? Start his exploration — it might take him hours to find his way from the castle to those lab buildings — and he was going to need every minute. Yet he lingered. If the scene coming up was going to be an angry one, as he hoped, he might pick up some valuable information that would save him time in the long run.

Gerda von Rothe came back into view followed by Maxwell Harper and the mestizo — Chinese, Hurtada. Nick wondered what the man was called in Peking. Today he was wearing one of the long white lab gowns over a cardigan and dark trousers. He was bare headed, the raven dark hair close cropped.

Harper was wearing the same snapbrim panama. He did not take it off. His lightweight suit was beautifully cut, a pearly gray, and a bright tie sparkled against his dazzling white shirt front. The AXEman, missing nothing, saw that Harper liked his collars starched — the sharp edges were cutting into the pink hanging jowls. Harper, he thought again, looked like a well-bathed and barbered pig. But he did not underestimate the man. He could see the faint bulge of a shoulder clip beneath the beautiful suit. Of the two men, he thought now, Harper might well be the more dangerous. Simply because he didn’t look it.

The voices came through the earphones, diminished but perfectly clear.

“So what’s it all about, Gerda?” Harper’s voice was hoarse. “Make it snappy, will you! I’ve got to get back to Mexico City tonight to catch a plane for Los Angeles. What’s wrong?”

Hurtada said nothing. Harper slumped into a chair near the desk but Hurtada paced nervously to and fro, shooting narrow dark glances at the other two. He gave the impression of extreme agitation.

The AXE agent waited with interest for what Gerda would say. She had to hand them some line, some stall, to account for summoning them. What? Some truth or a tissue of lies? He kept his eyes glued to the dark netting.

Gerda von Rothe poured drinks and handed them around. Harper drank deeply. Hurtada tasted his, made a face and put it down.

“Everything is wrong and you know it!” The Bitch faced the two men. She kept slapping the riding crop against her palm. “Things have been all wrong since that fool Vargas stole the counterfeit and got away. That is bound to lead to trouble sooner or later. I want you two to pack up your operation and get out of here!”

Harper shot an amused glance at Hurtada, took another drink, then laughed at Gerda. “Christ, is that all? You got us up here for that? I told you we’ve talked it over, Hurtada and I, and we’ve decided there is no great risk. Believe me, Gerda, we’ve figured all the angles. If that money could be traced back to us we would have known it by now. So stop worrying. Just be a good girl and play along the way you’ve been doing. That way everyone stays healthy. Anyway this operation isn’t going to last forever. We’ll go away one day and leave you alone.”

The woman slammed her riding crop down on the desk. “You’ll ruin me,” she screamed. “You’ll ruin everything I’ve built over all these years. I tell you I won’t have it. I want you out of here.” She glowered at Hurtada. “Take your filthy Chink soldiers and put them back on your submarine where they belong. Take them back to China! I’ve had enough.”

The watching Nick Carter frowned in puzzlement. This had a ring of truth about it. Was her anger genuine or an act? Had she forgotten that he was listening? Then he understood — she didn’t care what he heard now. Jamie McPherson was a dumb bastard, remember? And it didn’t matter for another reason — he was never going to leave El Mirador alive.

Hurtada had not yet spoken. Now he fixed the woman with cold black eyes and said, “I do not understand this at all, Gerda. Why are you making this scene? It makes no sense. I thought it was all understood — you cannot betray us, or even cause us trouble, without betraying yourself. Do you think we do not know about your friends in Brazil? Is it possible that you think us so stupid that we would not take precautions?”

Maxwell Harper laughed. “What he means, Gerda, is that you can stop looking for your Nazi pal from Brazil. I’m afraid he won’t be showing up.”

Nick was sure now that Gerda von Rothe had temporarily forgotten him. The deadly weakness of arrogance — and the Germanic hubris is far worse than the Greek ever was — is that it cannot abide to be taunted. Gerda seemed to swell, to actually gain in stature. She went livid and in that instant her face lost its beauty and took on a gargoyle ugliness. She smashed at Harper’s glass, sweeping it from the desk with her crop.

“So that’s it! You did kill him!”

The American shrugged his big shoulders. “If you mean the guy who called himself Siegfried, yes, we did. Or rather I did. We figured he was a gunman, an executioner you had sent for, Gerda, so we played it safe. You get some very nasty ideas at times, my dear woman. I wish you wouldn’t.”

The woman appeared to regain her control, at least partially. She leaned toward Harper. “How did you know he was Siegfried? He would never have told you. Never! He was one of our best men.”

Harper was lighting a short black cigar. He beamed jovially through blue smoke at Gerda. “He did, though. Hurtada persuaded him. Burnt his feet a little with a cigarette lighter. Before we finished with him he was anxious to talk — he wanted to tell us his entire pedigree and the details of his love life.” Harper chuckled. “Hurtada is very good with fire. Not very subtle, though, especially for a Chinese.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” snapped Hurtada. He fixed The Bitch with a cold black stare. “We, I, expect absolute obedience from you from now on. No more messages to Brazil. They cannot help you. It is the Serpent Party, with Chinese backing, that is going to take over Mexico. Not the new Nazi party. You had better make up your mind to that, woman.”

Nick could see the tremors running through her big frame. She was as pale as a corpse, her mouth a stark red slash. With a sudden fierce movement she broke the riding crop in two. “You dare to talk to me like that? You dare! Here, on my own ground!”

“I dare,” said Hurtada softly. “From now on you will take orders like anyone else. I am running things now.”

It was fascinating. Nick had trouble restraining his glee as he watched and listened. Pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place with crisp satisfying sounds.

He happened to be watching Harper’s face as Hurtada made his last statement. He read surprise and shock on the fat pink features.

“Since when?” growled Harper. “Since when are you running things, Hurtada? I haven’t heard anything about it.” Both of them were ignoring The Bitch now. There was an almost visible tension between them. Nick rubbed his hands together. This kept getting better and better.

Hurtada took a yellow flimsy from his pocket and tossed it at Harper. “Since just one hour ago, my friend. This was relayed to me from the Sea Dragon. From Peking.”

Boingggggg — right on target again. There was a Chinese sub lurking off the California and Mexican coasts.

Harper glanced at the flimsy. His lip curled. He threw the paper to the floor. “It’s in code groups. You know I can’t read this code. How do I know you’re telling the truth? You could be lying! You’ve been wanting to take over ever since this operation began.”

Nick switched his scrutiny to The Bitch. She was quiet now, peering from one man to the other, apparently sensing the deep friction between them, alert for any opening the friction might afford her. She had regained her composure and her face was placid. She still had Jamie, her ace in the hole. What matter how these two quarreled? They would both be dead in a few minutes. Nick could see her mind working behind that lovely arrogant façade.

She did not have to make an excuse to leave. Hurtada, never taking his eyes from Harper, made it for her. He said: “Please to leave us alone for a little time, Gerda. There are some matters I must discuss with my friend here. In private. I will speak to you later about what we have been discussing.”

A made-to-order exit cue. Gerda von Rothe skirted the desk and started for the door. She cast a single glance in Nick’s direction. He saw the green eyes flicker, a barely perceptible movement, yet the message was loud and clear. Get on with it, Jamie boy. Murder! Blood! I wish to find two warm corpses when I return...

She passed out of sight. From the door he heard her say: “There is one other thing — my guards report a lot of movement in the hills across the highway. Bandits, they think. We must not overlook—”

“Screw the bandits,” said Harper loudly. “Just so it’s not the police. We can handle bandits all right, for God’s sake. Between our guards and yours we’ve got machine guns all over the place. So who cares about a few lousy bandits!”

“I thought you should know.” The door closed behind her. The oily cluck of the lock came through the earphones. Nick hardly heard it. His eyes were glued to the slit in the wall.

Hurtada walked around the desk to where The Bitch had been standing. He was fast. So fast that even Nick Carter’s experienced eye could not see where the little automatic had been concealed. It was a .32, deadly enough at that short range, and Hurtada was pointing it at Harper.

“Your little game is all over,” said Hurtada. “You fat bastard. You pig! I should have known all along.”

Nick gave the American credit. He did not flinch. He sat, a new drink at his side, and stared at the gun in Hurtada’s hand. “What in hell are you talking about, Chung? What’s the matter with you? You sore because I questioned your word on that code message? Okay — I take it back. You’re in command now. Good luck to you. Now I’ve got to get started for Mexico City or I’ll miss my plane. I have got a business to look after, you know. I’ve got to keep up a front, make it look good. So if you’ll excuse me—”

Harper started to get up. Hurtada, or Chung Hee, jabbed the gun at him. “Do not move. And do not bother to lie. Peking knows the truth about you at last and they have passed it on to me.” Chung indicated the yellow flimsy on the floor beside Harper. “Besides giving me command of the mission, Peking notified me that you are a double agent. I have authority to dispose of you as I see fit.”

Nick would cheerfully have nominated Maxwell Harper for an Oscar. The man was superb. He settled back in his chair and frowned at Chung Hee.

“I just don’t get this! Have you lost your mind? Or has Peking? If this is your idea of a joke, Chung, then you picked a damned poor time to—”

“Be quiet,” hissed the Chinese. “No use trying to lie yourself out of it, Harper. Peking has proof that you are a Russian agent, have been one for years. Ever since the Serpent Party was set up, you fat bastard, you have been feeding the Kremlin information about it. And you have been sabotaging it! I understand now what I could not understand before. Why our progress was so slow, why we lost so many good party leaders to the police on trumped-up charges. Why the distribution of the counterfeit was so mishandled — though surely your real bosses would profit by that, too! With care, with a little cunning, we could still be circulating the bad money in the States and reaping good money to finance the Party. But you insisted on dumping it all at once. And no wonder you were not very concerned about the drunk, about Vargas. If he was caught and loused up the Party all the better for you. Well, pig, you have earned your Kremlin pay — and you have earned your death!”

Harper’s bulk and fat fooled even Nick. He would have bet on Chung Hee. He would have lost.

Harper flung his glass at the Chinese in a blur of motion. Chung ducked and fired, but in ducking he lost balance and his sighting. He missed Harper’s gut and got him high on the right arm. Harper went sprawling into the shelter of the big desk and fired around the corner. The heavy black gun leaped and bellowed in his hand. Chung managed to get off one more shot and chips flew from the desk. Chung dropped the .32 and walked slowly backward, clutching at his belly with both hands. He stared down with amazed dark eyes at the scarlet leaking between his fingers. It was plain that he did not believe it.

Harper came out of his crouch behind the desk and walked slowly toward the still retreating Chung. He leveled the black pistol. The Chinese held out his hands, palms up, in entreaty and as though he hoped to seize the bullets before they could harm him.

Harper shot him three times in the belly at close range. The blast whirled Chung around and flung him against the bookcases. He slid down, his clutching fingers slipping and sliding on the spines of the books, leaving a bloody trail. He flopped once like a gaffed fish and turned over on his face, still twitching. Harper shot him again in the back of the head.

If The Bitch was listening, and Nick was pretty sure she was, she would be exulting now. She would think that Jamie had come through for her. And she would be here any minute.

He watched Harper take off his jacket and examine the wound in his upper arm. The freshly laundered shirt was turning red. Harper fished for a handkerchief, made a pad of it, and pressed it against the wound. Then he took a spare clip from his pocket and reloaded his gun. Nick nodded in cold professional approval. He very much doubted that The Bitch was going to catch this character off guard. A sly and slippery one, and tough; Nick had no doubt whatever that Chung Hee had been right. Peking was right. Harper was a double. Working for both the Kremlin and Peking. Where his real allegiance lay if he had any, did not much matter. Men such as Harper worked for money, and money only. He probably had his own ideas about the counterfeit and the plates.

Nick turned and stepped into the cold tunnel. He found a lever that closed the panel behind him. The Bitch would know where he had gone, of course, but he had a head start. And he had some ideas of his own.