The phone rang distantly several times.
"Yes?" Hawk answered with characteristic abruptness.
"Someone just sent a knife with a fine-honed edge," said Nick. "I refused the delivery."
"Oh. Wrong address?"
"No. Right address, I think. Wrong package."
"That so? What did you order?"
"An axe."
"Delivery man still there?"
"Yes. He'll be around awhile. Could be getting company — somebody to check on the delivery. But somebody else'll have to let 'em in. I think I'd better change hotels. Will the Roosevelt be all right for your package?"
"Fine for mine, if it isn't for theirs. Don't cut yourself."
The old man's voice was a little sour. Nick could practically hear what he was thinking. The case was only hours old and already N-3 had provided a corpse to confuse the issue.
Nick grinned into the telephone. "One more thing. When you send someone regarding this delivery, remember the front door as well as the service entrance. It may be a big thing."
"Don't worry about my memory." Hawk hung up.
Nick watched the lobby and dialed again. This time he called Hadway House and asked for Rita Jameson.
"Hello, Miss Jameson? Nick Carter. Sorry I'm late." Rita sounded strained.
"Thank God it's you." He could hear a sigh of relief, and her voice lightened just a little. "I thought you'd changed your mind."
"Not a chance. I was afraid you might have, after the day's excitement."
"Oh, God. Wasn't this morning awful? I can't get it out of my mind." The voice rose again. "That poor man! And the children and the screams and the blood. I can't bear it!"
"Easy, now. Take it easy." Nick was alarmed by the familiar, siren-like sound of hysteria. But "I can't bear it" seemed a funny thing to say. Well, maybe not. The horror of it was pretty hard to take. He hardened his own voice.
"Do you intend to fall apart, or are you going to pull yourself together? Because if you disintegrate, you do it alone. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's an hysterical female."
He waited. They usually nibbled on that line.
"If there's one thing / can't stand," Rita answered coldly, "it's a man who thinks it matters worth a damn what he can stand, and tops it off by pouring pompous clichés into my ear and..."
"That's better." He laughed aloud. "Those old hackneyed phrases nearly always do the trick."
There was a brief silence, then: "Oh." And a little laugh.
"What time shall I pick you up?" Nick asked briskly. "Let's see... it's now eight-thirty, and I'm afraid I still have one or two things to do. Do you think you can hold out until about nine, or nine-fifteen?"
"If you're thinking of food, I've never been less hungry in my life. But I'd just as soon you didn't pick me up at this place." She thought out loud. "We could meet at the Café Arnold, or at... no, I don't think I want to wait in a restaurant."
"A bar?"
"Or in a bar... I know — let's meet at the Plaza Fountain at, oh, nine-fifteen. I need a little fresh air. Do you mind?"
"No, of course not. See you at nine-fifteen."
He hung up. There was one more call to make. His finger traced out the familiar numbers.
"Frankie? Nick."
If he had been tailed from the airport it seemed only fair to warn Frankie that someone might have an eye on his house. It was unlikely, but possible. He told him what had happened.
Frankie Gennaro cackled.
"Don't worry about me, kid. If I was a sitting duck for any tail I'd a been dead a dozen times over. And I don't mind a little action. Still got some gadgets need trying out. You know, like under real-life conditions, as you might say. But, you, fella! You need lessons. Good thing you're only working for the Government. You'd make a no-good hood!"
He cackled again and hung up.
Nick looked out into the lobby. A middle-aged man with a prosperous-looking executive paunch was settling himself into an easy chair. A youngish man with a crew cut waited for the express elevator. He carried a bag that looked as though it might contain sales samples. Nick knew that it was filled with the delicate tools of his specialized trade. Agents K-7 and A-24 were on the job.
Nick spent what was left of the short time before his appointment checking in at the Roosevelt. He bought a cheap one-suiter at Liggett's and walked to the hotel keeping an eye peeled for trailing shadows. If they had found him once, they could find him again. But if they had picked him up as he left the Biltmore, K-7 would have spotted a tail and they would have formed a neat little procession of three. As far as he could make out, though, he had drawn no tail.
A late edition of the New York Post shouted out the headline: MYSTERY EXPLOSION AT IDLEWILD. Nick bought a paper, checked in at the desk with an inscrutable scrawl, and settled down to a few moments of reading in the privacy of a comfortable seventh-floor room.
It was just a skeleton story, breathing unsolved mysteries and suggesting no official unraveling of the bizarre event, but it did offer one scrap of worthwhile information:
"...has been identified as Pablo Valdez, secretary of the cabinet of Minirio. The flight was not official in nature, authorities disclosed here today. Minirio, even more than its neighboring Latin American nations, has been a world problem in recent months because of Red Chinese efforts to infiltrate the country with designs toward satellization..."
Bullseye for Mr. Hawk, again.
Burns of Great Britain, Ahmed Tal Barin of India, La Dilda of Peru and now Valdez of Minirio. Something was in the wind when four diplomats all died in similar ways. How in hell could the insurance companies go for such a weak cover-up as murder for insurance? Or was that just the official lie to keep the enemy hoodwinked while the FBI poked around for further information? Oh, yes. One exception. Pilot error. Perhaps it was a genuine exception.
It was turning out to be a real international soup, all right. And Mr. Hawk was just the chef to stir the pot.
Valdez's steel hand... The possibility of a bomb device was fascinating and horrible. It would be interesting to see what CAB and all the other authorities would make out of the one explosion which hadn't occurred on the plane. It was a break, in a way — it narrowed the field of inquiry.
Carter wondered why Rita had chosen to meet at the Fountain. The ever-present doubt swelled in the back of his mind. It would be a dandy place for anyone who wanted to pick him off.
Don't jump the gun, he told himself. It may just turn out to be a very pleasant night on the town with an extremely lovely girl who has turned to you, trustingly, for help.
Huh. Coincidence, coincidence, coincidence. There were too many of them — a series of explosions, a plea from a beautiful girl who sets up meetings in the oddest places, an unidentifiable knifer with an unknown motive. And all he'd done was mind his own business. And talk to Rita.
He whistled tunelessly as he rearranged the contents of his pockets and adjusted Wilhelmina, Hugo and Pierre to fit more snugly into their accustomed places.
Appointment at the Plaza Fountain
The Plaza Fountain looked like an oasis in the chaotic whirl of Fifth Avenue. Silvery spray played in the semidarkness, a pleasant sight for passersby. The large, aging hotel behind it looked like some rococo remnant of another era. The broad sweep of Central Park filled the eye to the north.
Directly across the Plaza, a line of hansom carriages waited for customers. One turn through the park and lovers might enjoy a breath of fresh air and romance even in so jaded a cosmopolitan universe as Manhattan.
Nick's eyes took in the tableau as he crossed Fifth and saw Rita Jameson. It wasn't just the pretty picture that caught his interest, although Rita looked even lovelier than his mental image of her. The hostess outfit had been replaced by a short blue gown of almost sculptured clinging lines. A lightweight evening coat was draped casually over her shoulders, and the blonde hair had been allowed to fall free over the velvet collar. But Carter read worry in her agitated movements. Why so nervous? He wasn't late. Reaction, maybe.