I gave the picture back to Hawk.
He said, “If I had luck like yours I’d make my fortune at the racetrack and retire in two weeks.”
I grinned. “As I told you, I owe it all to thinking pure thoughts. Do you want me to get started right away?”
“You’re booked on a one P.M. flight for the Coast. Before you leave, drop in at Special Effects. Stewart has some new toys to show you.”
As usual, Stewart was fussy and meticulous about showing me his latest developments, but since his “toys” had saved my life more than once, I let him present them in his own way.”
“You will observe the small fire burning behind the glass partition,” Stewart said by way of greeting.
“You’ve done it this time, Stewart,” I said. “You’ve invented fire!”
He ignored my remark and went on. “These round white pills in my hand are a refinement on our familiar smoke pellets. I will demonstrate.” He shoved one arm through the mouth-like rubber seal in the partition and tossed one of the pellets into the fire, quickly withdrawing his hand.
There was a soft, popping sound, and a blue haze filled the small sealed room.
“That’s it?” I asked, a little disappointed.
“As you can see,” Stewart said as if I hadn’t spoken, “the smoke appears to be very thin, barely coloring the air and apparently no hindrance to vision or actions. However, I’d like you to take a very small sniff.”
Averting his face, Stewart pried apart the rubber lips of the seal with his thumbs. Any smoke that escaped was too thin to be visible, but I went ahead and took the smallest possible inhalation. Instantly I was coughing and sneezing. Tears blinded my eyes, and the lining of my nose and windpipe seemed to be on fire. Some fifteen seconds after Stewart had closed the seal the symptoms cleared up and I was able to breathe and see again.
“Powerful stuff,” I said, noting that Stwart seemed Just a little bit smug about my discomfort
“The effects, as you perceive, are quite temporary,” he said, “but the smoke from one pellet can immobilize everyone in an average-size room within three seconds. Now I’d like you to try this.” He handed me what appeared to be an ordinary linen handkerchief.
“You want me to blow my nose?” I asked.
“A superfine mesh is woven into the cloth,” he said. The corners will attach behind your head to provide a mask against the effects of the smoke.”
I pulled the handkerchief across my nose and mouth and pressed two corners together at the back of my head. They stuck to each other and kept the mask in place. I opened the rubber seal on the glass partition and took a small experimental whiff, then breathed in deeply. The acrid smell was still there, but this time I had none of the unpleasant effects. I closed the seal and took off the handkerchief-mask.
“Good work, Stewart,” I said, and meant it.
He tried not to look too pleased. “I have one more little item here that you might find useful.” From a drawer he took a brown leather belt and held it out in front of me like a proud father displaying his new baby.
Taking the belt from his hands, I said, “Stewart, you must be slipping. That is one of the most obvious phony buckles I’ve seen in years. It wouldn’t fool a professional agent for ten seconds. What’s inside, a Captain Midnight decoder?”
“Why don’t you open it and find out?”
Something in Stewart’s tone told me he was ahead of me, but just the same, I examined the trick buckle, quickly finding the tiny spring latch that opened the hidden compartment. I popped it open and there was a sharp report as a paper cap went off in the buckle.
Stewart said, “In the real model there is a small explosive charge inside instead of a cap. Not powerful enough for much destruction, but quite capable of killing or crippling the sharp-eyed enemy agent who has taken it away from you.”
I took half a dozen of the smoke pellets and the handkerchief-mask and traded my own belt for Stewart’s trick model. I took the tools of my trade out of the small bag I’d brought with me — Wilhelmina, my 9mm. Luger, and Hugo, my double-edged, razor-sharp stiletto. I put the Luger into an FBI-type belt holster and the stiletto into a specially constructed chamois-skin sheath that I strapped to my right forearm. With just the right flex of my forearm muscle, Hugo would drop hilt-first into my hand. I slipped my jacket back on, picked up my bag, and headed for the street to grab a taxi for Dulles. Killmaster was back in business.
Three
It was one of those rare days In Los Angeles when the wind swept the basin clear of smog. The city was spread out below the jet like a living organism of concrete and asphalt with the great freeway arteries laid open as though by a great dissecting knife.
The taxi ride from L.A. International to Rona Volstedt’s address at the foot of one of the canyons in the Santa Monica Mountains was a long one. I relaxed with a cigarette while the driver told me in detail how he would do things if he were managing the Dodgers.
He dropped me off in front of a comfortable-looking cottage, tucked back off the road among the pines. The canyon stillness was broken by the noise of about a dozen motorcycles a short distance down the road. It seemed like an odd place for a bike club to be gathering, but there’s no accounting for the preferences of motorcycle types.
I climbed the short flight of stone steps and padded across a carpet of pine needles to the front door. There was no bell, so I knocked.
The girl who opened the door was, if anything, an improvement over the photograph I’d seen in Hawk’s office. Her skin was clear and white, with a touch of color at the cheekbones. Her eyes, I could now see, were the deep blue of Nordic seas and the soft blonde hair seemed touched with moonlight.
“I’m Nick Carter,” I said, “from AXE.”
Her eyes gazed for a minute at my face, then took in my shoulders and ran over the rest of my body. “Come in,” she said. “I’m Rona Volstedt.”
Her livingroom looked like an explosion in a music store. Bits and pieces of guitars were scattered about without apparent method, bottles of glue and shellac sat on the carpet, and a few intact instruments leaned against the walls.
Bona saw me take it all in. She said, “My hobby is building and repairing guitars. I find it very relaxing.”
“You must spend a lot of time alone working on them,” I said.
“I hadn’t realized how much till just now.”
“Maybe we can make some adjustments in the way you spend your leisure time,” I said. “But first, you were going to give us some information about the Mumura explosion.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said doubtfully.
It was the right response. I had deliberately not given her the recognition sign. I knew Hawk would have briefed her, and I wanted to be sure I was talking to the right woman.
“Can you spare a match?” I said.
“Sorry, I don’t keep them since I quit smoking.”
“I tried to quit last year myself, but I only lasted two weeks.” I always felt just a little silly going through one of these routines, but it’s little safeguards like this that can make the difference between a live espionage agent and a dead spy.
Rona Volstedt relaxed and sat down on the small couch. She wore a pair of blue pants that kept her legs a secret, but her loose fitting blouse gaped enough to reveal firm, uptilted breasts that didn’t need any support from the lingerie industry. She was a lean girl but by no means emaciated. I sat down next to her, inhaling a light floral scent, and she began to talk.