Rats do not eat cloth. Nick saw that the dead man was beautifully dressed. The press was still in the trousers. The suit looked like Regent or Bond Street. It had not been long out of the closet in Gerda von Rothe’s spacious bedroom. The poor bastard wearing it now, Nick thought, had not been able to satisfy The Bitch for long. He remembered the words of El Tigre: “We have seen her take many men into the castle — we have never seen any of the men come out!”
So now he knew. He was dealing with a psychopath, a mad woman. The thought that she might really be seventy years old gave him another chill — for all those years to roam the world, killing and torturing, yet somehow retaining her own beauty.
There were rats in the next cell also, but they were faring badly. Not much left. Nick went rapidly down the line of cells. There were six of them. Four of them contained skeletons chained to the walls. The white and well-polished bones glittered in the beam of his flashlight. Each skeleton was beautifully dressed. At least she did not stint on the tailoring bills, he thought. She was generous that way, as witness his own expensive raiment at the moment. Pick them up, clothe them, feed them, enjoy them — and kill them. That was her MO, the modus operandi. They were probably chained and left to starve to death. Hitch-hikers, bums, transients passing through, lonely men with no families to inquire, to touch off embarrassing investigations. One or two of the guards must have known — and been well paid for silence. And Erma, that fat Lesbian, she would have known! And helped. And laughed. Nick doubted that Chung or Harper could have suspected what was going on. El Mirador, until now, had kept its secrets well.
He followed the glinting cables along another passage that had come suddenly in at right angles. He had come so far now, he reckoned, that he must be getting close to the labs. He must be under them. Then he saw the bob and glitter of flashlights not far ahead and heard the mutter of voices. He had left the dungeons, then, but who and what lay ahead?
One of the flashlights was bobbing toward him. Nick stepped into a shallow niche in the wall and waited. The man was, he guessed, looking for a break in the cable. Apparently they did not yet know where the real trouble was — in the generator room. Communication, as well as rapport, was not good between the castle and the labs, and that would work in his favor. But for how long? He was expecting the lights to go on any moment. If they caught him now he was dead.
The man came along the passage flashing his light on the cables. He was whistling to himself. Nick slipped the hunting knife from his belt. This must be silent and permanent. He was right up against it now and could not afford mercy.
The whistler loomed closer. In the reflection of the flashlight Nick could see that it was one of the Chinese soldiers. One poor devil, probably understanding nothing, who would never see the good earth of China again. For a moment the AXE agent was tempted to try to subdue the man without killing, then he decided against it. Too much was at stake.
The soldier was opposite the niche now. Nick stepped out and wrapped a steel-sinewed arm around the man’s throat from behind, shutting off any outcry. The soldier was strong and he struggled like a demon, but Nick yanked the head back and slit the throat all in one rapid motion. He felt the hot blood cascade over his hand. The man went limp. Air burbled from the slashed throat in soft little crepitations.
Nick lowered the body and dragged it back into the niche. He took the man’s Tommy gun, which he had worn uselessly, slung in the small of his back, and checked the safety. It was on. He flicked it off. He risked a single flash of his light and saw that the man was too small. He could not wear the uniform and in any case it was sodden with blood now. He left the body where it was and went on down the passage, throwing his light on the cables every now and then. It was possible the others would think he was the soldier coming back.
The other lights had receded now. He could see them bobbing around like fireflies in what appeared to be a large open area. The passage was ending and suddenly he could smell the sea, fresh and distinct in his nostrils, welcome after the stench of the dungeons. It was an underground cavern, a lagoon of some sort running in from the Pacific. For one crazy wild moment Nick Carter thought he might find the Chinese sub moored here, the Sea Dragon Chung had mentioned, then he laughed at himself. The Chinese would think too highly of their nuclear sub to risk it in a trap like this.
He lingered at the end of the passage, where it widened into the cavern. It appeared to be spacious and high, though in the darkness he could not be sure. He had flicked off his own torch now and stood silent, thinking furiously to no great avail. He had no set plan. He had been improvising — he would just have to go on improvising. With the threat of the lights hanging over him like a sword.
To his right he could see faint yellow light coming from a half-open door. Candles or a lantern of some kind. With the Tommy gun ready he began to inch his way around the wall of the cavern, keeping his back against the rough surface.
Halfway to the lighted door he passed another door, this one of smooth steel, gelid and slick to his probing fingers. Without using his flash he explored the surface of the door, minutely, with his fingertips. In the center he found a dial with raised numerals. It was a vault. A huge safe with a combination lock on it.
Nick let out a little grunt of satisfaction. It would be where they kept the good money, that reaped in exchange for the counterfeit. How much did they have in there? Millions, no doubt. Money dedicated to the welfare and growth of the Serpent Party, money to bring it to power so that, behind a respectable façade, it could be a goad and a thorn to the United States.
Only the dead Chung Hee, or possibly Harper, would have the combination. Nick did not have to concern himself. He moved on.
As he approached the open door he heard a spate of Chinese, rasped out too fast for him to catch the meaning. His Chinese was not too good in any case, except for Cantonese. This was a northern dialect, the harsh sound of Peking, and there was no mistaking the tone. Orders were being given. Harsh and angry orders.
He reached the open door and peered into the small vaultlike room. Two of the Chinese soldiers stood nearest the door, their machine guns trained on three men in white gowns who were working rapidly in the yellow light of a lantern hung from the ceiling. The white gowned men were stacking sheets of paper which they were taking from a large pile to another and smaller stack near a press. The press was small and looked old, though glistening with oil and well cared for, and was operated by a belt which ran to a small electric motor.
The AXEman’s agile brain took in the gist of things immediately in a single flash of total comprehension. The press, the paper, the paper cutting and trimming machines — this was where the counterfeit five-dollar bills were being turned out. Obviously still being made, even though the bloom was off that particular rose. But then the Chinese Reds could always find a use for counterfeit as good as this.
The men in the white gowns were no doubt The Bitch’s lab workers. Or had been. They were now working, under the gun, for the Chinese. Slave labor, you could call it. Even with the power gone, and the press inoperative, they were still being driven. Nick guessed that Chung Hee, no matter what he had said in the library, had had the wind up and was getting ready to pull out. Thus a last flurry of printing.
Where were the lights? Surely The Bitch and her guards had reached the generator room by now. Unless — and a coldness moved in him — unless she was maintaining the blackout for some reason of her own? That must be it. Gerda von Rothe was up to something, some move that must be hidden by darkness.