It was time, I decided, for a little brass. After all, nothing else I’d tried had worked half as well so far. I waited and let him take my face in; I watched the eyes narrow in recognition, the mouth purse slightly, the hands tense up on the swagger stick he carried even in mufti.
“Hello, General,” I said. “You’re absolutely right. I’m not Cowles. There isn’t any Cowles.”
“Go on,” he said. I heard an angry intake of breath behind me, and the Webley dug hard into my kidney.
“But that’s okay,” I said. “Welcome to the tea party. We’re all phonies here. I’m a phony. Probably you’re a phony; I’ll lay a hundred bucks you’re not registered here under your real name and your bank account says James Bond.”
“Shut up,” the voice behind me said. The gun dug harder into my back.
“Let him talk,” the quiet voice of the little man said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Anyhow, the biggest phony of all is ‘Meyer’ here.” My hand went to my pocket, but that didn’t alter the position of the gun in my back. They’d searched me, hadn’t they? “He isn’t Meyer, you know. Meyer’s dead, back in Saigon. These birds killed him and cleaned out his desk. Now they’re here impersonating...”
The gun barrel went up, then down. I ducked, just in time. It caught me a nice hard one on the neck — a wallop that would have brained me if I’d stood still. Then I came out of the half-crouch, pulled my hand out bearing Pierre and, giving “Meyer” a shove, heaved Pierre into the air, aiming at that naked light-bulb. Then I dived for the shadows as two shots rang out in the echoing warehouse. I missed the bulb; one of the wild shots “Meyer” got off must have hit it by mistake. The light went out. I hit and rolled. Pierre went off, nearly silently as usual, and there was a lot of coughing and cursing going on between the cars. The .44 Magnum squeezed a round off in my approximate direction, sounding for a moment like one of those French 75’s Fred had been talking about. I rose to hands and knees, puffing, and struggled up, into a bent-over shuffle, heading for what I fervently hoped would turn out to be a far wall. My shoes made just enough sound to tell me by their echo that I still had quite a way to go.
Then their voices stopped me dead.
“Meyer”: Let him go. That’s a blank wall. Spread out and we’ve got him...
The General: No, no, never mind. I will fetch him myself...
“Meyer”: But...
The General (raising his voice): Mr. Cowles. (Sotto voce again.) Bring the girl. (Louder again.) Mr. Cowles, we have the girl. I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to hurt the girl, now, would you?
Phuong’s voice: No! No, Nick! Stay away! They’ll kill you! They... No! Please! Don’t...
Her voice broke; faltered; then rose in a shrill scream of unbearable pain.
Chapter Seven
“Mr. Cowles?” the General said again. “Mr. Cowles? Or is it perhaps Mr. Carter?”
I didn’t answer. The only allies I had in that room were silence and the almost total darkness. I circled quietly to my right. If I could pick off the big Oriental first...
“Carter?” said “Meyer”. “Who is this Carter?”
“Shimon,” his partner said. “Let’s go. Let’s...”
“One might as well ask,” the General’s calm voice was saying, “who is this Meyer? Well, we shall get to that later. Meanwhile, the man you have brought here — the man about whom you telephoned — I had been curious to meet him again. It appears the girl has, under pressure, been quite talkative, within her limitations. It appears he is an American agent named Nick Carter. For some reason I seem to have heard of the name somewhere, I can’t think why. Alas, my dossiers are long since burned. He...”
“Shimon, I don’t like this.”
“One moment, Zvy... it seems there is more here than meets the eye. American agent? Carter? How did he...”
Phuong was silent now; I could hear nothing of her at all.
I could hear something else, though: the Oriental was near, and it appeared he’d been well trained. I almost didn’t pick up the tiny scuffing sound of his slippers — soft kung fu shoes, all but soundless on the concrete. I slipped Hugo into my fist, underhand, and moved forward more slowly in a crouch. The ribs ached like hell from that dive and roll.
The General was saying: “Carter, it appears, blundered into the middle of your operation — and mine as well, it seems. More yours than mine so far, though. It seems you are not Meyer: the girl was telling the truth. No matter.”
“But I... I assure you...”
“No matter, I say.” The tone was decisive, final. “The point is that Carter was seeking the item the agent Corbin — the girl’s lover — had just sold to Meyer. It now appears that you, or members of your organization — no, I think you yourself, on second thought — killed Meyer and took the item. This Carter seems to have learned; how, I could not say. At any rate, it has led him to us here...”
“Shimon, please...”
“No; now quiet, please. You say — but how much does he know?”
“Not much,” the General said quietly. “Not much, I think. But enough. Which is of course too much. Here; if you will not turn on your car lights I will be forced to go back and turn on mine...”
“No... no. Zvy? Please? He has the advantage of us in the dark, I think. Confound it, will you, please...”
That meant I had a matter of seconds to get back behind the two cars, out of range of the lights. In the dark I’d do okay, most likely; in the light I’d be just another target. I widened the arc in which I was moving — and ran right into him.
He had something cold and sharp in one hand — something as long and as deadly as Hugo, but with more bulk. I had immediate occasion to find out about the sharp edge. It caught in my sleeve and slashed it all the way to the elbow before withdrawing.
What saved me was his silence. If he’d been trained in karate he’d likely have bellowed at me. That would have gotten the lights turned our way and somebody could have picked me off nice and easy.
I felt the blade — whatever it was — swish past my face. I didn’t bother ducking; by the time I could do so, it had already gone by. Besides, I’m a born counterpuncher. I lunged forward with Hugo and felt him land hard on bone in the middle of the man’s chest. I’d kept him fairly loose in my fist; the wallop didn’t jar my wrist. I gave with the blow and then slashed downward, slicing through the stomach muscles to a point I supposed must be just above the navel.
I could hear his quick intake of breath. It was the only sound he made.
Swiftly, I shoved Hugo upward again, under the ribs. That razor-sharp blade went right into the tough heart muscle; it was like shoving a butcher knife into a slab of raw beef kidney. His body sort of melted down before me. Still with that ghastly silence, making no sound to mark his death, except the silvery ping of his hand weapon, tinkling on the concrete at my feet.
I stooped over, favoring my ribs and picked it up. It was some sort of trident affair, with a handle for grasping, and it’d come in at about fourteen inches and maybe a pound and a half. The blade was flat and as sharp as Hugo’s. I stuck it in my belt and bent over the dead man. Luck: he was packing iron, a short-barrel .38 — poor on accuracy, but I wouldn’t be doing any test-match shooting. I had to get close enough to do something about Phuong, and I made up my mind that I wasn’t leaving there until I’d settled that little matter.