Checkmate in Rio Page 8

  Rosalind answered in her dulcet Montez tones.

  "Hi, baby," he said sweetly. "Have a nice afternoon? Now don't be mad — I got hung up, and I'm sorry."

  "Oh, it's you," she said sourly. "I damn near got hung up myself, thanks to you. Where are you, if that isn't too much to ask?"

  "Downtown with our friends," he said. "I think they'll be checking out quite soon and I wanted to say goodbye. Perhaps you'd care to come down and help?"

  "Oh. Why, yes, if they need me." The sour note went out of her voice. "Right away?"

  "Not just yet. I just wanted to make sure that you're available. I'll check back with you. In the meantime, maybe you'll get ready."

  "I'll do that," she said earnestly. "Apart from that, is everything all right?"

  "Just dandy," he said, and it was his turn to be sour. "See you." He hung up and decided to make the stairway climb to his room rather than take the chance of stepping out of the elevator into someone's — anyone's — waiting arms.

  He waited just above the second landing. When he was sure that no one was coming, up after him he uncoiled his long legs and sprinted up the long flights to his own landing with knees and lungs as unimpaired as if he'd been strolling on a promenade. His mind had been working busily along the way, and he was furious with himself. That he had missed meeting Rosalind and been unable to check on the corner of Branco and Vargas was annoying but apparently not drastic. What was really unforgivable was the way he had exposed Michael Nolan to the police. They would question him, watch him, fingerprint him — tie him down to the point where neither Milbank nor Carter would be able to take over as needed. Even his collection of hardware was proving to be a nuisance. Michael Nolan, as a foreign reporter, obviously did not have a Brazilian gun permit, nor was he supposed to be a man in the habit of using handguns. That was one reason why he had avoided shooting it out with the besiegers. He had turned Flatfoot's gun over to Carmen so the police could trace it. But of course Nick's own prints were on the barrel, not to mention all over Nolan's room. Well, that was unavoidable. But Nolan was becoming a nuisance, long before he'd finished his work. He hadn't even found a way to check on the two thugs who had attacked Milbank without calling attention to Milbank himself. Well, the hell with it. That would just have to go by the board. One thing he did know about them, and that was that they didn't fit into the pattern of his other encounters.

  A knot of people stepped into the elevator as he waited at the end of the corridor. He walked to his own room and listened at the door before opening it. Then, very quietly and swinging in, he opened the door. Current problems flashed through his mind: Work on Ferret, then dispose of him. Figure some way out for Nolan. Depending on that, what to do about the room next door.

  The silence in his room was absolute.

  So was the chaos.

  His sixth sense told him that no one was there. His ears agreed. But it took only the most casual glance to see that someone other than the chambermaid, someone very untidy, had been there. There would be no need for him to refine his clean-up of a couple of hours before. It wouldn't even show.

  He locked the door behind him and stared at the mess.

  The closet door stood open and his few clothes lay ripped on the floor. The desk drawers had been emptied of papers, most of which were scattered on the floor and some of which appeared to be missing. The typewritten sheet he had retrieved from Ferret was gone. The bureau drawers looked as though they had been attacked by a hurricane. Every single item that bore on the personality and profession of Michael Nolan was gone. Letters (faked), credentials, other than those Nick carried with him (faked), story notes (partly faked), money (real) — all were gone. And whoever had been here had been in a hurry. More than that: savage. Why — to scare him off? His two small suitcases had been literally torn apart, the bed linen was in a hopeless jumble, and the mattress was ripped. The bathroom cabinet and fixtures had also received their share of attention; even the toothpaste tube had been squeezed, and a glass lay shattered on the floor.

  It was all very interesting.

  It looked as though the searcher had gone through the effects of someone they thought might not be a newspaperman at all. Even the most news-jealous of reporters wouldn't carry his secrets around in a toothpaste tube. Hardly anybody would be expected to, except possibly a smuggler… or a spy.

  He checked the telephone. Wires still intact, and no little mike in the box or added frill to indicate that his conversations would be anything but private.

  If the police saw this, he'd be in even worse…

  It came to him, then, what he could do about Michael Nolan and Ferret. But he didn't have much time to do it in.

  Hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside knob, he began to feel a bit sorry for a number of people concerned. He locked the door and began his preparations. Whoever came in first was going to get a nasty shock. The police would be confronted with an added mystery, and Michael Nolan might well be remembered as a murderer rather than a hero. Maybe he would manage to wave another little red herring in that direction. And Carmen de Santos…

  Perhaps she would understand some day.

  He unlocked the connecting door in case he was forced to make a fast move, made a swift check on the adjoining room without looking in on Ferret, and came back to his own telephone.

  In another minute or two he was talking to Managing Editor Pereira of the Rio Journal.

  "Ah! Glad to find you're still there," he said cheerfully. "Look, I've got something for you if you haven't picked it up already. First, though, have you anything for me?"

  "Not much," came back the voice regretfully. "Nothing at all about João. About Appelbaum, though — the police are still questioning the people who used to come into his bookstore and they're not giving anything away about that just yet. But they do admit that they found evidence that Appelbaum's apartment had been searched before they got there and they say they've found a number of unexplained prints. There still doesn't seem to be any official interest in Langley, though I've picked up a little of what you might call dirt. Madame Langley played around, it seems, and the word is that husband Pierce suddenly got tired of it all and left her. It does not seem impossible, somehow. I have seen the woman several times at the Country Club, and I would think that life with her — let us say, after the first few weeks — would be unbearable."

  "Huh!" said Nick, unconvinced. "You may be right. But would he leave a flourishing business behind? I wonder what his books and his bank balance look like."

  The editor chuckled. "I wonder, too. And you may have something there. There is a junior partner, yes, but if Langley is not back soon he is bound to ask for an audit and an investigation. Perhaps something may come up then about your big gem scandal." He laughed a little maliciously and then added: "Oh, yes. That reminds me. You remember that nightclub owner I mentioned? The one who ran the Moondust Club — crazy little place where they shower some sort of silver powder down from the ceiling during one of their big numbers. Went there once myself, and it was weeks before — well, never mind that. De Freitas' woman friend — a singer who calls herself Lolita! — has been making a nuisance of herself with the police, claiming that he was murdered by those gunrunners he had talked about. It turns out that he mentioned gunrunning to her only once after a few drinks one night and then told her to forget about it, it was nothing. But she insists that they 'bumped him off,' as she calls it. She has no idea who they are. The police, incidentally, have asked me not to publish this."

  "Interesting," said Nick casually, far more enthralled than he cared to admit. "Although what possible connection he had with the others, I couldn't imagine. By the way, what about that little museum fellow? Who knows, he may have been smuggling ancient Indian muskets!"

  "Maybe he was! But I do not think it likely. Apparently he was very devoted to his work and he kept much too regular hours to be engaged in anything… er… undercover. He had an old car that he drove to work at the same time every da
y. Sometimes on a nice evening he would take a little longer drive for the fresh air, and once in a great while he would go out of the city over the weekend. There was absolutely nothing interesting about that Utile man," the editor said ironically, "except that he disappeared."

  "Still no idea how, hmm?" said Nick. All this was fascinating, but suddenly he felt the need to move on.

  "Well, something of an idea. One day he left the museum in his car, apparently heading for home, and he simply didn't get there. The police have been checking the movements of the car but they are not prepared to say just how far they have traced it. They have not found it, though. As far as they can see, nothing was taken from his home."

  "Hmm. Well, all that's very interesting. But somehow I can't see it tying in, can you? The nightclub bit sounds like a pretty good lead. And now I'm on another one that I think is really hot."

  "Oh, so?" The editor's voice sharpened with interest.

  "I found myself a little underworld character — just how I found him, I'll tell you later. He's a seedy character with a ferrety face and you wouldn't think you could trust him, but we get along like a house on fire. For small sums of money, I get small bits of information. And he told me this afternoon that he'd heard in a roundabout why that Mrs. de Santos was in danger."

  "Indeed? What sort of…?"

  "So I went galloping off like a knight on a white charger," said Nick, and swung briskly into a censored version of the afternoon's events. "So that's your scoop," he ended. "You can check it out later — and I mean later — with the police regarding use of the story. I couldn't hang around and wait for them because now I'm on the trail of something else my little ferret friend put me on to."

  "Dios! Nolan, you get around! That's quite a story. But what's your new lead?"

  Nick laughed. "I promise you, you'll be the first to know — after I've followed it. But now I'll have to be on my way to meet Ferret-face. I don't want to miss out on anything else he might have to tell me. Thanks again, and I'll be in touch."

  He hung up quickly and went about his work.

  His first move was to look in on Ferret. He lay there in the dimness of the closet, his face pale and pained, his eyes full of hatred. But his bonds were still firm and his mouth firmly shut. The blood was drying on his lacerated back and discolored clothes. The bed was still made up in Mrs. Webster's room. Nick bundled a few feminine effects into the deceptive bags, making sure that his own equipment was securely hidden beneath hers. He left out only what he would be needing within the next few minutes. Then he turned his attention to Ferret.

  Ferret had bled quite neatly, spilling nothing at all on the closet floor. Nick loosened his gag and lied to him.

  "You have a choice now, friend. And realize that your comrades are after you. You help me, tell me all you know, and I'll help you. You don't — and you're through."

  Ferret managed a sneering laugh. "You have to let me go. How'll you get rid of me otherwise — carry me out? Hah! Or leave me here? You can't leave me lying around 'til someone comes to find me. You gotta let me go."

  "Don't be too sure," Nick said coldly. "It's no problem for me to leave you behind. No problem at all. What's the gold key for, Ferret? What's the gold key?" He reached for Hugo.

  Ferret's eyes showed sudden fear.

  "My front door, damn you, that's all!"

  Nick looked at him for one silent moment.

  "Last chance, Ferret," he said at last.

  Ferret closed his eyes. "I got time to hold out," he said softly.

  "I haven't," said Nick, feeling a swift pang of admiration for his victim and a sense of revulsion for himself. Then he drove both feelings away as his brain told him coldly: You're called Killmaster, Carter, the master killer. That's your business, that's why you're here.

  He made very sure to drive Hugo into so vital a spot that Ferret died almost instantly and without seeing the blade.

  Nick replaced the gag and lifted Ferret into his own room, dumping him unceremoniously on the floor. Then he knocked over a lamp and a chair to add to the general confusion and checked to see what else he could do to Michael Nolan's room. There was nothing that could lead back to anything but a vanished newsman. If queries got too persistent, Hawk could easily handle them.

  Removing his ingenious lock attachment from the connecting door, Nick wiped his fingerprints from both knobs, and used the conventional lock to divide the rooms as before. Then he used one of Editing's most successful techniques to remove the beard from his face, and changed his jacket. When he left Room 1109, Mrs. Webster's bags were packed and Nick looked like an athletic young man heading for a not particularly important engagement. The phone rang in his abandoned room as he walked down the corridor to the stairway.

  Downstairs, he went at once to a phone booth and called Rosalind at the International.

  "Right away, honey," he said. "Not a minute to waste. Bags and everything ready, so you can just drop in to check out." He completed the call with swift instructions which she accepted without time-killing questions.

  * * *

  She made good time. They met not much more than half an hour later at Santos Dumont Airport. Before ditching Michael Nolan's car, Nick drove around while Rosalind wrapped Mrs. Webster's effects in paper and cord and removed certain padding and make-up to say goodbye to Mrs. Webster for the last time. It took three changes of taxi and two cafe stops before Rosita Montez and Robert Milbank rolled up in front of the Copacabana International. Rosita was flushed with success and delighted with her shopping day; Robert was laughing and grumbling about women, extravagance, and the nuisance of lugging packages around. They whispered and laughed in the elevator like newlyweds on a honeymoon shopping spree.

  When Nick closed the door behind them his face was serious and he made a toothcomb inspection of their huge suite as though he had never seen it before.

  "What happened?" Rosalind asked at last.

  He brushed away the frown and grinned at her.

  "Ladies get to talk first and longest. I guess you've had quite a day, too. But do you mind if I soak myself in the tub first and try to remember who I am?"

  "You do that," she said with unaccustomed gentleness. "I'll get out the ice and glasses."

  "You are a dreamboat," he said, and touched her forehead with his lips.

  He disappeared into the bathroom she called "his" and splashed around briskly. Then there was a long silence — so long that she thought he must have fallen asleep in the huge bathtub. She took a quick shower herself and emerged smelling like gardenias and spice.

  Nick was still not ready.

  She slipped into what the movie stars call "something comfortable" and wondered why he was taking such a long time. When she heard a dull crash coming from "his" bedroom, she realized that her nerves were as taut as piano wires. Her bare feet took her silently over the thick carpeting to the doorway of his room. Her heart was pounding almost painfully when she peered in.

  "Damn you!" she said. "Damn you, anyway. I thought something had happened to you. What was that noise? And why are you standing on your head?"

  Nick lowered himself neatly and jackknifed into a crouch. Despite herself, Rosalind stared at the beauty of his body. A thin sheen of perspiration coated the metal-smooth skin making it glow tawny-gold in the room's late afternoon light. All the muscular grace of a panther was packed into that magnificent frame.

  The steel-gray eyes that could smolder somberly or turn icy bright with cruelty were lit with laughter.

  "I'm sorry, Roz," he apologized. "I knocked over a chair." He leapt up and pulled on a soft, rich-man's bathrobe, tying it loosely at his waist. "I was just doing the Yoga exercises I was telling you about. They help to clear the brain and put the world back in perspective. Now how about that drink you promised me?"

  He took her by the waist and propelled her down the hall to "their" room, feeling her firm, feminine beauty beneath the flimsy robe. They sat down on the soft pillowy couch and toasted each other
with Scotch on the rocks.

  "What about this afternoon?" she asked. Short, dark curls clung to her temples and she smelled delectable. The robe fell away from her knees. Her legs looked good enough to eat.

  "Not just yet," Nick murmured. "Right now there's something else I want very much to do." He put down his glass hopefully.

  "What is it?" She turned slightly to face him and the valley between her breasts provocatively changed shape.

  "This," said Nick, taking her into his arms. His kiss was gentle, tentative. But when he felt it being returned, when her arms crept behind his back, he gave it all he had. At last he drew away and sighed.

  "Roz… If you want to chase me out, you'd better do it quickly. If I stay I'll be under that little robe in a minute. So…"

  "Stay," she murmured, nestling against him. "Kiss me again."

  The Man with the Black Armband

  If Carla was a hungry whirlpool, then Rosalind was a gently flowing river with sudden little bends and twists that revealed new delights at every turn. Her touch was light, delicate, her movements by turns languid and buoyant. She whispered as she lay beside him, feeling his resilient strength against her flexible dancer's body, and the sound was like a singing breeze on a summer's day.

  Their lovemaking was slow and tender, not a sudden cannibalistic devouring of each other but a gradually swelling need that was a satisfaction in itself. He touched her where he knew she wanted to be touched, and she trembled with controlled excitement. Her breasts yielded to his kiss and wanted more. For moments she lay quiet, luxuriating in the sensual pleasure that tingled through her body, then with a quick thrilling movement she was above him, giving him the same sweet pleasure.

  "Closer… closer… closer… I want you even closer…" he murmured huskily, feeling all his unwanted memories fading away.