"I'm glad to help," I said.
I gave him the details of all that had happened in Egypt, then surrendered the photograph. He studied it for a while, then agreed with me that whatever Fergus wanted to tell us had something to do with one or several of the men in the snapshot.
"It will take time to track all these men down," he said. "Meanwhile, there is still Novosty."
Brutus began pacing beside the desk, his bands behind his back. "We don't know whether this is the Commies or not. We know Novosty is here for some sinister purpose but it may have nothing to do with the assassinations. We have to check him out, though, and time is vital If you get any other ideas, explore them. Just be sure to check with me regularly."
He reached over his desk, picked up two slips of paper and handed them to me. They were the original notes left by the assassin or assassins. I studied them.
"You'll notice they're both handwritten and by the same person," Brutus pointed out.
"Yes," I said pensively. "Have you had the writing analyzed?"
"No," he said, "but I can arrange it if you like."
I nodded. I was no expert but the scrawling style didn't suggest a cool professional agent to me. Of course, that could be part of the smokescreen. "Hawk said the killings were bloody."
Brutus sighed and dropped into the leather chair behind the desk. "Yes. You understand, we've tried to keep the messier details out of the papers. Wellsey had the back of his head blown off with a high-powered rifle. He was shot through his office window by an expert marksman at some distance. Almost suggestive of a professional hunter."
"Or a professional killer," I said.
"Yes." He rubbed his chin. "The Percy Dumbarton killing was quite nasty. He was stabbed while out walking his dog. The dog's throat was cut too. The note was pinned to Dumbarton's coat. The first note, by the way, was found in the unopened mail on Wellsey's desk."
"Maybe you should just pay the money and see what happens," I suggested.
"We've thought of that. But twelve million pounds sterling is a lot of money even to the British government. I'll tell you frankly, though, there is considerable pressure from the cabinet people and the ministry to pay, nevertheless. We may wind up doing just that. But, for the moment, you have at least a week to develop something."
"I'lll do my best, sir."
"I know you generally prefer to work alone," Brutus said, "but I'm going to assign an agent from my SM Division to work with you on this. The two of you will report only to me. There are other agencies working on this, naturally — MI5, MI6, the Yard and others. They are not to share in any information you develop except through me. Is that understood?"
"Completely," I told him.
He smiled. "Good." He pushed a button on his desk. "Send York in. Miss Smythe."
I frowned. Wasn't that the name of the blonde I'd been introduced to in the outer office…? The door behind me opened and I turned. The lovely creature in the leather micro-mini moved briskly into the room, giving me a big smile as she walked past me to the mahogany desk. She sat on the edge of the desk as if she'd perched there many times before.
"This is Mr. Nick Carter, Heather," Brutus said, smiling at her. "Nick, Miss Heather York."
"We met outside," she said, not taking her eyes off me.
"Oh, good." He looked at me, "Heather is the agent you'll be working with, Nick."
I looked from the girl to Brutus and back to her. "I'll be damned," I said softly.
After filling Heather in about the photograph, Brutus dismissed us. As I reached the door, he said, "Keep in touch. We should have something on the men in the picture in a day or so."
I took a cab to a small hotel near Russell Square, having recovered slightly from the pleasant shock of finding I was to spend the next week or so with a bundle of goodies like Heather York. Actually, I had mixed feelings about her. Women and espionage don't mix, not the way I play the game. And it was difficult for me to believe that such an exquisite package as Heather could be of much real help finding an assassin. But Brutus was the boss during this lend-lease assignment and I wasn't about to question his judgment.
My orders were to stick pretty close to the hotel during the next few hours while Heather made preparations for us to drive to Cornwall later in the day. The cab driver took me along Pall Mall, past the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square where the tourists were feeding the pigeons at Nelson's Column in the sunshine.
We were coming to the park at Russell Square. The hotel was only a couple of blocks away and I felt like walking a little.
"I'll get out here," I told the driver.
"Right, governor," the man said, slowing the cab.
I paid him and he drove off. I walked past the park, enjoying the autumn sunshine, and finally turned down the side street toward my hotel. A lone black Austin sat at the curb up ahead. As I came up to it, I saw there were three men in dark suits inside. Two of them got out and confronted me, blocking my way.
"Excuse me, old chap, but would you be Mr. Carter, by any chance?"
I studied the man. He was a square, blocky young guy. He looked like a cop… or a security agent. So did his buddy, especially with his right hand snuggled in his jacket pocket.
"What if I am?" I said.
"Then we would be wanting a chat with you," the blocky young man said with a tight grin. "Come along, we don't want to worry anyone, do we?"
I glanced around. There was always someone around the park at Russell Square, but the side streets were often deserted. Right now there were only a couple of people on the street and walking in the opposite direction. No help there.
"Get in, Mr. Carter." The order came from the third man, the driver, and I felt something hard shoved into my back. "Search him first," he told his pals, leaning out of the window.
The first man reached inside my jacket and removed Wilhelmina from her holster. He stuck the Luger into his belt, then he patted me down. He did a sloppy job, missing both Hugo on my right forearm and Pierre, the cyanide gas bomb, taped to my inner left thigh.
"Get in the car, Mr. Carter," he said. "We want to know what dealings you had with Augie Fergus before he died."
"Who is 'we'? "
"A man named Novosty," the first one said.
"So that's it," I said.
"That's it, Yank," the second man told me, speaking for the first time.
"Take me to him, then," I said. I don't argue with guns staring me in the face.
The second man uttered a harsh laugh. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? But it is not going to be so easy. You'll just come with us, tell us what we want to know, then take the next plane back to America."
I climbed into the back seat and they got in after me, one on each side. They were taking no chances. We pulled away from the curb.
We were heading along Oxford Street now, toward Marble Arch. If they stayed on that main street, it would complicate things. Just before we reached Hyde Park, though, the driver turned into a narrow side street, heading toward Grosvenor Square. This was my chance, if there was ever going to be one.
The man on my left was watching the progress of the car, but his buddy with the gun hadn't taken his eyes — or the gun — off me. So I had to encourage him a little.
"Look out!" I said suddenly. "In the street there."
The driver slowed automatically and the two men in the back seat looked forward for a split second. That was all I needed. I chopped down hard on the gun arm of the agent on my right and the gun dropped to the floor of the car. I followed that up with a quick, hard chop to his throat that left him gagging.
The other agent was grabbing for my arm. I jerked free and rammed the elbow savagely into his face, breaking his nose. He grunted and collapsed into the corner.