The Chinese’s eyes had slitted further when the name slipped from the lips of his companion. “You fool,” he hissed at the swarthy man. “You were warned never to use my name.”
He looked back at me, his expression no longer amiable. “Now, Mr. Carter, your death is more certain than before.”
“Your people must really want that device. They sure brought out the big artillery.”
“No more small talk,” he spat at me, furious that his companion had made a mistake. “You said you lied to us. Explain that to me.”
“I did find the gadget. I have it in my pocket.” I moved my hand. “I’ll show it to you.”
“Carter, move that hand again and I’ll be checking the pockets of a dead man,” Sheng said.
I froze. I knew he meant every word.
Sheng gestured. “Check his pockets,” he told the man at the door.
The swarthy man moved forward and for an instant his body blocked Sheng’s view, hiding the movement of my arm as I brought the stiletto sliding down into my palm.
He thrust his hand into my jacket pocket and as he did, I grasped Hugo and drove the razor sharp point into his fat belly. He gasped, his eyes bulging in pain. He slumped forward and I grabbed his shoulders to use him as a shield.
Sheng pumped a shot in my direction. It struck the swarthy man even as I caught hold of his sagging body. The impact caused him to jump even though the life was ebbing out of him before the bullet hit.
With gritted teeth, I gave the dead weight in my arms a backward shove, hurling the body toward the bunk and the Chinese agent. Sheng dodged. For a man of his size, he was remarkably fast. He got out of the way and the body of his companion slammed onto the bunk.
Sheng was about to fire again. I took a step toward him and heard the silencer-equipped revolver in his hand make its spitting sound. I bent, twisting my body forward and downward and kicking at him with my right foot.
His second shot missed because of my movement and then my kick, taught me by a Japanese master of karate, struck Sheng’s gunhand brutally, cracking his fingers and sending the revolver flying from his grasp.
Before he could recover, I was moving toward him. I threw a fist at his pudgy face and caught him on the jaw. He gasped and staggered, but he was too strong to be kayoed with a single blow.
I reached into my jacket for Wilhelmina. I had my hand on the Luger’s butt when the Chinese surged back at me. He hit me squarely on the chin with a blow that almost snapped my neck and drove me against the bed.
Losing my balance, I fell on top of the motionless body of Sheng’s companion. I rolled over and landed in a crouch on the floor and reached for the Luger again.
By this time, Sheng had opened the door. Astonishingly fast, he was into the corridor before I could point my gun in his direction.
I rose out of my crouch and dashed after him, shoving the half-open door out of my way. Sheng was not in sight. Grimly, I turned back to the Schmidt woman’s compartment. There was a body there to be dealt with.
Pushing the door shut, I dragged the dead man to the window and dumped him out. I caught a glimpse of the body rolling down an incline before the train left it behind.
I was breathing heavily. I picked up the dead man’s gun and found Sheng’s weapon on the floor near the bunk. I threw them out, then closed the window and did a hasty job of tidying up the compartment. I didn’t want the Schmidt woman to know I had been there.
My job was tougher now than it had been when I boarded the train. I had to find Sheng Tze. The encounter I’d just won didn’t end it for us. I was the only free world agent still alive who knew what he looked like. He wasn’t going to let me carry that knowledge around for long.
Five
I moved along the train from one end to the other and failed to spot the Chinese agent.
By the time I’d completed my search, the train had made two quick stops. Sheng Tze could have jumped off at either of them. He could also be aboard in one of the compartments I had been unable to enter, or in a dozen other places. I couldn’t hope to explore all the places where a man could hide on a moving train.
I sighed and gave up for the moment. One way or the other, I was sure, I would be meeting Sheng again.
At mid-afternoon I found Ursula sitting alone in a day coach compartment. She was busy writing in a small notebook she had taken from her purse. I slid the compartment door open and entered.
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, Nick! Sit down. I was just trying to draft a note to my boss. I must tell him that so far I’ve come up empty-handed. I’ll send a wire at Venice.”
I sat down in a seat beside her. There were three plush seats on each side of the compartment, each covered with a black-and-brown patterned material that gave it the look of a European tea room of the last century. The compartment dated back to the glamorous days of the train when kings and celebrities had taken the Orient Express. There were large and small luggage racks over the seats, a mirror on each wall, and photographs of scenes along the route flanking the mirrors.
Ursula put her notes away in her purse, and I caught a glimpse of a Webley .22 Lilliput automatic inside. I hoped she did not have to go up against her man with that tinkertoy. She looked over at me and the smile left her face.
“Nick! What happened to you?”
She was referring to the bruise that showed where Sheng had hit me. I grinned. “I’ve been practicing my profession.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right.” It pleased me that she was genuinely concerned. “Say, there’s no dining car on now, but I bought a bottle of bourbon at Milan. Would you like to join me in my compartment for a drink?”
She looked over at me with those cool blue eyes. She knew it was a proposition, and she knew I wanted her to know. She glanced back out at the moving countryside, which was flattening out now as we drew closer to the Adriatic.
“I think you are trying to seduce me, Nick.”
“I am,” I said.
She made a little face. “You haven’t changed one bit. Can’t you see I’m working?”
“You’ve got to relax sometime.”
“It isn’t easy to do that when you’re tracking down a man like Hans Richter.”
For the first time she had mentioned the name of the man she called the Butcher. I recognized it. I had read about Richter, and what I’d read hadn’t been pretty.
“So he’s the one you’re after. I can understand your determination.”
The door slid open, and a middle-aged woman stood there. “Are these seats taken?” she asked with a British accent, pointing to the four empty seats.
“No, please join us,” Ursula said.
The woman came in and sat down at the window seat across from Ursula and me. She left the compartment door open, a cool breeze came in from the corridor. After she was seated, she reached into a straw bag for a bundle of knitting.
“It’s a pleasant day,” she smiled. She was a thin woman with a hawk nose and short gray hair. Her spectacles contained only the bottom part of the usual lens, small slivers of glass used for close-up work.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Ursula agreed.
Ursula looked from the knitting to me and smiled. The woman went about her knitting busily, paying no further attention to us. I was just about to speak to Ursula again when a man came into the compartment. Without speaking to anyone, he sat down at the far end of the compartment, by the door. It was the man I had seen earlier with the radio, which he was still carrying. He set it down beside him on the seat, pulled a newspaper from under his arm, and began reading. Every time I had seen this man, he was carrying the radio, yet he never played it.