"Why, Mousy? Goddamnit — why?"
Chapter 9
The Fat Man
There was a gibbous moon, just past the half, and the pale radiance produced in turn a great many shadows atop the Divan Hotel. There was the larger shadow of a half completed structure — it did seem to be a penthouse going up — and there were the many smaller shadows of water tower, elevator machinery housing, and the children's playground. There was also one tall, angular, wideshouldered shadow that was as silent and unmoving as the others. For a good half hour this latter shadow stood without movement and watched the gold glowing rectangles that were the windows of Defarge & Co., Ltd.
There were only three lighted windows now. The private suite of Maurice Defarge himself, the watcher presumed. Very private indeed. He had seen an armed guard making his tour of the empty offices. The man did a thorough job, but when he reached a short flight of stairs leading up to a single door he stopped. Beyond that, the watcher thought now with a dry little smile, would be the private domain of Maurice Defarge. Where a fat, sick old spider lay in bed and continued to spin webs.
That privacy would be invaded tonight!
At last N3 moved from the shadows into the moonlight. Moved lightly, as stealthy as a ghost. He wore black trousers, very tight fitting, black sneakers and a black sweat shirt. He was bare headed and his close-cropped hair was stained a darker hue than usual. But it was the face that had undergone the most striking change. Here was nothing of the lecherous, late and unlamented Mr. Stout, nor of the real Nick Carter. These were Mongol features — a pale saffron skin, slant eyes, flat nose. Here, indeed was a Chinese gentleman skulking among the shadows atop the Divan Hotel.
Nick had acted on the tip from Hawk over the razor-radio. It appeared that the long, long finger of Peking extended even into this Turkish pie. N3 did not welcome it, it was only another angle to worry about, but he had seen immediately how to exploit it. This gambit might make it just a bit easier to extract information from the fat man — before he killed him.
With soft padding steps N3 went to the edge of the roof and stood looking across at the Annex. He cursed the architect again. The distance across wasn't bad. Say twelve feet. One of the planks scattered about the half completed penthouse would have sufficed for that. No — it was the fact that the Annex was a good eight or ten feet higher than the hotel itself. That was the problem.
N3 stared down into the dark void between the two buildings. He whistled softly between his teeth. Nine floors. A hell of a fall if he missed! Might be fatal. He grinned and the tape at the corners of his eyes, pulling them into slant, plucked at his flesh. Might be hell — it would be fatal. So don't miss!
Nick went to work telling himself that it was a nutty scheme. It was, but it was all he had, and nutty schemes worked sometimes.
He found the plank he wanted and carried it to the roof edge, balancing it on the coping. It was long and thick and, had the roofs been level, he could have waltzed across. N3 sighed. Nothing came easy in this profession!
He went back into the shadows around the penthouse and found the stack of cement bags. Each one a hundred pounds. Nick bent, tensed and groaned just a bit, and walked back to the coping with a bag under each arm. The night was cool but he found himself sweating a little. This was turning out to be work.
He arranged the long plank over the coping to suit him, then put one of the cement bags on it as anchor. He went back for more cement bags. In five minutes he had his diving board arranged to his liking. Diving board! The Chinese gentleman grinned. A diving board with a twist. He was going to dive up. He hoped. Nick glanced down at the ground nine stories down and whistled again. He had better dive up!
When everything was ready he retired into the shadows again to watch. If he had been spotted building his little toy there should be some reaction soon. While he waited he checked his weapons: the Luger was in his belt, the stiletto in its sheath along his forearm. And this time he had brought along Pierre, the little gas pellet. At the moment he planned to kill the fat man with the stiletto, but then you never knew.
When the all-clear sounded in his brain, N3 went to the roof coping without hesitation. From long experience he knew that the trick of going into hazard was to go fast and without hesitation. Faltering, second thoughts, only got you into trouble. You took every precaution, you tried to do everything right — and then you took your chances.
Nick walked out on the plank. It was, he thought with the wry twist of humor he could always summon, a little like walking the plank at that. If he missed and did the Deep Six they would be scraping him up with a shovel!
He bounced tentatively a couple of times. The plank was springy enough, a live thing beneath him. He glanced back at the pile of cement bags — they were holding firmly enough. He reached the end of the plank and stood poised. He looked up. A good eight feet, maybe more. He would have to work up to it gradually.
Slowly, carefully, Nick began to bounce on the plank. Each time a little higher. He forgot the void below him. He forgot everything but the task in hand — to reach that roof beckoning above and away from him. He had one chance, one shot at it. No repeats.
Now! Nick came down on the plank with all his weight, stiff legged, then sprang up with the greatest thrust he could muster. Hi:» hands together over his head, a dark arrow shot upward in the pale moonlight.
He fell short! Short of what he had hoped for. His fingers touched the die coping, clawing, beginning to slip off the smooth surface. He had hoped to get at least one arm over the coning. Now he dangled in space and his fingers were slipping — slipping.
Months or years before some Turkish mason had been careless. He had installed a broken tile and had neglected to fill in the crevice with mortar in proper fashion. This saved Nick Carter's life now. His fingers clawed into the cracked tile, gripped, steeled like the great talons of an eagle — and held.
For the space of a breath he dangled thus, held back from death only by his great and prehensile grip. Four fingers between him and the hard pavement of the area far below.
Then he had his other hand up and over, swinging his acrobat's body over the coping with a fluid sure motion.
Nick stood looking down at the void for a moment. He grinned slightly. A faint sound came from his lips. A sound that might have been Whewwwww.
Rapidly he moved into the shadow of a chimney and stood waiting for alarms. None came. After a few minutes he went back to the roof edge and studied the roof of the Hotel Divan, below him now. His restless, roving, all seeing eyes spotted the children's playground, lined it up with where he now stood. At last he nodded in satisfaction. His back trail was open. There would be a way out of the burrow.
Nick paused to check his weapons once more, then went softly toward the little hut that housed the elevator machinery. The door was locked, as he had expected. The lock was absurdly simple and Nick did not even resort to his Lockpicker's Special — a celluloid collar stay did the job in thirty seconds.
He went down spiraling iron stairs to another door. This one was unlocked and opened on a landing from which fire stairs led downward. Opposite the landing was a frosted glass door. Through that, as Nick knew from his surveillance with the binoculars, was a short corridor leading into the main offices of Defarge, Ltd. At the far end of the offices were the stairs leading into Maurice Defarge's private suite.
Somewhere between Nick and that suite would be the armed guard!
Nick went cat-footed across the landing, careful that his shadow did not fall on the frosted glass door. He listened. A faint sound of music crept through the door. Music? Then he guessed it. The guard was bored with his long vigil. The guard had brought along a transistor radio for company. Nick nodded in approval. The music would locate the man for him.