Nick surveyed the three dead men for size. It would have to be one of them. The doctor's clothes would never fit him.
He selected a man and dragged the body toward the door. It was, his lungs told him urgently, time to get out of there! Now!
Nick opened the door and peered out into a dark corridor. A single dim bulb shone near a staircase leading up and down. He dragged the body into the hall and closed the door. He breathed again! Sweet indeed.
Rapidly he stripped the dead man. The suit was of wool, heavy and hot, and it did not exactly fit Nick's great muscles, but it would do. The shirt was white, soiled now and sweaty from the dead man, but N3 put it on. He tied the dark knit tie, leaving the collar of the shirt unbuttoned so he wouldn't strangle. The shoes were impossible. Nick sighed and shrugged — he was a fairly well dressed man. With bare feet! So who needed shoes? He wasn't, after all, planning to walk back to Istanbul. He had a mass of Turkish money taken from the corpse — pounds, lira and kurush, small change, and surely he could get a taxi or rent a car somewhere. He thought he knew approximately where he was. On the Bosphorus about ten miles northeast of Istanbul. He remembered the cars he had seen flashing along the main road behind the sanitarium. Maybe he could hitch a ride into Istanbul. All he had to do now was get out of this place!
N3 did not feel quite chipper enough to whistle as he went down the dark spiral staircase. He had pushed the body back into the room and locked the door from the outside. The key was in his pocket. It might be hours before the attendants sensed anything wrong.
Nick had the little stiletto in his left hand, the reversed Luger as a club in his right — just in case. He could hear voices and the occasional slam of a door in the dim recesses of the huge mansion, but he saw nobody. There was a phone in the foyer, and for a moment he grinned and was tempted to call a taxi then and there, but decided not to tempt Fate too far. He went out a huge arched door of time stained walnut and down a long walk to double iron gates. They opened directly on the highway. A little sports car whizzed by as Nick walked out of the gates.
He stood for a moment on the blacktop, getting his bearings. To his right glittered the cheerful lights of what must be the Hotel Lido. That way back to Istanbul. To his left would be — this road must be the Muallim Naci— to his left would be Sariyer and on beyond would be Rumeli Feneri and the lighthouse where the Bosphorus became the Black Sea. He did not want to go that way! He turned to his right and began to walk. Fast. Wanting to put as much distance between himself and the sanitarium as possible. He was not home safe yet by a long shot. The Syndicate, and now the Chinese, had infinite resources. As he had good reason to know.
In any case his job wasn't over yet — there was still Johnny Ruthless! Three down — one to go. But first he needed sleep and food. Rest. His hurts tended. N3 was not of ordinary mortal flesh — or so his enemies swore — but even iron will bend at last.
There was little traffic now. Nick cursed under his breath. Earlier there had been a steady flow of cars. Now — nothing. He trudged on, loosening the choking tie at his throat.
Nick paused to light one of the dead man's cigarettes. He heard the car then, coming from behind him, from the direction of the sanitarium he had just left. It was a high powered job and it was closing in fast, its headlights great glaring eyes in the night. Nick decided to chance it. He stepped into the road and began to use his thumb in the time-honored signal of the hitch-hiker.
The big car roared down the road at him. The lights pinioned him against the night, like a bug on cork, and held him revealed in stark brilliance.
Nick kept signaling with his thumb. The car did not slow. The fiery eyes glowered at him. Very close now. Not slowing. Then Nick cursed and dove for the ditch along the road. Damn fool! Either drunk or — or deliberately trying to kill him? Maybe it hadn't been so smart to signal.
The car missed him by a foot or less. Nick, even as he dove for the ditch, had a fleeting confused image of the driver wrenching at the wheel. The car screamed into a long skid, tires burning and squealing and smoking as the driver fought the wheel.
N3 lay in the ditch and turned the air blue. He had the Luger and the stiletto ready just in case this was new trouble from the sanitarium. He waited, lying quietly, waiting to see what would happen.
The car came to a stop half off the road on the far side. It backed, turned and the lights crept back toward Nick, shafting over the spot where he lay in the ditch. The car stopped. A door slammed. A tock-tock of heels came along the blacktop. High heels. A woman!
Nick Carter got to his knees. He peered into the brilliance of the lancing headlights as the girl came into them. She was a redhead. She was carrying a bottle of whisky in one hand and staggering a little as she tick-tocked along on stilt heels.
She had the best pair of legs Nick had ever seen in his life. They were long and slim and curved and magnificent in black stockings. Her skirt was very short. Nick, from his kneeling coign in the ditch, could see well up her skirt to the band of darker stocking, a flash of garter tab, the swell of a white inner thigh over that.
The girl paused at the edge of the ditch and peered down at Nick. She was wearing a loose, thin frock of some light material. As she bent over Nick could see clearly the firm white pears of her breasts. No hint of a bra! The white pears jiggled tantalizingly not six feet away.
The girl swayed. N3 saw that she was very drunk. Her eyes — green? Her eyes were a bit glassy in the glare of the headlights.
"Hey," called the girl. "Hey, you down there! You all right, honey? I'm sorry — I didn't even see you till the last minute. You hurt, honey?"
The voice and accent were pure American! Middle-West American. Strange, Nick thought as he climbed out of the ditch. Strange, but not too strange. There were a lot of Americans around Istanbul these days.
"I'm okay," he said as he came up beside her. "You shouldn't be driving in that condition, though. You damned near got me."
The girl pouted. Her mouth was delectable, her lips moist and red. She swayed and clung to him. "I say I sorry, honey. Didn't mean hurt you. Say — whyn't we have a drink and you can forgive me, huh?"
Nick took the bottle from her. A drink was very much in order at the moment. He drank deeply — it was scotch — and handed the bottle back to her. "I forgive you," he said. "I'll forgive you even more if you can drive me into Istanbul. I've got to get there. It's very important."
It was, too! Hawk would be blowing his stack, waiting to hear from his Number One boy!
The girl swayed against him. Her delicate perfume teased Nick's nostrils. In spite of his absolutely beatup condition he felt a tinge of interest, of desire, and had to laugh at himself. What a beast he was! An animal! To even think about it at a time like this — but there it was!
Her unbound breasts were pressing against his chest now. She said, "I sorry, honey. Not going to Istanbul. Going home — live out at Plaj Beach. On Black Sea — nice villa there. Whyn't you come me?"
Nick was supporting her. She was clinging now, swaying and waving the whisky bottle back and forth.
"You were driving toward Stamboul," Nick said. "Or didn't you know that?"
"I was — driving to Istanbul?" The girl looked up at Nick. Her eyes were definitely green. Long and narrow and sultry eyes. Not quite so glassy now, he thought. Maybe she was sobering up a bit.