A lively, cultured American voice came on the line.
"This is Cane. May we see you, sir?"
"Ah, Cane. I've been trying to contact you. Yes, please come up. Oh, let me tell the Desk. Hello? Reception? Send them right up. Thank you."
His doorknocker clacked decisively a few minutes later. He heard a woman's laugh and the low rumble of a male voice. Tucking a white handkerchief into the breast pocket of his dark blue suit, Harcourt strode through his sitting room toward the door. The prospect of seeing two government agents was more than a relief. Harcourt was an intelligent, courageous man, but he had no flair for espionage. His own extremely complex job was quite enough for him. He believed in experts, as he believed in himself.
He had only a second, after unlatching the door and pulling it back, to recognize his callers. Only a second to see a tall, good looking man and the attractive woman. They were not Peter Cane and Julia Baron.
He could not even protest, much less think of shouting for help. The door closed and a hand clamped over his mouth. Harcourt suddenly realized that he had no idea what Peter Cane sounded like on the telephone.
The Ambassador toppled without a murmur as the tall man sapped him swiftly with a weighted black instrument.
After that, Harcourt felt nothing.
"There's no answer," said Julie. Her face was puzzled as she put down the phone. "The line was busy only a few minutes ago — it's been busy all morning."
"Damn!" said Nick. "He's gone out and we've missed him. Try the U.N. office."
He paced the floor of the room. They had checked in, after Mr. Judas' near-fatal waterfront party, at a rambling old hotel in the Strand section, registered as Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Slocombe of Philadelphia. The assistant manager's reluctance to accept two disheveled people unaccompanied by luggage had been dispelled by the sight of a wallet bulging with American dollars.
"Peter Cane's" cash had been lifted — no doubt by Braille. The money belt had been tampered with, but not emptied. No doubt Braille and Judas had counted on absconding with it intact. Pierre and Junior were lost forever, but Hugo and Wilhelmina had settled comfortably back into their accustomed places. Julie's torn clothes were still wearable. The warehouse cellar had yielded none of its secrets to a rapid search.
"Well? What do they say?" he demanded. Julie had cut the connection.
"He called them this morning, but they haven't seen him. They suggested his hotel."
"Try his room again and then call the Consulate. Perhaps he decided to go there after he talked to them."
Nick had called the Consulate himself earlier. He was not surprised to learn from Harry Byrnes that Judson had been found drowned in the bathtub after "fainting and striking his head." The chauffeur? Well, it hardly mattered at the moment. There had been a brief message for Nick from Hawk. It said: RECEIVE PACKAGE AT JOHNSON & CO. WAREHOUSE 283 DOCK ROAD. REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF FATAL ILLNESS YOUR FRIEND BROWN. REPORT SOONEST. BIRD.
He already knew about the abandoned warehouse — only too well. It was unlikely that Judas would be using it again, even if he had survived. So "Brown" was dead. Too bad.
Nick looked at Julie. She was putting through another call.
After getting Hawk's message Nick had gone out to find the nearest Post Office and a branch of the Cable and Wireless Company. Perhaps the Consulate's wires were safe now, with Judson gone. Nick wasn't going to take a chance. In a carefully worded cable to ACTION, WASHINGTON, he gave a full report to Hawk asking what he was supposed to make of WATCH BIG BEN WEDNESDAY GERONIMO.
Julie was trying to contact Harcourt, only to run into a barrage of busy signals.
Nick closed his message with a request for all future cables to be addressed to the Cable Company's branch office. He signed it "Max P. Cane." The "Max" was for Hawk and the "Cane" for the Cable Company, in case they required identification.
"What did they say at the Consulate?" Julie was jiggling the telephone hook.
"They haven't seen him. I thought I'd call the Royal Crown and find out if he's had any callers."
"Yes, that's a good idea," Nick said thoughtfully, and frowned. "Better sound official — say you're calling from the Consulate to find out if his messenger came or something. Otherwise they won't give anything away."
Nick tried to figure out a possible next move. Judas had been badly hurt. Frankie Gennaro's little grenade had not been quite as powerful as he'd hoped. On the other hand, if it had been any more powerful, it might have been the end of him and Julie. It had ripped that silver hand off and dug deep gouges into Judas' face and arm. He must have lost a dangerous amount of blood.
"I see," Julie was saying. "Two callers?"
Nick stopped and listened.
"Would you mind telling me their names? He made an appointment through us a little earlier, you see, and I just wondered if... Oh. Yes, those would be the people. Thank you very much."
She hung up and turned to face him.
"He just had two visitors. Us."
"What!"
"About ten or fifteen minutes ago Miss Baron and Mr. Cane went up to his room. They haven't come down and neither has Harcourt."
"Christ! Give me that phone!"
He got through to one of the Security officers he'd talked to at the Airport and swiftly outlined his suspicions. They'd have to work through the Police, they said, but they'd get on to it right away. A call to the house detective and a few enquiries... Where could they reach Mr. Cane if they wanted him?
"Hotel Emerson — ask for Slocombe. But I won't be here for long. Check with you later."
He hung up and started cursing. "Could be dead in his room, for God's sake. I should've gone over there first thing this morning. I'm getting over there. You stay here."
"Peter." Julie's voice was dangerously quiet. "You're letting your hot head run away with your brains. The Police are going to be there. How're you going to explain yourself? Oh, I'm Cane, you say, of AXE. Or Army Intelligence. Oh, yes? they say politely. Well, just come along with us. But you can check me with Security, you say..."
"All right, I get the picture. I hadn't intended to be quite as obvious as that." He grinned suddenly. "But at least I can find out if he's still there."
"We'll find out by waiting here. Why did you call Security in the first place? Because you knew damn well you wouldn't get anywhere if you tried to snoop around and question people."
"Okay. You win. Let's eat. I'm hungry."
The phone rang an hour later.
The clipped voice of British Security informed him that there was no sign of Harcourt or the tall young couple. The bound and gagged figure of the freight elevator operator had been found in the first-floor storage closet. An attendant in the basement garage had told how two young people and a man in chauffeur's uniform had stepped out of the freight elevator supporting a middle-aged man. They had explained that he was very ill and had to be rushed to a hospital. The car was a Rolls. The attendant couldn't remember the license number. The party had driven off some twenty minutes before the police arrived. That was all. There was no need for Cane to involve himself in the inquiry, but if he should run into anything — the clipped voice gave him a number. Every effort was being made to find Harcourt.
"Abducted from his hotel suite in broad daylight!" Nick had started pacing again. Then he stopped. "Wait a minute. Why didn't they kill him then and there?"
He flung himself at the telephone and called the desk. Mr. and Mrs. Slocombe were checking out. Could their bill be ready, please?
"Peter, what are you doing?"
Smiling, he pulled her to her feet. "C'mon, let's get out of here. We're going back to the Rand."