“To hell with Harper,” snarled The Bitch. “We have wrecked his car and all the exits are guarded. He cannot get away. In time we will hunt him down and kill him like the rat he is — but not now. Right now I am going to have some fun with Jamie boy here!” She tossed the machine gun to the startled Erma, who nevertheless caught it deftly and immediately swung the muzzle toward Nick’s defenseless belly.
“Gretel! What are you — have you gone stark raving mad?” There was genuine shock in the big woman’s voice. She stared with bulging eyes as her mistress began to strip off her clothes. In less than a minute The Bitch was down to her lovely tawny buff, as naked as Nick himself. She took a knife from beneath the cushions of the chair and approached Nick. As she bent over him, her big breasts, as firm and cool as ripe melons, brushed his wounded chest. She moved her breasts provocatively on his flesh. Daubs of Nick’s blood stained the long nipples.
The Bitch swayed over him. He saw that she was a little drunk already. Two half glasses made a glass — and that was a lot of whiskey. Especially if she had no great tolerance for it. His hopes went up another peg. He might be able to weasel out of this yet. It would take a miracle — maybe he was going to get one.
She was about to cut him free. Erma was glowering in helpless anger, her finger on the trigger of the Tommy gun, itching to blast him. Careful. So careful.
To stall her, because he wanted to give the booze a chance to work a bit longer, he said: “You promised you would answer questions, Gerda — I mean Gretel. I’ve got one more that’s been worrying me. Those plates. The counterfeit plates. Who made them? Where did you get them?”
The naked woman swayed, the knife poised, her green eyes a trifle out of focus now. “Huh? Oh, the plates, Jamie. You want to know about the plates. So that’s it — that’s who you are, Jamie. You’re a Treasury agent! A stinking United States T-man! I should have guessed it before.”
It did not matter now. The next few minutes would decide his life or death. Nick Carter nodded. “All right. I am a T-man. I was after the plates and I found them. I destroyed them. But I would like to know the truth—”
She put the point of the knife against his chest and drew a bloody half inch slit. “So you shall, Jamie, so you shall. I keep my word. Those plates were genuine, the real thing. Our people stole them back in 1941, just before Pearl Harbor. It was one of the great all-time coups of the Abwehr.” She saw the disbelief in his face. “It is true, I tell you!” The Bitch was shouting now. “They were Germans, remember, and they had put their minds to accomplishing the impossible. They did it. They stole the plates and replaced them with excellent forgeries. And it was the forgeries the stupid Americans destroyed! While the real plates were in a vault in Berlin. But my people could never produce the proper paper, a paper good enough, so the plates could not be used. When the war was lost, my mother and I came to Mexico. Her lover came with her — and he brought along the plates, which he had managed to steal. They were not Nazis, those two, not good Germans. But they saw a chance to get rich on the deeds of other men, greater men. I was only sixteen then and could do nothing, but I knew. I knew and I watched and I waited. The lover died first. Then my mother. Then I had my chance. I planned for years — then those Chinese devils moved in on me. And that is enough of talking, my Jamie.”
The Bitch was slashing at the cords that bound Nick. She tossed the knife toward Erma and slipped down beside Nick on the swan bed. “Now, lover, show me once more how good you are! Make me swoon. If you completely satisfy me I will not kill you just yet. I will put you in a cell and keep you for other times.” She giggled drunkenly and saliva ran from the corners of her wide scarlet mouth. “I may even feed you, Jamie.” And she wriggled under him.
Every movement was torture to his flayed and bloody flesh, but Nick found himself capable. Amazing. Over his shoulder The Bitch said, “Keep the gun on him every second, Erma. If he makes one false move you have my permission to kill him.”
The drunken laughter echoed wildly around the vast bed chamber. The Bitch sank her teeth into Nick’s ear. “Come on, Jamie. Come on, big lover man. Sing for your supper.”
It was not exactly singing, but then he wasn’t exactly Tommy Tucker. As he fell into a steady rhythm Nick was thinking at least two moves ahead. And working on the capped tooth with his tongue. Under the cap was a tiny pellet of cyanide. He had obeyed orders and brought it with him. Now it might pay off. Might. Almost as big a word as if.
The Bitch had her eyes closed. She began to moan softly. Nick risked a covert look at Erma. The fat woman was still in the chair, the Tommy gun ready, but she was leaning forward and he saw the excitement on her mottled features. That might help him. Excitement might throw off her aim just enough—
He managed to tongue the cap off his molar. He moved the cap to one side of his mouth, not daring to use a finger to get it out. He could feel the little cyanide pellet in his mouth now, smooth and deadly. It was made of gelatin, that pellet, and it was already beginning to melt. He had to get rid of it. Now!
Nick emitted a long, simulated moan. He clamped his mouth down hard on the open, moist, red cavern of Gerda’s mouth. He had not kissed her before and now he took her by surprise. Then she responded to the kiss. Her tongue was a moist dagger stabbing into his mouth. Nick deftly tongued the cyanide pellet into her mouth. This was the crucial moment. If she suspected — if she felt the pellet—
He gave a tremendous thrust that brought a scream from her. She arched to meet him. He felt her swallow convulsively. It was done. Now to conceal the fact until the pellet melted. And when it did — to conceal her death until he could get a chance at Erma.
The Bitch, all unaware of the death working in her, was clinging and wriggling frenetically. Nick let one of his outstretched hands stray carelessly toward the edge of the bed where he had seen her turn off the alarm. He would have to turn it on. The sudden deafening clangor might throw Erma’s aim off a bit. He needed every bit of help he could get — because he was going to have to jump that Tommy gun!
Gretel von Rothe arched her long spine and tried to scream. Her green eyes opened wide for a moment and stared into Nick’s. In that split second of time, her last on this earth, he read fear, terror and realization. Then the green seemed to fade and she went lax in his arms. Now if only Erma would mistake the death convulsion for that of love—
“What is wrong? What you do to her?” He heard her get out of the chair and start toward him. He flopped over, nearer the edge of the bed, his hand seeking beneath it. Desperately he played for time. “Wrong? Nothing is wrong. She just, well, you know. And you know she always sleeps afterward.” Where in hell was that lever, or button, or whatever the hell it was?
Nick’s finger touched a tiny switch. He flipped it over. As he did so the huge double doors of the bedroom slammed open. Maxwell Harper stood there, swaying, his shirt front one big gout of blood. He pointed a pistol at Erma and fired.
And missed.
The alarm bells let go with a hellish clangor. Erma swung the Tommy gun toward Harper and let go a burst that caught the big man in the belly. The blast of lead swept him back out the doors, spinning and clutching at the walls for support.
Killmaster came off the bed in a long plunging dive. It was the only chance he was ever going to get and he knew it. But he was Killmaster now and he summoned his last strength for the effort. No illusions. It was kill or be killed.
He got in under the burst of slugs. Flame seared his face and powder pocked his flesh. He drove a right hand into one basketball-sized breast, over her heart. Erma gasped, her mouth opened and she dropped the Tommy gun. Nick hit her again in the belly, his fist sinking deep into hard flab.