‘Damned little,’ Nick admitted. ‘What everyone knows, I suppose. That most of the shady money in the world is deposited in Swiss banks. It’s protected by Swiss law so that nobody but the rightful owners—hah—can get at it. I’ve heard, and read, that the Swiss people as a whole are just about as honest as they come, but their banking system has been known to drive honest cops nuts all over the world. Not even Interpol has been able to crack it. And dictator, gangster, gun runner, dope seller, white slaver—you name it—can stash his money away in a Swiss bank and no one can touch it. No one but him.’

  The instructor nodded. He lit another cigarette and Nick watched wistfully. He had one more to last him all day. The young man grinned at Nick and waved the smoke in his direction. ‘Be thankful, N3. At least you can smell it. The others can’t even do that.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Nick said bitterly. ‘Go on, Torquemada! Get on with the Swiss banking bit.’

  ‘Okay,’ the instructor agreed cheerfully. He glanced at his papers again. ‘What you do know about Swiss banking is substantially correct. It’s a hard nut to crack. In fact it can’t be cracked—it never has been cracked.’

  Until now, Nick Carter thought a little resentfully. I’ll bet Hawk expects me to crack it!

  ‘There are a couple of prime reasons,’ his instructor said, ‘why the Swiss system can’t be cracked. One is because it’s so damned legal ! The secrecy of the banks is protected by the Swiss constitution. Not even the Swiss Government can force a bank to disclose the name of a depositor, the amount to his credit, or record of his deposits and withdrawals. If the Government tried to pry into those things they’d probably start a revolution. If any other country did it the Swiss Army would probably fight. So you see it’s sort of a national conspiracy.’

  Nick nodded agreement. ‘A rigged deal if ever I saw one. Loaded dice.’ He was getting curiouser and curiouser, like Alice in Wonderland. What in hell did Hawk want from him— steal a few millions to tide the US Treasury over?

  His instructor grinned. ‘Okay. But that’s only half the story. To make it even tougher the Swiss banks, mostly in Geneva and Berne, use secret codes to identify their depositors. These accounts are so closely guarded that—and get this—that nothing is ever put down on paper. Code numbers are always memorized.’

  Nick stared. ‘How the hell? I can understand a depositor remembering his own code number, but how can a bank manager ?’

  ‘Easy,’ his instructor cut in. ‘They just have a lot of bank managers, and assistants. Each one has only a few clients. It isn’t hard. Anyone can memorize, say, ten simple numbers. And they can be simple if only two people know them. The thing gets a little more complex when it comes to authenticating telegraphic payments, delivery of documents, or dispatch of important information.’ He was reading from the papers in his hand now.

  ‘Get this, N3. The test number—this is not the memorized code number—the test number is compiled by adding the permanent code number to the date on which the telegram is dispatched, plus the number, or numbers, appearing last in the New York Stock Market closing report on the day before the telegram is sent.’ The instructor leaned back and grinned at Nick.

  All Nick could say was, ‘Whew!’

  ‘Whew is right. When the Swiss say their banks are the most secure in the world they aren’t exactly whistling Dixie. And that ain’t all, N3.’

  Nick groaned. ‘You mean there’s more?’

  ‘There is.’ The instructor reached into the table drawer again. ‘There is the French key. This little gadget. Here, take a look and I’ll explain how it works.’ He tossed the little steel rod to Nick.

  Nick examined it carefully. It was a little thicker than an ordinary swizzle stick and about as long. He tapped it on his chair. It rang with a shrill musical sound.

  ‘It doesn’t look like a key to me,’ Nick said. ‘What does it lock? Or unlock?’

  ‘Nothing. It isn’t supposed to. In fact the French key is a little old fashioned now. It isn’t used much any more. But it’s to be included in your briefing. This is how it works.

  ‘This so called key takes the place of the memorized code number. It is usually used when a fair sized vault is rented. Not just a safe deposit box. This rod, or key, fits into a special hole in the center of the vault lock. After the vault is locked, in the presence of the client and the bank manager, the French key is wedged into the hole. Then it is cut off, by a very special saw that leaves special markings on the two ends of the key. Part of the key remains in the lock. The other half is taken away by the client. The vault will only be opened when the two parts of the key are matched again, dovetailed. Each key is cut with a special saw that is then destroyed. No two keys are ever the same. You see the result?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Nick Carter. ‘The only guy who can have that particular vault opened is the guy with that particular key. Of course he could give it to someone else. Or it could be stolen.’

  ‘So he could,’ said the instructor. ‘And so it could.’ He stood up and stretched. ‘And knowing something, not much but something, of what you AXE characters are usually up to, I dare say that stealing, or killing, or some such skullduggery, is probably at the bottom of all this. Anyway you’ve had your lecture on Swiss banking and the French key. I hope I haven’t bored you?’

  ‘It still beats hiking thirty miles with rocks on my back,’ admitted Nick Carter.

  And so he had once again come through the hazards of PURG. He graduated top in the class, as he had expected to do—there was nothing of false modesty about N3—and after the final parachute jump he had been set free. Hawk had even let him enjoy a few days in which to slake the biggest thirst west of Suez, and catch up on his bed time. Both with and without girls. He had then drawn a couple of minor assignments, always with the sense of marking time.

  One day Hawk had sent for him. In the briefing room hidden somewhere in the huge complex of the AXE central offices—these snuggling behind the false front of the Amalgamated Press and Wire Service on Dupont Circle in Washington, D.C.—Nick Carter, N3, KILLMASTER for AXE, had received an entire day of the most intensive briefing he could remember. Next day he was on his way. And here he was.

  And here he was—but where in hell was he?

  Nick Carter, still alias Mr. Frank Manning of Cleveland, gazed in perplexity at the tall wall of crumbling red brick which confronted him. An instant later he realized what had happened. He was in an impasse. Had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Mr. Manning cursed mildly, took off his so American hat to scratch his so American head, and smiled meekly at the old woman who was plucking chickens in the window of a boucherie across the street. The crone gave him a toothless smile in return and wagged her head knowingly. These touristes Americains were hopeless. Forever strolling into dead ends!

  Mr. Manning turned back the way he had come, trotting nervously over the narrow cobbled way as though ashamed of such a gaffe, his little rubber belly swaying before him. The streets were beginning to fill now with busy Genevese going about their daily routine. People no longer paid much attention to the pudgy American. Bikes and small cars clanged and honked at him. The sun was half an hour higher now, dappling even the narrowest of lanes with limpid gold that bore little warmth. A first hint of autumn was in the breeze skirling in from Lac Leman.

  Nick Carter let Mr. Frank Manning play his role automatically, while he went back to his own thoughts. The thoughts of KILLMASTER. As he emerged from the cul-de- sac he glanced at the very special AXE watch on his wrist. Probably the finest watch in the world, and it amused N3 mildly to remember that it had been made right here in Geneva. They cost a thousand dollars apiece, these AXE watches, and the Swiss never knew for whom they were making them.

  The watch told him he had been on the march for twenty-five minutes. A couple or three more and he would be back at the Hotel Lux.

  It turned out to be exactly two minutes. The fat American gentleman ambled around a corner into the Altee de Napoleon, surely a grandiose name for such a dreary slum street, then halted abruptly. Swiftly, but in no way betraying shock or alarm, he turned to gaze into the window of a small secondhand book store. The character of Mr. Manning evaporated. Nick Carter took over, every sense, every fine honed reaction quivering and alert. There were watchers before the Hotel Lux.

  There were two of them. Bulky men in dark raincoats and soft felt hats. They were leaning indolently against a bare wooden hoarding across from the Hotel, smoking and gazing with sullen boredom at the dismal facade.

  Nick pretended to study a pile of dusty medical tomes in the shop window. His breathing quickened and he felt the familiar thrill of anticipation run through him, accompanied by a tiny razor of fear. Healthy fear. An animal intimation of danger, a hundred fold stronger than the average man’s, that warned him. It had saved his life countless times.

  Not police! In a flashing instant of a second Nick’s brain examined that possibility and discarded it. They did not look like police to his trained eye. There was no reason why they should be police. The papers of the Herr Rubli Kurz had been in perfect order. The half-drunken night porter who had taken his money—in advance, please, Mein Herr—had hardly glanced at the girl. To him she had been just another whore, though well dressed, who would be gone in a few hours. Nothing to worry about. He had handed the Herr a key and gone back to snore on his couch.

  Nick began to edge back around the corner from which he had just come. He edged sideways, a foot at a time, keeping his right eye cocked on the two watchers. He saw one of them glance in his direction. Inside the flabby body of Mr. Manning, Nick tensed and waited. If they had spotted him, if the girl had indeed fingered him, it would be as Kurz. Not as Frank Manning. Yet you never knew.

  The man who had glanced at him snapped his cigarette butt into the gutter and spat. He said something to his companion. They both laughed, then resumed their bored watch of the Hotel Lux.

  Nick slipped around the corner. The guise of Mr. Manning was slipping away fast now. He quickened his pace, all but running, heading for the little allee that ran behind the Hotel. He had noticed it from the window earlier.

  The girl, the Baroness von Stadt, was still in that dingy hotel room. Still bound and gagged. Possibly still out cold. If she was on the level she was in terrible danger. If not—then he had to know that, too! Because if the watchers weren’t police they could only be the minions of Max Rader or Shikoku Hondo. Or both. Presumably both were in Geneva by now, and might already have joined forces.

  Nick turned the corner into the allee and began to run. He turned a valve on the rubber stomach and let the air whistle out. The thing got in the way.

  As he ran he checked his three constant and faithful companions. Wilhelmina, the stripped down Luger, was secure in the plastic holster inside his belt; Hugo, the snake-deadly stiletto, was ready in his sleeve; Pierre, the lethal gas pellet, awaited the call for duty in his pocket. As he ran Nick considered which to use, if he had to use any of them. He hoped he wouldn’t. Wilhelmina made noise, which was bad if you didn’t want to attract attention. And strange hotel rooms were no places to be tossing poison gas about. It would have to be Hugo, then. As silent and as deadly as a fer-de-lance.

  Nick took the high fence behind the Hotel Lux in a single lunge, leaping and grabbing and legging himself over in one fluid motion. He might be mistaken, he conceded as he made his way across the Uttered back yard. He might be seeing danger where there was none—yet. Maybe the men were only watchers after all. Maybe there was no one inside. But he did not think he was wrong. His highly trained senses were sounding an alarm. Warning of danger for the girl, for himself, for both. And KILLMASTER’S warning system was very rarely at fault.

  Nick Carter went up the rusty fire escape in a sinuous, writhing climb. Yet silently. Now that the rubber belly was gone the clothes of Mr. Manning bagged grotesquely around his lean muscular form. As Nick approached the window of his room he slowed just a trifle, crouched, and glided the last few feet as silently as a tiger stalking a meal. Cautiously he peered through dirt-fogged glass into the room. His lips tightened grimly at what he saw. Certainly not what he had expected. The Baroness von Stadt was in danger. But it was not the sort of danger that Nick had expected.

  Mr. Shikoku Hondo, late of Tokyo Prison, was no gentleman. He stood now in the dingy room, staring down at the still unconscious girl on the sofa. He licked his lips and his mouth opened, disclosing slightly buck teeth in a leer of appreciation. The watching Nick could almost hear the little Jap hissing to himself: ‘Ah, yes! So beautiful! So lovely! Yessss—and so helpless! She will not even know of this thing I am about to do. Ah, yes!’

  Then Hondo seemed to think of something. He went to the door of the room and locked it. I might have known, thought Nick. The lock wasn’t much to begin with. And I’m not the only guy with a Lockpicker’s Special.

  Hondo came back to stand before the girl. He never bothered to glance at the window. He was much too intent on his urgent business for that. To the spying N3 Hondo resembled nothing so much as a thin, graying, saffron-faced monkey in a neat business suit.

  Hondo went closer to the sleeping girl. The Baroness von Stadt had been tossing in her sleep, apparently, because her skirt had ridden well up on her thighs. Now Hondo leaned down and kissed each well displayed white thigh. If there had ever been any doubt of his intention in Nick’s mind it vanished now. He tensed and made ready for action, yet still held his fire. Let the little ape enjoy himself while he could. That wouldn’t be long. And no real harm could come to the girl. Nick glanced around and below swiftly. The back area was quiet. Nobody had spotted him crouching on the fire escape. The men in front must still be waiting for Hondo to complete his business and leave the hotel.

  But Mr. Shikoku Hondo was a man who believed in mixing business with pleasure. He was kneeling before the girl now, his small eyes feasting on her flesh as he unfastened the straps about her ankles. Nick grinned. Surely Hondo must be wondering who had tied the girl, had left her drugged and bound?

  No. He was wrong. At the moment Hondo—Beauty and the Beast—Hondo was intent on only one thing—ravishing a lovely girl who could not defend herself. Who in the normal course of things would never have deigned to look at him. Would have spit on him!

  A sardonic, cynical anger began to grow in Nick. An anger no less deadly because of its nuances. He had hardly expected Hondo to be a paragon of the virtues. Very few of his customers were. But this was a new low in human depravity. Ravishing a sleeping girl!

  Hondo had completed his task of freeing the girl’s ankles now. He flung the straps aside. Nick could see the spittle drooling down his chin.

  Hondo gently spread-eagled the girl on the sofa, arranging the long beige and white legs into a wide-flung V. He was in no hurry, this monkey-man. He moved almost reluctantly, savoring every instant of his approaching pleasure. Nick, for some strange reason, remembered the Japanese legend of the monkey who came to the Princess in the night. Perhaps this lustful little Nip was also remembering the story. Maybe he fancied himself as some sort of yellow-skinned God who was going to beget a new race on the body of this lovely white woman.

  Inside the room Hondo’s movements quickened at last. He had tugged the Baroness’ skirt up around her waist. She was completely exposed. Nick’s great muscles began to surge into readiness. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, he had let it go on so long because of the immense pleasure he was going to derive from cheating this crummy little bastard!

  Hondo fumbled with the front of his trousers. He stepped between the girl’s wide flung legs and bent to the last and most pleasant of his tasks. He hooked his skinny fingers into the waistband of a pair of very skimpy black panties.

  KILLMASTER had long known how to go through a glass window without badly injuring himself. He backed away, half turned his back to the window, and went through it like a relentless and avenging battering ram.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RAPE DEFERRED

  Everything happened at once!

  Hondo whirled with a hissing scream of surprise and fear, his slanty eyes as wide as they could ever be. One scrawny yellow claw grabbed for the back of his neck, as if he had a sudden itch there.

  Knife! Nick thought. Neck scabbard! Obviously Hondo wanted as little noise as possible. On that one thing they agreed.

  Hugo was ready in his sleeve, but Nick decided he did not need the stiletto. Hondo was surprised, in panic. He would miss, throwing at Nick’s feint.

  He leaped at Hondo, then abruptly braked and slid like a wraith to one side. As he did so he saw the girl’s eyes open. Saw her straining to scream her terror through the gag.

  Hondo fell for the feint. The throwing knife buzzed through air where Nick had been. Hondo was slow in recovering from the throw. He was off balance. Nick, thinking what a fine time and opportunity it was to use his recently acquired savate, took three steps toward the now cringing Jap. He leaped into the air, turned his back, and kicked hard at Hondo’s groin.

  As his iron-shod heel slammed into the most tender part of Hondo’s anatomy Nick Carter grinned cruelly and said, ‘So solly, Mr. Moto!’

  Hondo screamed in anguish. Slime spewed from his gaping mouth. He folded in the middle, slowly, grabbing with both hands at his ruined genitals. His eyes bugged from a face that was now more green than yellow. Hondo fell to the floor and, still jack-knifed, still screaming and clawing at himself, began to thresh about like a snake that has been cut in half.

  Over Hondo’s screams Nick heard a thudding sound. He glanced at the sofa. The girl, gagged and her hands still bound, had fallen to the floor. Her lovely face was distorted with fear, her eyes wide with the terror she had awakened to. She tried to get up, failed and fell back with another thud, her long white legs waving in the air.

  One thing at a time. The Baroness could wait a couple of seconds. Thank God for the gag, Nick thought as he leaped for the groveling Hondo. She can probably scream louder than Hondo!

 

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