The Living Death

Buckingham Palace and "birds," miniskirts and majesty, tradition and Twiggy, Carnaby Street and King s Row. That's what I was seeing, that strange admixture that
is
London today. I'd been walking the streets of the "Colossus astride the Thames" and there was one thing I'd definitely concluded. It was no accident, no vague, straying wind of fashion that the miniskirt originated in London. The English girls have the legs for it and the hips for it and, most of all, the walk for it. I know; I'd been watching them all day, ever since I had arrived at the airport that morning and found Denny wasn't home. It wasn't time for killing yet, so I was killing time.

There's a walk the English girls have, a way they have of striking out. They talk with their legs. They say; "These legs are lovely and they're mine and they could be yours, if I want them to be." In a way, I couldn't help thinking, those legs and hips were a twentieth-century physical reaffirmation of the Magna Carta. "I'm English, I'm a free soul and I'm my own master," they seemed to say. "I've a right to wear my skirt short, to go where I please, to sleep with whoever takes my fancy, King, Crown and commoner be damned." I exchanged glances with one free-swinging, long-legged lovely, her mini just covering the bottom of her swinging little rear.

It would be nice, I told myself, if just once I could get a week in London without being on assignment for AXE. Just little old me, Nick Carter, and not agent N3, working. And this trip was bound to make me look longingly at all the open, direct young things. On this trip I was feeling like a duck in a shooting gallery. That's why I'd wangled the extra day to see Denny, only to find her not home. Of course, according to Hawk, I ought not to be feeling this way and, in all honesty, you couldn't ignore the old fox's sixth sense. I have pretty damn good antennae of my own, but compared to Hawk, they're strictly a crystal set. Behind those steely blue eyes, behind that calm, unruffled exterior, there's a collection of antennae, sounding boards and sensitized reactors that would make an interstellar listening post envious. Let's face it, that's what makes Hawk the top exec for AXE. He's shrewd, smart, resourceful and uncanny. As I strolled about Trafalgar Square I saw the scene once again in Hawk's office at AXE headquarters in Washington. It had been only a day ago but I wasn't likely to forget it.

Hawk had fixed me with his bland, casual expression, his soft-sell approach. We'd worked together for so many years that it was hard for him to find a tactic I couldn't recognize.

"The message is ambiguous, I'll admit, Nick," he said. "The woman called our source and said she had something extremely important and would speak only to a top AXE agent. She set up the complicated meeting procedure I outlined to you."

"Obviously she feels she may be under surveillance," I went along. "But you haven't any idea what it could be. It might even be a hoax."

Hawk smiled indulgently, his smile telling me I was being childish to think he hadn't considered that one. I smiled back. I wasn't being childish and he knew it.

"She could be an advance agent for someone who wants to defect, perhaps her husband, a man of prominence," he went on. "Or perhaps her own self. Maybe she is someone with valuable information to sell. She might even be someone who wants to work for us, someone in a sensitive position. Or, frankly, it could concern any number of things."

That's when I threw mine in, with some stuffiness, I'll admit.

"What if it's a clever setup to kill top AXE agents, me in particular?" I asked. Hawk remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he unpursed his lips and commented. Give him credit for his uncompromising New England honesty, even when it hurt.

"It's a possibility. I have to admit that," he said. "But I don't think it's a probability. Our source has always been a most reliable one. We must proceed on the assumption that a woman has something very valuable to give us and has requested a meeting."

I was waiting for him to toss the ball back to me. He did.

"But, if what you brought up should be true, Nick," he said, "then it's even more important you put a stop to that kind of foolishness at once."

He smiled, so damned pleased with himself that I had to break into a grin along with him. So here I was in jolly London town on what might be a hoax, a very important meeting for America, or a deadly trap. I still leaned to the last one and looked forward to being wrong in this instance. Luck hadn't been running my way, though. Denny being away all day after I'd managed to get here a whole day early was more than disappointing. Denny Robertson was more than a memory. She was a very special page from the past. We'd met some years ago, when she was a lot younger than I'd realized. It was immediately apparent that she was not someone to meet and turn into a memory. I'm hardly the kind that women easily get to. It has always been my firm belief that girls, the true-love, waiting-by-the-picket-fence kind of girls, had no place in the life of an international agent. Girls, other than in that way, had a helluva big place. They were the best damned way to wipe away all the ugliness, the taste of death, the glimpses into hell that made up this business. But Denny Robertson had been different from all the others. Not that she could make me change my opinions on the place of girls in my life, or that she'd tried, but she'd reached me in a way no other girl ever had. As I said, she was a lot younger than I'd realized. I found that out the night we made love. I also found out how naturally talented she was. I'd been called away a day later and the whole brief interlude had left us both like two music lovers who had heard only half a symphony. They both desperately want to hear the second half.

The list of girls I'd enjoyed and left, for one reason or another, was a mile long. Brief interludes were a built-in part of my life. And some, of course, stayed longer in the memory than others, each for their own reasons. But only with Denny Robertson had I felt the unfinished symphony syndrome, the feeling of having to go back. Not that we'd had an idyllic relationship. She'd called me every name under the sun on a couple of occasions and her temper and her jealousy matched. In the letters she'd written to me two or three times a year since then, she'd never been maudlin, never been anything but gay. But she had put into words an echo of the things I had felt. She had never been able to forget that one night, or me. Everything since, for her, had been second best, she'd written in one letter. I could see her fine, delicate handwriting in my mind.

I had tried, a few times, and we'd always missed connections. Denny wasn't one to sit around and stare into space. She was very British and had grown up with plenty of money and all it could buy. Finishing schools, ballet schools, riding academies and the very best of British gentlemen as escorts. But she also had the things money can't buy — breeding, honesty, intelligence. Denny was equally at home in a miniskirt, jodhpurs or an evening gown, a feat few girls can equal. The frank, open British girls who unabashedly showed their interest in me as I passed diem couldn't know that their chances had been made even slimmer by a memory. I saw a phone booth and called Denny again. I had till two o'clock in the morning to wait for a phone call, the first step in the contact procedure. It would be much pleasanter if I were waiting with Denny. This time the phone was answered by a voice that opened the floodgates of memory.

"I don't believe it!" she gasped over the phone.

"Believe it," I said. "I'm at the Gore Hotel, really only passing through. I thought we might squeeze in a few hours."

"Damn it all!" she swore. Denny could swear like a Grenadier Guard and make it sound terribly proper. "I've a dinner dance I must attend — the school where I teach."

"You're a schoolteacher now?"

"It's a riding school," she said quickly, "But I'll sneak away early — as close to ten as I can."

"Wonderful," I said. "I'll be waiting in my room."

"Nick!" she said, adding hurriedly, "How are you? Still the same?"

"I've changed," I laughed. "I'm older, more mature. I'm that thoroughly likable chap you wrote about. Isn't that what you want?"

"I'm not sure," she said, thoughtfulness creeping into her voice. "Besides, I don't believe you. Oh, Nick, it'll be so wonderful seeing you again. Tonight — ten-ish."

I walked from the phone booth seeing only a tall, regal girl with deep red hair, auburn, she always called it, framing a peaches-and-cream complexion. I went directly to dinner at a fine restaurant, and though I don't especially enjoy eating alone, I thoroughly enjoyed the meal. Perhaps because I wasn't alone. Denny and memories of her were an almost physical presence. It was a damn good dinner, too, Cock-a-leekie and roast ribs of beef with Yorkshire pudding, topped by a good brandy. I returned to my room, stretched out on the bed and briefly reviewed the contact procedures to be followed later in the night.

The woman was to phone me at two a.m. and use the identification code she had set up herself. Once that was cleared, she would give me further instructions about where to meet her. The brandy was still with me and I closed my eyes. I guess I'd walked more than I'd realized during the day, for I fell asleep almost instantly. The ringing of the phone woke me. Instantly glancing at my watch, I saw that it was just ten o'clock. I answered, expecting Denny's voice. It was a girl but it sure wasn't Denny. In fact, to one expecting Denny's precise, impeccable English, the voice was a rude shock to the ear — flat, somewhat nasal, the distinctive dialect I recognized as a Liverpool accent. It has often been said that an Englishman's accent reveals far more than the part of the country he hails from; it is a fairly accurate guide to his educational, social and economic background. In a half-dozen words, my caller had revealed herself as what the English call a working-class girl, or perhaps something a little less.

"Mr. Carter?" the voice said hesitantly. "Can you come to the lobby? There's been a change in plans."

"In what plans?" I asked, my naturally suspicious nature leaping to the fore.

"In the plans for your meeting," she said. "I'm down here in the lobby. Can you come down? Time is important."

"Who are you?" I questioned.

"Nobody important," she said. "My name is Vicky. I've been sent to drive you to a new meeting place. Please come down."

I agreed to go down and found her still standing beside the house phones, a round-busted little thing, a manufactured blonde, with a sexy shape beneath a too-tight, red dress. She had a round, youthful face and I guessed her age at not more than twenty-one. Her round breasts were made even higher and rounder by a platform bra that pulled the dress almost to the breaking point. Beneath the makeup and paint there was an air of underlying scrounginess that refused to be hidden. Her hands nervously fingered a small, shiny leather purse. I didn't see her as a trollop. She merely looked like one, a not uncommon condition with many girls. I saw her eyes, light blue, look me over expertly and automatically, involuntary approval in her glance.

"What's this all about, Vicky?" I smiled down at her.

"I don't know anything," she said. "I only know I'm to drive you someplace and I was told to tell you there'd been a change in plans. They told me you'd understand."

I turned it over in my mind and had to come up with one conclusion. This whole bit had been a weird one from the beginning, shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. No one knew what, why or who. The change in plans fitted right into the picture. Just to check her again, I tossed her another one.

"A woman sent you?" I asked sharply.

"A man," she answered with hesitation. I pierced her with a speculative gaze which she returned evenly.

"That's all I know, luv," she said, a touch of defiance in her tone. I believed her. She was a messenger. Whoever was behind this wouldn't tell her anything beyond her immediate instructions.

"Okay, doll," I said, taking her by the arm. "I'll go with you. I just want to stop at the desk for a second."