Double Identity (11 page)

Bannion said nothing while this scrutiny was going on. He scratched at his red beard and narrowed his inflamed eyes at Nick. Finally he grinned. Nick was a bit surprised to note that his teeth weren’t bad.

Bannion said, “Inspection over?”

N3 nodded curtly. “For now.”

“I pass?”

Nick restrained a smile. This was a cocky little bastard, no matter that he was the down and out.

“Barely,” he said. “I really don’t know yet You’re really a mess, aren’t you?”

The little man grinned. “You can say that again, mister who-ever-you-are. I’m the bum to end all bums! I’m a derelict and a hopeless, no-good bum! But all that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? So why bother with me? Why pick me up and bring me over here with all this good whisky that, as far as I can see, is going to waste. You don’t look like a do-gooder to me. And you aren’t carrying a prayer book and a tambourine, either. So what goes on, mister? And, while you’re telling me, can I have a shot of that panther pee you’re paying for?”

Nick shoved the bottle toward him. “Help yourself. Only stay on your feet, please. I think I might have a little job for you later. Not much later, either. Just how drunk are you now?”

The man seized the bottle and poured with a fairly steady hand. He jerked his head toward the bar. “Not as drunk as they think I am. That’s an act I put on sometimes—these bastards like to see a white man drunk and making a fool of himself. Makes them laugh—and when they laugh they buy drinks. Simple as that, mister.” He drank his shot in one gulp and hastily refilled his glass, then shoved the bottle toward Nick. “Thanks. Been a long time since I’ve tasted real American booze. Mostly I drink beer or Karachi rot-gut. Now, mister, what’s your angle?”

N3 felt a tinge of pity. He repressed it immediately. There were millions of these men in the world, all with a hard luck story, and he had neither time nor inclination to listen to another one. Yet this man might prove valuable in just this situation—it remained to be seen.

He replied to the question with another question. “What’s your name? I’d like to know something about you before I go on with this—not much, but a little. How you happen to be stranded in Karachi, for instance?”

The little man reached for the bottle again. “Mike Bannion,” he said. “Michael Joseph, in full. I used to be a newspaper man. In the States. In the world, for that matter. All around and about! That was ten years ago—when I landed here in Karachi after a story. I got the story—but I also got drunk. I’ve been drunk ever since. I’m going on being drunk as long as I can manage it. And you’re wrong about one thing— I’m not stranded. I’ve got a home, believe it or not. I’ve also got a wife and nine kids. I married a native— Moslem girl. Her old man hates me and disowned her. She’s fat and ugly now—having all those kids—but when I married her she was something. Now she takes in laundry to feed the kids and pay the rent and I shift for myself to get drink money. And that’s it, mister, the story of my life. Or all of it that you’re going to get— I don’t care how much money you pay me!”

Bannion took a deep breath, another shot of whisky, and stared with covetous eyes at Nick’s pack of Goldflake. Nick shoved the cigarettes across the table. “Help yourself.”

As Bannion lit up Nick studied him carefully. He must make up his mind in a hurry. Now. He decided to go through with it. It was a risk, but then he was used to taking risks. One more couldn’t make much difference. He took the copy of
The Hindi Times
from his pocket and opened it to the front page. He shoved it across to Bannion.

“Take a good look at that. Read the story if you can— then I’ll ask you a few questions. If you give the right answers, and are still interested, I think we’ll be in business.”

Bannion’s expression did not change as he studied the picture. He glanced at Nick once, then back again to the paper. Obviously he read Hindustani well. Finally he folded the paper and handed it back to Nick. He nodded slightly back of him toward the bar.

“If they spot you you’re in trouble. I notice there’s a reward for you—and these characters would sell their mothers for a plugged rupee. Unless they thought they could blackmail you first.”

Nick put the paper back in his pocket. His grin was faint, quizzical. “Perhaps that thought has occurred to you, too?”

Bannion grinned in return. He poured himself a drink. “It was the first thing that struck me, Mr. Carter. But we’ll see. That your real name?”

“Yes. But this is not a picture of me. It’s the picture of a man who is posing as me.
He
killed the American, Sam Shelton. I didn’t. It’s a very complicated story and I’m not going to try and explain it to you now. Maybe never. It’s all very top secret stuff. You’ll be working blind, with only my word for anything. Still interested?”

Bannion nodded over his glass. “Could be. I wasn’t exactly born yesterday, you know. And I couldn’t care less whether or not you killed this guy— I only want two honest answers out of you! Have you got money—lots of money?”

Nick smiled faintly. “Uncle Samuel is behind me all the way.”

Bannion brightened. “Good. Second question—are you working for the Commies? Because if you are, and I find it out, the deal is off! I might even get mad and lose my temper. There are some things even a bum like me won’t do.”

Nick grinned across the table. There was something likable about this little redheaded wreck of a man. Not his odor, or his looks certainly, but something!

“Just the other way round,” he said. “I’m agin. That’s all I can tell you.”

The bloodshot eyes regarded him steadily for a long time. Then Bannion reached for the bottle again. “Okay. I’m in, Mr. Carter. Short of murder, I’m in. What do we do first?”

Nick poured the drinks. “This is the last,” he warned Bannion. “I want you as sober as possible. After this one we leave—and we’ll need transportation. Got any ideas about that?”

“I’ve got a jeep outside,” said Bannion surprisingly. “The oldest jeep in the world. Name of Gae—that means cow in Hindustani. She still runs—barely. Where do you want to go, Mr. Carter?”

As they left the man from AXE said, “Call me Nick when you must call me anything—and don’t use my name anymore than you must. Never in front of other people! Right now I want to go to the Mauripur district—to Sam Shelton’s house. You know the district?”

“I know it. I even know the house—it’s on Chinar Drive. I used to drive a beat-up taxi around town until the Paks got sore and spoiled it for me. They don’t like white men working at their jobs.”

Nick followed him to a dark lane near the Indus. The night was clear and cool, with a hanging yellow lantern of moon, somewhat spoiled by the smell of mudflats and dead fish. In the faint light Nick could see ghostly
dhows
drifting with the current down to the Arabian Sea.

Maybe it wasn’t the oldest jeep in the world. Perhaps, Nick thought as he climbed in, it was only the second or third oldest. You couldn’t say that the paint job was bad— there was no paint. There was no glass in the windshield. The tires were worn down to the cord. The single headlight was wired on and bounced alarmingly.

Bannion had to crank—the starter having long ago gone to buy whisky, he volunteered without shame—and after an anxious moment Gae began to cough and wheeze and hawk up great blue gouts of stinking smoke. They took off cautiously as Bannion babied the tires. A coil of spring nipped at N3’s backside as they rattled and clanked and clunked down every dark alley Bannion could find. And he seemed to know them all. He carefully skirted the modern downtown section of Karachi. They came to a maze of miserable huts thrown together from every kind of material—packing crates, bamboo, mud blocks and logs, flattened oil and beer cans. The stench was appalling. They wound through this desert of misery by means of a single-lane knee deep in greasy mud. The ancient jeep huffed and puffed valiantly. The hovels, and the smell, covered acres.

Nick Carter put a handkerchief over his nose and Bannion snickered. “Rough, huh? Refugees from India in here —no place else to put ‘em. It’s a hell of a mess—even I live better than these poor devils.”

“Speaking of places to live,” said Nick, “after our little excursion tonight I’m going to need a place to shack up—a safe place where I won’t be bothered by cops or anyone else. Your place should do?”

“Perfect,” Bannion nodded and smiled, his teeth flashing through the red beard. “I thought you’d come to that! You’re welcome—part of the deal. The cops never bother me. I know most of them in the neighborhood and anyway I’ve been around so long they take me for granted now. I’m just the American bum!”

“Your wife? And nine kids?”

Bannion shook his head. “Not to worry. I’m bringing home some money, so Neva—that’s my wife—will be happy with me for once. The kids do what I say! No problem there, though you’ll have to keep out of sight. We’re one big happy neighborhood and the wives gossip something fierce—but we’ll worry about that later. Speaking of money — I’d better have some to show Neva.”

Nick fumbled in his wallet and handed the man a thousand rupee note. “That’s for now. There will be plenty more if we get along. If you do a good job and don’t let me down I might be able to do something about getting you out of this hole.” He let it go at that. Bannion made no answer.

They reached Drigh Road and headed west. It was a modern highway, four lanes, and well marked. Bannion pressed down on the gas and the old jeep sputtered and picked up speed. The speedometer didn’t work, but Nick guessed they were doing at least forty-five.

“This is the tricky bit,” Bannion said. “They patrol this pretty well. If we’re stopped it’ll be along this stretch.”

Nick glanced at his AXE watch. It was a little after one.

He heard a sound of planes overhead and glanced up. They were old prop jobs. Far across the city he watched lances of brilliant light spring to life and sweep the sky. There came the distant popping of anti-aircraft fire. Two of the searchlights caught a plane in their apex and held it for a moment, pinned to the black sky like a moth to cork. The plane slipped away. There came the remote crash-thud of a bomb exploding.

Bannion chuckled. “Hit-and-run raid. Tomorrow the Indians will officially deny it ever happened. The Pakistanis are probably raiding Delhi about now—and they’ll deny it too. Some war! A two-bit deal that neither of them wants.

N3 remembered Hawk’s words—somebody wanted this war. The Red Chinese!

They were getting into the Mauripur district now. Well-paved streets and large estates and compounds surrounded by thick-growing
chinar
trees. A delicate fragrance of cashew-nut bushes scented the crisp night air. The AXE man noted the street lights, dark now because of the blackout.

“This is where the money lives,” said Bannion. “And most of the foreigners. The place you want is just up here.”

Bannion slowed the jeep to a crawl. Even so the old engine made a fearful racket in the quiet night. “Turn it off,” Nick ordered quietly, almost whispering. “Park it someplace where it won’t be noticed by a patrol, then we’ll walk.”

Bannion switched off the engine and they coasted. They left the jeep in the clotted shadow of a towering Persian oak, and Bannion led the way down a strip of blacktop. He stopped in the shadows just short of where a white gate gleamed in the gibbous moon. At that moment, from afar on the outskirts of the city, a jackal wailed.

“They come in close looking for food,” Bannion said. “Tigers not a hundred miles from here.”

Nick told him to shut up and stand quietly. He was not interested in tigers, other than himself, and the only jackals he cared about were the two-legged variety. He whispered his instructions to Bannion. They would remain in the shadows, and stark still, for twenty minutes. If anyone was watching they should betray themselves by then. In the meantime Bannion, whispering into N3’s ear, was to fill him in on a few matters. Bannion obliged.

He had followed the Nick Carter case in the papers, of course, but only with cursory interest. Until tonight his interest in spies and secret agents had been nil—his chiefest concern being the next drink. Now he probed his alcohol-ridden memory as best he could.

Nick Carter—the man who looked like and was posing as, Nick Carter—had been arrested because of the alertness and loyalty of Sam Shelton’s maid, a Hindu girl. Hindus who worked for Americans were fairly safe in Karachi. The maid had admitted the man calling himself Nick Carter and had left him alone with Sam Shelton. Shelton, she told the police later, had appeared puzzled at first, but glad enough to see the man. They had gone into Shelton’s private office. Later the girl heard angry words and peeked through a keyhole just in time to see the stranger stab Shelton with a small stiletto. The girl had used her head, had not panicked, had called the police immediately from an upstairs phone.

By luck there had been a police car nearly on the spot They captured the killer after a terrific struggle in which a policeman was badly hurt. Once taken, however, the murderer had given no trouble. Not in the ordinary way. In another way he had been enormous trouble. He had identified himself as Nicholas Carter, an American agent, and had cheerfully confessed to killing Sam Shelton. Shelton, the man claimed, was a traitor who was about to defect. He had been killed on orders from Washington. To top it all off the killer demanded diplomatic immunity.

The real N3 whistled softly as he heard this latter. Clever devil! He wondered if the story had been rehearsed, or if the guy had simply made it up as he went along? Anyway it was fiendishly confusing—as the man had meant it to be. The cables and air waves between Washington and Karachi must have been blazing. Nick grinned sourly now as Bannion talked. He could almost smell the mutual distrust. And Hawk—his boss must be nearly out of his mind.

The best—or the worst—was yet to come. Day before yesterday the fake Nick Carter had escaped! Had been delivered from jail by a gang of masked and armed men who left three dead cops behind, plus one of their own. This man had turned out to be a Hindu thug well known to the police, which helped matters not at all.