Free Double Identity by Nick Carter Page B

sat on the bed and rubbed his forehead. His eyes were pits of flame and an anvil was bouncing about in his skull. He looked sheepishly at Hafed. “Sorry—guess I’ve been away for awhile. What time is it? What day? And weren’t you saying something about Chinese soldiers?”
    Hafed plucked at his sleeve. “You come now. Make fast! I show you what I find—we talk then.”
    Nick followed Hafed through the wall behind the brass monkey. The passage was narrow and high and surprisingly warm. It led steadily downward. Butter lamps in iron sconces showed them the way.
    “I sleep with many She Devils,” Hafed explained as they went. “Some talk, some not. One talk a lot. After she go to sleep—sleep now. She take sanga root, I do not. I not need root. While she sleep I think what she talk—some very funny business go on. Is good time for looking— so I look. All She Devils at prayers and meditation now, you see. I find this place.”
    “Good for you,” grunted Nick. He sounded surly, was, and instantly regretted it. This loyal little guy had gotten him out of a hell of a jam! Was trying to, at any rate. They weren’t out of it yet! N3 was coming back fast now and the enormity of his lapse was growing on him. He had been sick as hell, of course, but that was no excuse. Not in an AXE man. He cursed himself briefly, then his jaw took the familiar jut and he moved back into command. What was done was past repairing. Now he must salvage what he could—forget everything but the future and the mission.
    They rounded a sharp turn in the passage and came to an iron door. It was half open. Hafed pointed to the door. “In there, sar. Most interesting.”
    It was a small room well lit by butter lamps. There was a table and chairs. On the table lay Nick’s weapons. He inspected them. They seemed intact, in working order. As he was checking the Luger Hafed said, “Maybe you look in that door, sar. Also most of interest.” He pointed to another iron door set into the far wall of the little room. Nick went to it and pulled it open. Instantly the sickening odor of decaying flesh smote his nostrils.
    N3 took a step backward, grimacing. He had seen too much of death for it to hold any terrors for him, but this was nasty! Over his shoulder he said, “Who is she?”
    Hafed’s voice was soft in the little room. “I think maybe the real Dyla Lotti, sar.”
    The open door revealed a space not much bigger than a closet. Chained to the wall was the near skeleton of a woman. Leathery shreds of flesh still clung to the fragile bones and her hair was white. The eyes had rotted, and most of the nose, and the flesh around the mouth had fallen away to reveal long yellow teeth fixed in an eternal grin. Nick closed the door, remembering the youthful perfection of Dyla Lotti’s body. Dyla Lotti? But Hafed had just said—
    Nick dropped his robe and began to strap the chamois sheath on his right forearm. His face was rigid, hard beneath the stubble. “Tell me,” he ordered Hafed. “What’s your idea about all this—what makes you think that”—he nodded toward the closet—”is the real Dyla Lotti?”
    Hafed squatted, his back to the open door leading into the corridor. He produced a murderous looking knife and began to whet it on a calloused palm.
    “I hear many thing while making love to She Devils,” he explained. “I already tell that. Last one I have, she now sleeping, hates Dyla Lotti. Talk about her a lot. But she talk of old woman!”
    Hafed pointed to the closet. “She old! And all She Devils say have not seen Dyla Lotti in long time— she much sick and stay in her own rooms. Lamasery is run by Number Two She Devil—name of Yang Kwei! That Chinese name, I think. I ask—find that Number Two Abbess is half Chinese. Not here long. My She Devil say that real Dyla Lotti get much sick as soon as Yang Kwei come—they never see her again. Stay room. Yang Kwei fix all meals, take care of old woman.”
    Hafed jabbed his knife into