Free Istanbul by Nick Carter Page B

the champion heavyweight boxer he was, and crossed his right to the cordman's chin. The impact of knuckles on flesh and bone sent a flash of pain as high as his elbow. The cordman's knees sagged, he turned with an odd silly expression on his face and began falling.
    N3 whirled to see the remaining thug diving for the Luger. He had expected that. It was bait, the Luger.
    Nick had only to hold out his arm, straight, with the stiletto pointing like a sixth gleaming metal finger. The man impaled himself on the blade, running on it with a certain crazy eagerness, unable to stop, looking down and watching the sharp steel slide into his guts like a fork into butter. He ran right up against Nick, this nameless hoodlum already dying, and for a moment they stared into each other's eyes.
    There was pain in the Turk's eyes. Pain and total misapprehension about what was happening to him. What could
not
be happening to
him!
His mouth opened and his tongue came out and blood gushed down over a black-stubbled chin. He began to fall slowly. Fall toward Nick, pressing heavier on the stiletto that was killing him, pushing it farther and farther into his stomach.
    N3 stepped quickly back. He whipped out Hugo and let the man fall the rest of the way, crashing to the floor, whipping about like a gaffed fish. Nick took a moment to breathe. He looked down at the dying man, still writhing and bubbling blood. In a voice as cold as an Arctic wind Nick said: "See how you like floating around the Horn, you son of a bitch!"
    Nick scooped up the Luger and put it away. He snapped the little stiletto back into the arm scabbard and moved for the main corridor. As he rounded it he saw Memet, the cop who was supposed to have been guarding Leslie Standish, coming through the curtains at the far end.
    Memet spotted Nick and quickened his pace. Nick saw the wariness in the man as he came toward him. Memet's hand slipped under his jacket to his armpit. Damn it to hell! Couldn't the man have waited one more minute!
    N3 knew he must look like Frankenstein after a hard night. This Turk cop was going to be suspicious as hell. Memet was going to ask questions, a lot of questions, and when Memet saw what was around the corner...
    Nick went into his act. He staggered and fell against the wall, gesturing to the plainclothes-man, calling out in a croaky voice.
    "Imdat! Imdat! Polis! Cabuk gel. Effendim Standish!"
    Memet ran toward Nick. In his hand now was a squat, black bulldog revolver.
"Ne? Ne? Nerede?"
    Nick staggered into the cop, clutching at him, twisting between Memet and the bodies in the short corridor. He pointed to the office door.
"Suraya bakin!
I but came to deliver a message and this I find. Come! See!"
    Nick grabbed Memet's arm and pulled him along toward the office door. He kicked it open and pointed with a trembling finger.
"Surada!"
    Memet hissed in surprise. He pulled away from Nick' and took an instinctive step into the office, toward the body by the desk. The revolver in his hand dropped.
    It was enough. Nick Carter gave the man a violent shove, sent him spinning crazily across the room. Nick slammed the door and turned the old-fashioned key, all in one faster than lightning motion. The key in the office door had been in his mind from the moment he saw the cop.
    Nick ducked low, hugging the wall, and ran for the main corridor, knowing what to expect. It came! From the office came a bellow of rage and a nasty fusillade that ripped the door and sprayed murderously down the short hallway. A slug tapped at Nick's padded shoulder as he made the turn into the corridor.
    That did it, he thought, as he straightened himself and his tie and brushed at the front of his suit. He had a little: blood on him, not much, and though he looked villainous enough it shouldn't matter in a place like
Le Cinema Bleu.
If only there were no
polls
in the immediate vicinity! Memet would be using the phone on Leslie Standish's desk by now — and
Le Cinema
would be ringed by radio