A whistle shrieked inside the room. The jukebox slowly ground into silence. The Amazon, a silver whistle in her blubbery lips, was lining the girls up in single file. They stood listlessly, now that the music was gone. The cameraman was putting a canvas hood over his machine. Apparently, the Devil’s Ballroom was closing for the night.

  The Amazon now opened a door and began nudging the girls through it with her whip. Nick watched her fat lips move as she counted them. Pamela went just as docilely as the rest. He was sure that they all were drugged. Probably, they were kept drugged as long as they were here.

  Nick’s gaze followed Pam as. she went through the door, turned left, and moved downward. There was another level below this, where there must be rooms, or cells, where the girls were kept confined when not working.

  Pam was the last one in line. The brutish woman in black closed the door behind the girl. The cameraman had disappeared through another door. A moment later, the lights flicked out.

  Killmaster tapped the glass thoughtfully. The bars were on the other side of the glass. It was no good, anyway. This was a dead end now. He backed off down the ledge, the trench knife still in his teeth, and descended again to the tarmac. Now that the lights in the ballroom were out it was dark again.

  Then suddenly a light went on in the rear of the garage. Nick heard voices, male voices.

  Soundlessly, he ghosted into the garage in a crouch, skirting a car that looked like a Lincoln. He headed toward the light and the voices.

  A flight of stairs descended transversely across the rear wall of the garage. Nick moved with catlike stealth up the stairs. He could make out words now, in peasant Hungarian. Of course. They were servants. Naturally, Blackstone would have servants. The servants’ quarters must be located up here, entered either through the house or the garage. Nick still had the trench knife in his teeth. He took it out, readied it in his right hand, and shoved the Colt to his left side.

  Nick reached a small landing at the top of the stairs. He paused in front of a door and gently turned the knob. It was unlocked. He eased it open and peered in. A short corridor led straight to another door. There were rooms on both sides of the corridor. Nick heard the sounds of a shower.

  A man called out: “Tibor?”

  From one of the lighted rooms came an answer. “What is it, Gyula? I told you I have a headache. Leave me alone.”

  The man in the shower laughed. “You had too much of the master’s whiskey, that is your trouble. You are not going downstairs tonight, then?”

  “No. I have had them all, anyway.”

  “You fool! A new batch just came in tonight.”

  “I know—I know. You can have them. I am going to try to sleep. This hangover is killing me. I wish I could die.”

  Killmaster grinned.

  “I’m going to have one of the black girls,” said the man in the shower. “Perhaps I will have them both. It will be something new to me.”

  “Good, Go and have them. Only, for God’s sake, shut up. You can tell me about it tomorrow.”

  Nick went in and padded quietly down the short corridor to the lighted doorway. A man lay on a bed with his face buried in the pillow. He groaned. With no humor at all, Nick thought: One hangover cure coming up. He was going to work now and he had to protect his rear. He could afford to leave no loose ends.

  A floorboard creaked as Nick stepped to the bed. The man turned his head and stared up into the black devil’s face. His mouth fell open.

  Nick bashed him at the nape of the neck with the hilt of his trench knife. The man grunted. Nick put a knee in the small of his back, lifted his head, then cut his throat.

  From the shower, the other servant called out, “Did you say something, Tibor?”

  Nick ran lightly down the hall on his toes to the bathroom, and stepped in. There was an old-fashioned tub shower with a yellow curtain. The curtain had a red goose-girl design on it. The man in the shower began to sing.

  Killmaster yanked back the curtain and ended the song with one crushing hand, as he plunged the knife in deep below the ribs on the left side with the other. He let his victim slip into the quickly reddening water in the tub. Then he rinsed his knife and turned off the shower.

  From the clothing in the room, Nick took the only thing he was after—keys. There were a lot of them.

  Pocketing the keys, he hurried to the door at the far end of the corridor and went into a quiet foyer. A single low-watt bulb shone dimly on an inclined ramp leading to a steel door. To his right, an iron staircase spiraled down. He walked softly to the top of the staircase and stood listening. He could see a faint light and heard female voices speaking German. The wolf in Nick smiled in anticipation. “I’ll get to you ladies in a minute!” he whispered joyfully. He went up the ramp to the steel door. It was locked, of course. It must lead into the main house, the upper section, so it probably was kept locked.

  Nick went back to the spiral staircase. He went down very slowly, taking care that his feet made not the slightest audible sound on the iron treads. As he descended, the light grew stronger and the voices louder. Hearing German spoken made Nick’s teeth clench in his blackened face. Old buddies from Belsen, no doubt.

  He surveyed the scene from the hall before he entered the little room. There were two Amazons, the one he had seen in the ballroom and another one who looked like her twin. Altogether, he thought, about five hundred pounds on the hoof. They were having tea with little cakes as they chattered away like monkeys. He saw their whips on a small side table.

  Nick shifted the knife to his left hand, pulled the Colt from his belt, and stepped to the door. “Guten morgen, ladies. No, don’t scream!”

  They did not scream. The tea cups crashed to the floor from paralyzed fat fingers as they stared at Nick without sound. And Nick knew why. These two sadistic bitches had seen far worse sights than a blood-drenched blackamoor with a gun.

  Nick quietly closed the door. The Amazons did not move an inch as he slid a hand into the side pocket of his jacket and slipped on the spiked brass knucks.

  He chose the one he had seen in the ballroom, who herded Pam toward the door, as his first victim. He stepped over to her with an icy smile, and said, “I beg your pardon, gracious Frdulein.” Then he slammed the knucks into her huge head. She oozed from the chair to the floor like a melting mass of lard.

  Nick had to give the other old bag credit. She heaved her great bulk out of her chair and was charging him with a butcher knife.

  Killmaster sidestepped and brought the blade of the trench knife down against her thick wrist. The butcher knife dropped to the floor. He smashed his big fist into the billowing stomach. The Amazon doubled over and began to vomit. Nick grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back and put the point of the knife to her throat. He nodded toward the other woman. “You saw what I did to that one?”

  “Ja. Y-yes.”

  “That is nothing. I have killed two of your people already and I am ready to kill more of them—as many as I must. And I’m ready to kill you, too. You understand?”

  “Yes. B-but do not kill me, bitte! I have done nothing. I am only an old lady who—”

  One guess was as good as another. Nick grianed down at her evilly. “An old lady who used to work at Belsen? Who cannot go back home? Who is wanted for war crimes?”

  Her face drooped.

  “Where are the Blackstones?” He pressed on the knife a little.

  She replied instantly. “In Budapest. They will be back soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “I do not know. Already they are late.”

  “Why did they go to Budapest?”

  The fat shoulders moved very slightly. “Business.”

  “Who else stays here besides Blackstone and his wife?”

  Again the slight shrug. She was staring up at him in unblinking fear. Nick yanked on the graying hair. “Who else?” he repeated gruffly.

  “Only the great lady, the movie star, Mona Manning! But she is not a guest. It is a menage a trois. You understand?”

  He glared at her. “Of course, I understand. They sleep three in a bed. But never mind that. How many girls are downstairs?”

  “Sixteen now. Some new ones came in just this night.”

  Nick removed the knife from her throat and stepped-back. Time was running short now. He stared at the Amazon and she saw something in his eyes, glinting merrcilessly in the black face, that seemed to freeze her blood. She slid from the chair to her knees and clasped her hands around his knees. “Bitte, mein herr—please! Do not—do not—”

  Nick considered her for a moment. It was the noise that was worrying him. “How many others in the house now? I know about the two men upstairs. So don’t lie, or I will kill you!”

  She was swaying back and forth on her knees now. “No others! Only four of us tonight. I swear it. Four have always been enough—there has never been any trouble here and—”

  “There’s trouble tonight,” Said Nick grimly. Then he shot her through the head.

  Without looking at her again, he went to the other one and administered the coup de grace in the back of her head. As he left the little room and ran up the spiral staircase, he was fumbling for the keys in his pocket. Every second counted now.

  He got the steel door open with the third key he tried, and moved like a ghost down a wide, thickly carpeted hall. Then he heard the clicking of a telephone dial. The sound was coming from an alcove near the front door. Nick stopped dead in his tracks; He heard a man’s voice whispering: “Hurry, you fool! Put me through—put me through!”

  The cameraman! Nick had forgotten about him. He moved forward on silent feet to the alcove.

  The little man gasped; dropped the phone, and ran for the front door. At the same time, through a wide expanse of glass that surrounded the door area, Nick saw the flash of headlights coming up the driveway. A shot was impossible now. Nick flipped the trench knife. The man uttered a short screech that ended in a gurgle. He fell to his knees, the knife protruding from his back, and clawed frantically at the door. Nick leaped forward. There was still time. But there must be no betraying blood!

  He broke the man’s neck with a karate blow, then lifted the body to his shoulders, leaving the knife in the wound to decrease the flow of the blood. As he turned and ran back down the hall, the beam of headlights swept across the glass like a. lighthouse beacon. This is going to be a damned close thing, Nick thought.

  To his right was a pair of tall, arched double doors. He tried a knob and the doors opened into a long room. Soft lights glowed along the walls, lights that were not visible from the outside because of heavy drapes. In the middle of the room a large shiny table was set up for a conference, with pads, pencils, glasses, and a water jug. On a nearby tea cart was an assortment of bottles. A conference, tonight maybe! Nick was tempted, but precious seconds were fleeting away. He didn’t want a shoot-out yet. There would be too many of them and they were bound to have armed guards …

  There was a huge fieldstone fireplace running the width of the room to Nick’s right. No help there. He turned left, hoping the dead man on his shoulder was not dripping too much—thank God the carpeting was wine-colored. Then he saw it: the musician’s gallery! Probably built for effect and never used. It blocked off that end of the high-ceilinged room, about fifteen feet above the floor. A narrow flight of stairs climbed one wall.

  Nick Carter ran.

  He was kneeling behind a partition, wiping his bloody knife on the dead man’s shirt, when the door below opened and a huge ceiling chandelier flashed on. Nick peered through the fretwork. He watched five men come in. The last one said something to a couple of guards. They were big, rough-looking men with tommy guns cradled in their arms. Nick sighed. That was that. A change in tactics was called for. The wolf was going to have to turn into a fox.

  With the dispassionate gaze of one who very shortly was either going to kill or imprison all of them, he watched the group gather around the big table. It was a polyglot little gang of killers who were blathering away in Hungarian, French, German, and English. The overhead light was brilliant and Nick had an unimpeded view. He studied each man carefully as they all settled around the table.

  Fang Chi was small, neat, and wiry. He was wearing a well-pressed gray suit, a white shirt, and a dark tie. His raven-black head shone as he opened a heavy briefcase and began arranging papers on the table beside him. “It’s very late,” he said to the table at large. “I must get back to Budapest tonight. So let’s get this over with quickly.”

  “Stay here tonight, Fang. You know you’re welcome, and there is plenty of room. I’ll just ring for Tibor and—” Sybil Blackstone’s invitation was ungraciously interrupted.

  “I cannot! I must get back to the Legation. Now, if you please …”

  Killmaster relaxed. Tibor sure as hell wouldn’t have answered that ring, unless he answered it from hell, and that would have led to complications.

  “Fang is right! It is late. I have to get back to the castle and set up for tomorrow’s shooting. You know how important it is—the Committee is coming. Let’s get on with it!”

  The last voice was deep and vibrant, with a tone of command. Nick studied the speaker with some surprise, for he was strangely dressed. Then he decided that the guy must have come straight from a masquerade ball. The man left the table to fix himself a drink at the tea cart. He was wearing a checked cap, a white scarf around his throat, a Norfolk jacket, and pink twill riding breeches tucked into high, shiny riding boots. The character looked like a 1920 movie director!

  “Speaking of the Committee, Bela, I suppose everything is in order for them?”

  Bela Kojak! Nick surveyed the oddly costumed man with renewed interest. So that was Kojak! He appeared to be higher tip in this unholy group than Paulus Werner had indicated.

  Sybil Blackstone was an emaciated blonde with a wrinkled neck and clawlike hands. Her hair was cut short, in mannish style, and she was wearing a dark tailored suit. Nick, remembering the dead Amazon’s words, smiled to himself. Menage a trois, she had said. It might be interesting, from a clinical point of view, to watch the three of them at play sometime.

  Standing just below Nick now were Mona Manning and Michael Blackstone. The woman was clutching Blackstone’s arm and speaking in a loud, defiant whisper.

  “I’m telling you for the last time, Mike! I simply must have better parts. I’m the star, but I’m not being treated like one! My dressing room is a disgrace! I get no respect, absolutely no respect, from the little snips in the chorus. I won’t stand for it any longer, Mike. I just won’t. One of these days I’m going to walk off the set and never come back. You’ll see!”

  “Now—now, Mona! You must be patient, darling. Everything will be all right. I’ll speak to C.B. tomorrow, in person. I’ll get things straightened out. You go on being the regular trouper you are, honey, and keep giving me those magnificent performances. Okay?”

  The voice was that of a long-suffering man. Nick could very nearly have reached out and touched Michael Blackstone. He looked like a disreputable Lincoln. He was extremely tall, very bony, with a mass of uncombed gray hair. His craggy face had a Lucifer sadness as he tried to soothe the madwoman.

  Mona Manning clung to the tall director. Her voice changed abruptly from that of an angry shrew to a giggling, mindless child. “Oh, Mike, darling! You’re such a doll. I knew you would help me. You always do. Oh, Mike, Mike! Do you really think my come-back is a success? Are we going to have it all again the way it used to be?”

  Killmaster, peering down through the fretwork at Mona Manning, felt a tinge of genuine pity. At this range, and in this merciless lighting, America’s former sweetheart was a sad sight. The mask of heavy makeup she wore could not hide the havoc that time, drugs, booze and mental illness had wrought. The only thing she had left was her figure, which was still lush and full-breasted. Nick remembered the film he had seen her in, recalling the lubricious contortions of this fortyish, still nubile body so close to him now America’s sweetheart had become the slut of the world!

  “Mona, Mike. Come here, please. We need your signatures.” It was Sybil Blackstone. She and Fang Chi were busy with a pile of papers. Bela Kojak, in his outrageous get-up, stood aside and nursed a drink. He looked bored with it all, but Killmaster, appraising him from the gallery, knew that here was the next immediate enemy, the man with the armed guards. Here was the man who had to get to the castle—whatever and wherever that was—and set up for the next day’s shooting—because the Committee was coming?

  Nick listened and learned. Tonight was pay-off night, it appeared, and Fang Chi was paying off with Red Chinese gold. It was a complicated paper arrangement, beginning in Budapest and proceeding through Swiss banks to Hong Kong. Nick filed the details away in his mind for his report—if he lived to make one.

  In five minutes he knew that the “castle” was where the movies were actually being shot. The Committee that was coming tomorrow would be an official Hungarian Government subcommittee in charge of the production of educational and documentary films. Nick smiled. So that was it! The Hungarians did not know about the dirties! This outfit was also making documentaries, thus they had a perfect front for the dirties. That explained why the girls had to be so carefully hidden away and transported to and from work in the vans.

  Fang Chi was stuffing papers into his briefcase. “You are positive that everything is in order at the castle, Bela? We do not want anything to go wrong now. We—my government—is most satisfied with the results so far. The films are having a tremendous propaganda impact. Especially those which feature Mona Manning. We would like many more featuring her, more films like Shame of the Gangsters. That was a masterpiece.”

  Bela Kojak tapped the shiny table with a riding crop, which he apparently had stowed in one of his boots. “I told you, Fang. Everything is in order. I am going to make a last-minute check—if I can ever get away from here—but I assure you that all is well.” He chuckled. “All the—ah—more exotic sets are stored in the dungeons. The girls are safely hidden here. My men know how to keep quiet. They’d better.” He struck the table with the riding crop. “What is there to worry about? The Committee will find nothing but tractors and smiling bumpkins. I am going to use some of the local peasants.”