Temple of Fear by Nick Carter Page B

truth is, Nick, that many of my people
do
riot. They do loot and bum, in protest against poverty and discrimination. They are a natural tool for the Chicoms. I try to reason with them, but I do not have much success. My people are very bitter."
    Nick shrugged into the old trenchcoat. "Yes. But that's your problem, Kunizo. Mine is to find Richard Philston. So I'll go to work, the sooner the better. One thing, thought — it might help me. What do
you
think that Philston is really up to? His real reason for being in Tokyo? It just might give me a starting place."
    Silence. Behind them the door had stopped moving.
    Matu said: "It is only a wild guess, Nick. Crazy. You must understand that. Laugh if you want to, but I think that Philston is in Tokyo to..."
    The gun behind them coughed nastily in the silence. It was an old-fashioned broom-handle Luger with a relatively low muzzle velocity. The brutal 9mm slug tore away most of Kunizo Matu's face. His head jerked backward. His body, laden with fat, did not move for a split instant. Then he fell forward, smashing the little table to splinters, spewing blood on the
totami,
crushing the Buddha model.
    By that time Nick Carter had hit the deck and was rolling to his right. He came up in a crouch with the Colt in his hand. He saw a vague figure, a blurred shadow, moving away from the door. Nick fired from his crouch.
    BLA M-BLAM-BLA M-BLAM
    The Colt roared like a canon in the silence. The shadow vanished and Nick heard footsteps pounding down the hali. He went after the sound.
    The shadow was just going out the door.
BLAM-BLAM.
The heavy .45 was waking the echoes. And the neighborhood. Carter knew that he had only minutes, perhaps only seconds, to get the hell out of there. He did not look back at his old friend. That was over now.
    He ran out into the rain and the first false hint of dawn. There was light enough to see the assassin making a left turn down the way that he, and Nick, had come in. It was probably the only way in and out. Nick pelted after him. He did not fire again. It was pointless, and already he had the gut-churning feeling of failure. The bastard was going to get away.
    When he got to the turn there was no one in sight. Nick ran down the narrow passage that led back to the flophouses, slipping and sliding in the filth underfoot. Voices were all around him now. Babies crying. Women questioning. Men moving, and wondering.
    At the stairs the old beggar still crouched beneath his rain mat. Nick touched his shoulder. "Papa-san! Did you see..."
    The old man fell over like a broken doll. The ugly gash in his throat stared up at Nick like a silent and reproving mouth. The mat under him was drenched in red. In one gnarled hand he still clutched the crisp bill Nick had given him.
    "Sorry, Papa-san." Nick vaulted up the steps. Despite the rain it was growing lighter by the minute. He had to get out of there. Now! No point at all in hanging around. The assassin had gotten clean away, lost in the maze of slums, and Kunizo Matu was dead, the cancer was cheated. Take it from there.
    The police cars came into the street from opposite directions, two of them neatly blocking all escape. Two spotlights fixed him like a moth on cork.
    "Tomarinasai!"
    Nick stopped. There was a strong odor of frame-up and he was in the middle of it. Someone had been using a telephone and the timing was exquisite. He dropped the Colt and kicked it down the stairs. There was a chance, if he could engage their attention, that they wouldn't see it. Or find the dead beggar. Think fast, Carter! He did think fast and went into his act. He put up bis hands and walked slowly toward the nearest police car. He might get away with it. He had drunk just enough saki to have the smell on him.
    He walked in between the two cars. They were halted now, engines purring softly, turret lights sparking around and around. Nick blinked in the glare of the headlights. He scowled, managed to lurch a little. He was Pete Fremont now