Hood of Death, page 8
part #34 of Nick Carter Series
Nick followed the man, his own steps silent on the thick, smooth grass, and a few minutes later he saw and then felt what he had suspected — the back of the estate was secluded from the main house by a high wire fence whose top was three strands of taut barbed wire which was outlined ominously against the moonlight. He followed the fence across the valley, saw the gate through which the gravel path pierced the fence, and found another gate 200 yards further on which barred the black-topped road. He followed the lush landscaping on the edge of the road, slipped into the parking lot and hid in the shadow of a limousine.
The people in the valley liked big cars — the parking lot, or what he could see of it under the two floodlights, seemed to harbor only cars costing over $5,000. When a shiny Lincoln drove in, Nick followed the two men who got out of it toward the house — keeping a respectful distance in their rear. As he walked he straightened his tie, creased his hat precisely, brushed himself and pulled his jacket smoothly over his big frame. The man who had shambled along the Leesburg street became a respectable-looking man of substance who wore his clothes carelessly and you still knew they were of the finest quality.
The walk from parking lot to house made a gentle curve through the grounds. It was lit by overhead floods at long intervals and foot-level lights spaced frequently in the manicured shrubs that flanked it Nick strolled casually, a dignified guest expecting a welcome. He lit a long Churchill cigar, one of three carried in a neat leather case in one of the many inner pockets of his special jacket It is surprising how few people look suspiciously at a man strolling along enjoying a cigar or a pipe. Run past a cop with your laundry under your arm and you may get shot — stroll past him with the crown jewels in a dispatch case, blowing a blue cloud of fragrant Havana, and the officer nods with respect to your passage.
When he reached the rear of the house Nick hopped over the shrubs into the darkness and headed for the rear area, where lights under metal shields shown on wooden stockades which ought to conceal garbage cans. They did. He popped into the nearest door, saw a hall and a laundry, and followed the hall toward the center of the house. He saw a giant kitchen, but the activities were at the end away from him. The hall ended at a door which opened onto another corridor much more lavishly decorated and furnished than the service hall. Just inside the door, on the service side, were four lockers. Nick quickly opened one, saw brooms and cleaning equipment and tucked his hat behind some mops. He stepped into the main part of the house — and directly into the path of a lean man in a black suit who looked at him questioningly. The expression of question changed to suspicion, but before he could speak Nick raised his hand.
In precise Alastair Williams — but quite hurriedly — he asked: "My dear fellow is there a W.C. on this floor? All this wonderful ale, you know, but I'm most uncomfortable..."
Nick danced from foot to foot, looking imploringly at the man.
"A what? You mean the..."
"A water closet old boy! For God's sake where is the water closet?"
The man suddenly understood and the humor of the situation and his own sadism sidetracked his suspicions. "A closet for water, eh? You want a drink?"
"Heavens, no," Nick exploded. "Thank you..." He turned away, still dancing, letting his face flush until he knew the ruddy features must be glowing.
"Here, Mac," the man said. "Follow me."
He led Nick around a corner, along the rim of a giant room sullen in full oak paneling and hanging tapestries, and into a shallow alcove with a door at the end. "There." He pointed, chuckled — then realizing he might be needling an important guest he went quickly away.
Nick washed, groomed himself carefully, checked his make-up and sauntered back into the large room, drawing luxuriously on the long black cigar. Sounds came from a large archway at the far end. He strolled to it and surveyed a fascinating scene.
The room was a giant oblong with tall French windows at one end and another archway at the other. On a polished floor near the windows seven couples danced to smooth music coming from a stereo console. Near the center of the far wall was a small oval bar around which a dozen men clustered, and in conversation centers formed by colorful U groupings of couches other men chatted, some relaxed, some with their heads together. From the far archway sounded the click-click of billiard balls.
In addition to the women dancing, all of whom looked like polished types — either wives of the wealthy or the more intelligent, expensive whores — there were only four women in the room. Almost all the men had the affluent look. There were a few dinner jackets, but the impression was deeper by far than that.
Nick walked in stately dignity down the five broad steps into the room, unobtrusively studying the occupants. Discard the dinner jackets, imagine these men garbed in the robes of an English gathering at a royal court in feudal England, or assembled after a Bourbon dinner at Versailles. Plump bodies, soft hands, too-quick smiles, calculating eyes, and always the buzz of conversation. Discreet questions, veiled suggestions, complex plans, the threads of intrigues displayed one at a time and woven as circumstances permitted.
He saw several Congressmen, two generals in civilian clothes, Robert Quitlock, Harry Cushing and a dozen other men his photographic mind cataloged from the recent Washington scene. He made his way to the bar, obtained a tall whisky and soda — "No ice if you please" — and turned to meet the questioning glance of Akito Tsogu Nu Moto.
Chapter VI
Nick looked right through Akito and smiled and nodded at an imaginary friend beyond him and turned away. The elder Moto was expressionless as usual — you could not guess what thoughts revolved behind those placid but implacable features.
"Excuse me please," Akito's voice was at his elbow. "You and I have met I think. I find it so hard to remember Occidental features, just as you confuse we Asians I'm sure. I am Akito Moto..."
Akito chuckled politely, but when Nick looked at him again there was no trace of humor in those chiseled brown planes.
"I don't recall, old boy." Nick smiled barely and extended his hand. "Alastair Williams of Vickers."
"Vickers?" Akito seemed surprised. Nick thought rapidly, cataloging the men he had seen here. He went on, "Oil and drilling division."
"Aim! I have met some of your people in Saudi Arabia. Yes — yes — Kirk and Miglierina and Robbins, I think. You know...?"
Nick doubted that he could have made up all the names so quickly. He gambled. "Indeed? Some time ago, I suppose, before the — ah, changes?"
"Yes. Before the — changes." He sighed. "You had an excellent situation there." Akito dropped his eyes for a moment as if in homage to lost profits. Then he smiled with his lips only. "But you have recovered. It is not as bad as it might have been."
"No. Half a loaf and all that."
"I represent Confederation. Are you in a position to discuss...?"
"Not personally. Quentin Smithfield is handling all that You should see him in London. He couldn't come."
"Ah! He is — approachable?"
"Quite."
"I did not know. It is so difficult arranging — around Aramco."
"Quite." Nick took from its case one of the beautifully engraved cards of Alastair Beadle Williams of Vickers, complete with address and a London telephone number which was Vickers — but on the desk of an agent of AXE. With his pen he wrote on the back, 'Met Mr. Moto, Pa. 14 July. A. B. Williams.'
"That should help, old boy."
"Thank you." Akito handed Nick one of his own cards. "We are strongly in the market. I suppose you know? I plan to be in London next month. Ill see Mr. Smithfield."
Nick nodded and turned away. Akito watched him as he put the card carefully away. Then he made a little tent with his hands and thought hard. It was puzzling. Perhaps Ruth would remember. He went to look for his "daughter."
Nick felt a bead of perspiration on his neck and wiped it gently away with his handkerchief. Easy now — his control was better than that. His disguise was superb, but there had been suspicion in the attitude of the Japanese patriarch. Nick moved slowly, limping on his cane. They could tell more sometimes from your gait than from your looks, and he felt the bright brown eyes on his back.
He edged the dance floor — a ruddy, gray-haired British businessman admiring the girls. He saw Anne We Ling, flashing her white teeth at a young executive type. She was dazzling in a sequined split-skirt.
He recalled Ruth's remark; Daddy was supposed to be in Cairo. Ah so? He moved through the room, catching snatches of conversation. This gathering was definitely concerned with oil. Hawk had been misled slightly by what Barney and Bill had gleaned from their telephone taps. Perhaps the other side used steel as a codeword for oil. Pausing near one group he heard, "...$850,000 a year for us and about the same for the government. But on a $200,000 investment you can't complain..."
A British accent said, "...we deserve more of that, really, but..."
Nick got away from there.
He remembered Jeanyee's comment. "We'll be flying mostly or in air-conditioned meeting rooms..."
Where was she? The whole place was air-conditioned. He ambled into a buffet room, threaded through more people in a music room, glanced into a magnificent library and found the front door and went out. No sign of the other girls or Hans Geist or a battered German type who could be Baumann.
He strolled down the walk and circled toward the parking lot. A hard-looking young man posted at the corner of the house eyed him speculatively. Nick nodded. "Charming evening, isn't it, old boy?"
"Yeah."
A genuine Britisher would never use the "old boy" quite as much or to strangers, but it was wonderful for typing you quickly. Nick blew a cloud of smoke and sauntered on. He passed several pairs of men and nodded politely. In the parking lot he wandered along a line of cars, saw no one in them — and suddenly he was gone.
He followed the black-topped road in the darkness until he reached the barrier gate. It was secured by a common, good-quality padlock. In three minutes he had opened it with one of the master picks from his selection and had locked it behind him. It would take him at least one minute to do it again — he hoped he wasn't leaving in a hurry.
The road should wind gently for half a mile and end where the buildings had been shown on the old map, and where he had seen the lights from the height. He walked on, alert, stepping silently. Twice he left the road as cars came through the night, one from the main house and one returning. He rounded a turn and saw the lights of the buildings — a smaller version of the main mansion.
A dog barked and he froze. The sound was ahead of him. He selected a high point and watched until a figure passed between him and the lights, from right to left One of the guards, following the gravel path to the other side of the valley. At this distance, the bark had not been for him — might not have been the guard's dog.
He waited for a long time, until he heard the rattle and clang of a gate and was reasonably certain the guard was going away from him. He circled the larger building slowly, ignoring a ten-stall garage which was in blackness and another barn without lights.
This would not be easy. There was a man beside each of three doors; only the south side was unwatched. He crept through the lush landscaping on that side and reached the first window, a high, wide opening that certainly had been custom-built Cautiously he peeked into a lavishly furnished, empty bedroom — beautifully decorated in exotic modern. He tested the window. Double thermopane and locked. Damn air-conditioning!
He crouched and surveyed his back trail. Close against the house he had the concealment of the neat plantings, but his nearest cover away from the building was across the fifty feet of lawn over which he had approached. If they maintained a close-in dog patrol he might be in trouble, otherwise he would move cautiously, stay away from the lights of the windows as much as possible.
You never knew — his entrance into the valley and investigation of the lavish conference in the big house might all be part of a large trap. Perhaps alerted by "John Villon." He gave himself the benefit of the doubt. Illegal groups had the same personnel problems as corporations and bureaucracies. The heads — Akito, Baumann, Geist, Villon or whoever — might run a tight ship, issuing clear orders and excellent plans. But the troops always displayed the same weaknesses — laziness, carelessness and a lack of imagination for the unexpected.
"I'm the unexpected," he assured himself. He peeked into the next window. It was partially obscured by drapes, but through the centerfolds he surveyed a large room with five-seater couches arranged around a fieldstone fireplace big enough to barbecue a steer and have room left over for several spits of poultry.
Seated on the couches, looking as relaxed as an evening soiree at a Hunter Mountain resort hotel, he saw men and girls; he noted Jeanyee, Ruth, Suzi, Pong-Pong Lily and Sonya Ranyez from their photographs; Akito, Hans Geist, Sammy and a slim Chinese who, by his movements, might have been the man in the mask at the raid on "Deming's" in Maryland.
Ruth and her father must have been in the car that had passed him on the road. He wondered if they had come here specifically because Akito had met "Alastair Williams."
One of the girls was replenishing drinks. Nick noted how swiftly Pong-Pong Lily lifted the table lighter and held it for Hans Geist to light a cigarette. She had that look as she watched the big blond man — Nick filed the observation for reference. Geist sauntered slowly back and forth, talking, and the others listened intently and sometimes laughed at what he said.
Nick watched thoughtfully. What, how, why? Company executives and some of the girls? Not quite. Whores and pimps? No — the atmosphere was right but the attitudes didn't fit; nor was it an ordinary social gathering.
He took out a tiny stethoscope with a short tube and tried it on the double-glass; frowned when he couldn't hear a thing. He had to get into that room or to a point where he could hear. And if he could record some of that conversation on the little machine no bigger than a deck of cards that occasionally irritated his right hip bone — he must speak to Stuart about that — he might have some answers. Certainly Hawk's eyebrows would go up when he played it back.
If he wandered in as Alastair Beadle Williams his welcome would last for ten seconds and he would live for about thirty — there were brains in that bunch. Nick scowled and crept on through the plantings.
The next window looked in on the same room, and so did the one after it The next was a cloak room and lounge with what looked like washrooms leading off from it. The last windows were to a trophy room and library, all dark paneling and rich brown carpeting, where two hard-looking executive types were seated deep in conversation. "I'd like to hear that deal, too," Nick muttered.
He peeked around the corner of the building.
The guard did not look easy. He was an athletic type in a dark suit who evidently took his duties seriously. He bad a camp chair set back in the shrubs, but he didn't stay in it He strolled back and forth, looked at the three floodlights that illuminated the portico area, stared into the night. He never remained with his back to Nick for more than a few moments.
Nick watched him through a screen of bushes. He made a mental check of the dozens of offensive and defensive items in the magician's coat provided by the ingenious Stuart and AXE's technical men. Ah, well — they couldn't think of everything. It was up to him, and the odds were not good.
A man more circumspect than Nick would have weighed the situation and perhaps withdrawn. The idea never even occurred to the Axe agent Hawk thought of as "our best." Nick did remember something Harry Demarkin had once said, "I always push because they don't pay us to lose."
Harry had pushed once too often. Perhaps it was now Nick's turn.
He tried something else. He blanked his mind for a moment, and then pictured the darkness at the road gate. As if his thoughts were a silent movie he constructed a shape that approached the barrier, produced a tool and tampered with the lock. He even imagined the sounds, the clang as the man pulled on the chain.
Holding the picture in his mind he looked at the guard's head. The man started to turn toward Nick, then seemed to listen. He took several steps, seemed uneasy. Nick concentrated, knowing he was helpless if anyone approached him from behind. Perspiration ran down his neck. The man turned. Looked toward the gate. Stepped out on the walk, staring into the night.
Nick took ten silent steps and sprang. A chop, a jab with fingers formed into a rounded spearpoint, and then an arm-lock around the neck for insurance as he dragged the man back toward the corner of the house and into the bushes. It was over in twenty seconds.
Like a cowboy securing a steer after bulldogging it at a rodeo, Nick whipped two short lengths of line from his coat and threw clove hitches and square knots around the man's wrists and ankles. The thin nylon formed tighter manacles than handcuffs. A ready-made gag leaped into Nick's hand — he no more had to think or explore the pockets than a cowboy had to hunt for his pigging strings — and was secured across the man's open mouth. Nick dragged him into the thickest clump of shrubs. He would not awaken for an hour or two.
As Nick straightened car lights flashed at the road gate, paused and came on. He dropped down beside his victim. A black limousine whirled up to the portico and two well-dressed men, both about fifty, got out. A chauffeur type hustled around the car, seemed surprised at the lack of a doorman-guard, and stood for a moment in the light after his passengers had gone into the house.
If he is a friend of the guard it will be all right, Nick reassured himself. Hopefully, he watched. The driver lit a short cigar, glanced around, shrugged and got in and drove back toward the main house. He wasn't going to foul up his buddy who had probably left his post for a good and entertaining reason. Nick sighed with relief. Personnel problems can have advantages.
