Hood of Death (11 page)

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.

He went swiftly to the door and peered through the small glass pane. The men had disappeared. He opened the door, slipped through, and ducked into what had looked like a cloak room with washrooms.

The room was empty. He peeked back into the hall. Now was the time if ever — while the newcomers were the center of attention.

He took a step forward and a voice behind him said questioningly, "Hello...?

He whirled. One of the men from the trophy room looked at him suspiciously. Nick smiled. "I've been looking for you!" he said with enthusiasm he did not feel. "Can we talk in there?" He stepped to the trophy room door.

"I don't know you. What...?"

The man followed automatically, his expression hardening.

"Look at this." Nick conspiratorally produced a black notebook, concealed it in his hand. "Come out of sight. We don't want Geist to see it."

The man followed, scowling. The other man was still in the room. Nick grinned broadly and called, "Hello. Take a look at this."

The seated man stepped forward to join them, his expression one of complete suspicion. Nick pushed the door shut The second man reached inside his coat. Nick moved fast. He hooked his powerful arms around their necks and rapped their heads together. They went down, one silent, one moaning.

As he gagged and bound them, after tossing an S & W Terrier .38 and a Spanish Galesi .32 behind a chair, he was glad he had used restraint. These were older men — probably attendees, not guards or Geist's boys. He stripped their pockets and wallets of papers and cards, stowing them in a trouser pocket. No time to study them now.

He checked the hall. It was still empty. He slipped silently along it, saw the group around the fireplace in intent and cheerful conversation, and crawled behind a couch. He was too far away — but he was
in.

He thought,
A real Alastair would say "In for a penny, in for a pound."
O.K.! All the way!

Halfway down the room there was another conversation center — a grouping of furniture beside the windows. He crawled to it and found concealment between tables at the back of a couch. They held lamps, magazines, ashtrays and cigarette boxes. He rearranged some of the articles to make a barrier through which he could peek.

Ruth Moto was serving the newcomers drinks. They remained standing, as if they came for a purpose. When Jeanyee arose and went to the further of the men — a bankerish type who wore a meaningless permanent smile — the purpose was clear. She said, "I'm so glad I pleased you, Mr. Carrington. And I'm awfully glad you came back."

"I like your brand," the man said heartily, but his jovial attitude looked false. He was still a Do-Right Daddy with his provincial mentality screwed up too tight to ever be at ease with a pretty girl — especially a high-class whore. Jeanyee took his arm and they strolled through an archway at the far side of the room.

The other man said, "I... I'd like to... to meet... to go with Miss... ah, Miss Lily." Nick grinned. He was up so tight he couldn't talk. A first-rate house of assignation in Paris or Copenhagen or Hamburg would show those two the door — politely.

Pong-Pong Lily got up and strolled to him, a dream picture of liquid loveliness in a pink cocktail dress. "You flatter me, Mr. O'Brien."

"You look the... the prettiest to me." Nick saw Ruth's eyebrows rise at the boorish remark and Suzi Quong's face hardened slightly.

Pong-Pong put a graceful hand on his arm. "Shall we..."

"We sure shall." O'Brien took a long pull at his glass and walked with her, carrying the drink. Nick hoped he had an early date with his confessor.

When the two couples had gone Hans Geist said, "Don't feel hurt, Suzi. He's just a countryman who has had a lot to drink. I'm sure you delighted him last night. I'm sure
you're
one of the prettiest girls
he's
ever seen."

"Thanks, Hans," Suzi answered. "He's not so much. A real rabbit, and oh so very tense. I felt uneasy with him all the time."

"He just went straight?"

"Oh, my yes. He even asked me to put out the light when we were half undressed." Everybody laughed.

Akito said kindly, "A girl as lovely as you cannot expect every man to appreciate her, Suzi. But remember — every man who truly knows beauty, will admire you. Every one of you girls is an outstanding beauty. We men know that and you suspect it. But beauty is not rare. To find girls like you with beauty and intelligence, ahl — there is the rare combination."

"Plus," Hans added, "you are politically informed. In the vanguard of society. How many girls are there in the world like that? Not very many. Anne — your glass is empty. Another?"

"Not right now," the beauty cooed.

Nick frowned. What was this? Talk about treating a duchess like a whore and a whore like a duchess! This was a prostitutes' paradise. The men were in the role of pimps but they behaved like visitors to a finishing school tea dance. And yet, he thought reflectively, it's an excellent tactic. Effective with women. Madame Bergeron built one of the most famous houses in Paris and accumulated a fortune with it.