Hood of Death (8 page)

He cooperated and contributed and was grateful for his good luck. In his lifetime he had had more than his share of sensual sessions, earning them not by chance, he knew, but thanks to his physical attraction for women.

With Jeanyee — as with others who
needed
affection and only required the right offer of exchange to open wide their hearts, minds, and bodies — the sale was made. With tenderness and finesse, Nick delivered the goods.

As he lay with damp black hair draped across his face, tasting its texture reflectively with his tongue and wondering again what the perfume was, Nick thought,
Excellent, outstanding.
In the last two hours he had embraced joy — and he was sure he had given as good as he got.

The hair was drawn slowly from contact with his skin and replaced by sparkling black eyes and an impish grin — a full-size female elf looming in the dim light of the single lamp which he had further muted by tossing his robe over
it.
"Happy?"

"Stunned. Super-thrilled," he answered very softly.

"I feel that way too. You know that."

"I sense it."

She rolled her head onto his shoulder, the giant elf all soft and blending to his length. "Why can't people be happy with that? They get up and argue. Or leave without a kind word. Or men go away from it to drink or to fight stupid wars."

"It means," Nick said after considering the words with surprise, "most people don't have it. They're too tense or self-centered or inexperienced. How often do two people like ourselves get together? Both givers. Both patient. You know — everyone thinks they are born gamblers, conversationalists and lovers. Most people never discover they don't really know a damn thing about any of them. As far as digging in and learning and developing skill — they never bother."

"You think I'm skillful?"

Nick reflected on the six or seven varieties of skill she had exhibited so far. "You're very skillful."

"Watch."

A golden elf flipped to the floor with the ease of an acrobat. He caught his breath at the artistry of her movements and the undulating perfect curves of her breasts and hips and rump caused him to run his tongue over his lips and swallow. She stood wide-legged, smiled at him, then bent backward and suddenly her head appeared between her legs, the red lips still upcurved. "Did you ever see
this
before?"

"Only on a stage!" he propped himself up on an elbow.

"Or this?" She swung slowly upright, bent over and placed her hands on the wall-to-wall carpeting, and then smoothly, an inch at a time, raised her trim toes until their pink nails pointed at the ceiling, then lowered then toward him until they just missed the bed and reached the floor with her body bent in a hairpin arc.

He was looking at half a girl. An interesting half, but strangely disturbing. In the pale light she was cut off at the waist. Her soft voice came from out of sight. "You're an athlete, Jerry. You are a mighty man. Can you do this?"

"Heavens no," he answered in genuine awe. The half-body grew into a tall, golden girl again. A dream arising, laughing. "You must have practiced all your life. Are you — were you in show business?"

"When I was small. We exercised every day. Often two or three times a day. I've kept it up. I think it's good for you. I've never been ill in my life."

"It must be a big hit at parties."

"I never perform any more. Only like this. For someone who is especially nice. It has other uses..." She lowered herself on top of him, kissed him, drew back to regard him thoughtfully. "You are ready again," she said with surprise. "A mighty man."

"Watching you do that would put life in every statue in town."

She chuckled, rolled from him, and then wiggled lower until be was looking down at the crown of black hair. Then she reversed herself on the bed and the long, supple legs swung 180 degrees, an effortless arc, until she was bent more than double again, curled back upon herself.

"Now, darling." Her voice was muffled against her own stomach.

"Now?"

"You'll see. It will be different."

As he complied Nick felt an unusual stimulation and eagerness. He prided himself on his perfect self-control — dutifully went through his Yogi and Zen exercises daily — but he needed no self-urging now.

He swam into a warm cavern where a beautiful girl awaited him but he could not touch her. He was alone and with her at once. He went all the way, floating on his crossed arms, resting his head on them.

He felt the silky tickle of her hair floating on his thighs and he thought he might withdraw from the depths for a moment but a great fish with a moist and gentle mouth caught the twin globes of his maleness and for another instant he fought against losing control but the delight was too great and he closed his eyes and let the sensations sweep through him in the sweet darkness of the friendly depths. It was unusual. It was rare. He floated in red and dark purple and transformed himself into a living missile of unknown size, tingling and throbbing on a launching pad beneath a secret sea until he pretended that he willed it but knew he was helpless as with a surge of delicious power he was fired into space or from it — it made no difference now — and the booster rockets joyfully burst in a chain of enthusiastic assists.

When he looked at his watch it was 3:07. They had napped for twenty minutes. He stirred and Jeanyee awoke as he always did — instantly and cat-alert. 'Time?" she asked with a contented sigh. When he told her she said, "I'd better get home. My family is tolerant but..."

On the way to Chevy Chase Nick convinced himself he mould see Jeanyee again very soon. Thoroughness often paid off. Time enough to double-check Anne and Suzy and the rest. To his surprise she refused to make any date.

"I've got to go out of town on business," she said. "Call me week after next and I'd love to see you — if you still want to."

"I'll call you," he said, and he meant it. He knew some lovely girls ... some featured beauty, some intelligence, some passion, and several had combined assets. But Jeanyee Ahling was something else!

Then there was the question — where was she going on business? Why? With whom? Could it connect to the unexplained deaths or the Baumann Ring?

He said, "I hope your business trip is to a place away from this hot spell. No wonder the British pay a tropical bonus for Washington duty. I wish you and I could slip off to the Catskills or Asheville or Maine."

"It would be nice," she replied dreamily. "Perhaps some day. We're very busy right now. We'll be flying mostly. Or in air-conditioned meeting rooms." She was drowsy. The pale gray first light of dawn was easing the blackness when she directed him to stop near an older ten- or twelve-room house. He parked behind a screen of shrubbery. He decided against trying to pump her further — Jerry Deming was making good progress in all departments and it would be senseless to ruin everything by pushing too hard.

He kissed her for several minutes. She whispered, "It's been great fun, Jerry. Think about whether you'd like me to put you in touch with my cousin. 1 know there's real money in the way he handles oil."

"I've decided. I want to meet him."

"Good. Call me week after next."

And she was gone.

He enjoyed the drive back to the apartment. You could think when a fresh, still cool day was breaking and the traffic was light. A milkman waved at him when he braked to let him cross and he waved heartily back.

He considered Ruth and Jeanyee. They were angle-shooters from a long line of promoters. You hustled or you starved. They could want a Jerry Deming because he appeared to be a hard-nosed, experienced type in a business where money poured in if you had any luck at all. Or they could be his first valuable contacts with something both complex and deadly.

He set the alarm for 11:50 a.m. When he awakened he started the swift Farberware percolator and called Ruth Moto.

"Hi, Jerry..." She didn't sound ill.

"Hi. Sorry you felt badly last night. All better now?"

"Yes. I woke up feeling perfectly grand. I hope I didn't annoy you by leaving, but I might have been sick if I stayed. Certainly poor company."

"As long as you feel well again everything is fine. Jeanyee and I had a nice time." Oh, man, he thought, you can put that in lights. "How about dinner this evening to make up for your wasted night?"

"Love it."

"By the way — Jeanyee tells me she has a cousin in the oil business and I might fit in somehow. I don't want you to feel that I'm putting you on the spot, but — do you know if she and her business connections are solid?"

"You mean — can you trust Jeanyee's judgment?"

"Yes, that's it."

There was a silence. Then she replied, "I think so. She may get you closer to — your field."

"O.K., thanks. And what are you doing next Wednesday night?" The urge to ask the question came to Nick as he remembered Jeanyee's plans. What if several of the mysterious girls were going away on "business?" "I'm going to an Iranian do at the Hilton — like to go?"

She sounded genuinely regretful. "Oh Jerry, I'd love to, but I'm going to be tied up all week."

"All week! Are you going away?"

"Well — yes, I'll be out of town most of the week."

"It'll be a dull week for me," he said. "See you about six, Ruth. Pick you up at your home?"

"Please."

After he hung up he sat down on the carpet in the lotus position and began a run-through of Yoga breathing and muscular control exercises. He had progressed — after some six years of practice — to the point where he could look at the pulse in the wrist upturned on his bent knee and see it quicken or slow down as he willed it After fifteen minutes he deliberately turned his mind back to the problem of the strange deaths, the Baumann Ring, and Jeanyee and Ruth. He liked both the girls. They were strange in certain ways, but the unique and different had always intrigued him. He ran through the events in Maryland, Hawk's comments and Ruth's odd illness at the Cushing dinner. You could make a pattern out of them, or you could admit that the linking threads might all be coincidence. He could not recall feeling quite so helpless on a case... with a choice of answers but nothing to check them against.

He dressed in maroon slacks and a white polo shirt and went down and drove him toward Gallaudet College in the Bird. He followed New York Avenue, turned right on Mt. Olivet and saw the man waiting for him at the junction with Bladensburg Road.

The man had the double invisibility of complete ordinariness plus a shabby, slump-shouldered dejection which caused you to subconsciously pass him by quickly in order that the poverty or unhappiness of his world should not invade your own. Nick stopped, the man climbed in quickly and he drove on toward Lincoln Park and the John Philip Sousa Bridge.

Nick said, "When I saw you I wanted to buy you a square meal and tuck a five-dollar bill in your shabby pocket."

"You may," Hawk replied. "I haven't had lunch. Pick up some hamburgers and milks at that place near the Naval Annex. We can eat them in the car."

Although Hawk did not acknowledge the compliment, Nick knew he enjoyed it. The older man could do wonders with a shabby jacket Even a pipe or cigar or old hat could change his appearance completely. It was not the object... Hawk had the
knack
of becoming old and worn and dejected, or arrogant and stiff and pompous, or dozens of other types. He was an expert at genuine disguise. Hawk could disappear because he became everyman.

Nick described his evening with Jeanyee. "...then I took her home. She'll be away next week. I think Ruth Moto will be too. Could they all be getting together somewhere?"

Hawk took a slow sip of milk. "Took her home at dawn, eh?"

"Yes."

"Oh, to be young again and out in the field. You entertain beautiful girls. Alone with them for — would you say four or five hours? I slave in a dull office."

"We talked about Chinese jade," Nick said blandly. "It's her hobby."

"I happen to know Jeanyee's hobbies include some with more action."

"So you don't spend all your time in the office. Which disguise did you use? I'd guess something like Clifton Webb in the old movies on TV?"

"You're close. Do you youngsters good to see the polished techniques." He dropped the dead pan and chuckled. Then went on, "We have an idea where the girls may be going. There's a week-long party — it's called a business conference — at the Lord estate in Pennsylvania. Top drawer international businessmen. Primarily steel, aircraft and of course munitions."

"No oil men?"

"No. Your Jerry Deming role wouldn't go over, anyway. You've met too many people lately. But you're the man who ought to go."

"What about Lou Karl?"

"He's in Iran. Deeply involved. I wouldn't want to bring him out."

"I thought of him because he knows the steel business. And if the girls are there, any identity I take will have to be a complete cover."

"I doubt that the girls will circulate among the guests."

Nick nodded gravely, watching a DC-8 pass a smaller plane in the dense Washington pattern. At this distance they looked dangerously close. "I'll go in. It may be all a false lead, anyway."

Hawk chuckled. "If that's a try at getting my opinion it's going to work. We know about the get-together because we've been monitoring the central telephone board for six days now without more than thirty minutes off. I'd say we're smelling something big and magnificently organized. If they're responsible for the recent deaths that were allegedly natural, they're ruthless and skillful."

"You deduce all this from the phone taps?"

"Don't try to draw me out, my boy — that's been attempted by experts." Nick suppressed a grin as Hawk went on, "All the bits and pieces don't fit, but I smell a pattern. You go in there and find out how it fits together."