Hood of Death

Chapter II

Nick remained frozen in place. If the big blond man's blue eyes had tensed or flared Nick would have tried a rolling fall — McDonald's Singapore reliable which had saved a lot of men's lives and gotten a lot of men killed. It all depended on your opposition. The P-38 didn't waver. It might have been thumbscrewed into a test-firing mount.

A short, slim man came into the room behind the big fellow. He had brown skin and features that looked as if they had been smeared on in the dark by the thumb of an amateur sculptor. His face was hard and his mouth expressed a bitterness that must have taken centuries to build up. Nick wondered — Malay, Filipino, Indonesian? Take your pick. There are over 4,000 islands out there. The smaller man held a Walther, too, with nice firmness and pointed at the floor. Another professional. "Nobody else here," he said.

The record player suddenly stopped. That meant a third man.

Big blond regarded Nick impassively, waiting. Then without losing focus on him they roved over Ruth and a flicker of amusement showed at the corner of one lip. Nick let out his breath — when they showed emotion or talked they usually didn't shoot — right away.

"You've got good taste," the man said. "I haven't seen a dish as tasty as that in years."

Nick was tempted to say go ahead and have a meal if that's your thing, but he bit it off. Instead he nodded, slowly.

He turned his eyes sideways without moving his head and saw that Ruth was petrified, standing with the back of one hand pressed against her mouth, the other clenched knuckles-up in front of her navel. Her black eyes were fastened on the gun.

Nick said, "You're scaring her. My wallet is in my pants there. You'll find about two hundred. No use anybody getting hurt."

"That's right. You don't even think about making any fast moves and perhaps no one will be. I'm a believer in self-preservation, though. Jump. Jerk. Reach. I just have to shoot. A man is a fool to take chances. I mean that I would consider myself a fool not to kill you quickly."

"I get your point of view. I'm not even planning to scratch my neck and it's itching."

"Go ahead. Very slowly. Don't want to now? All right." The man ran his eyes up and down Nick's body. "We are built very much alike. You're big all over. Where did you get all those scars?"

"Korea. I was very young and foolish."

"Grenade?"

"Shrapnel," Nick said, hoping the lad hadn't had too many looks at infantry casualties. Shrapnel rarely stitched you on both sides. The collection of scars were his mementos of his years with AXE. He hoped he wasn't about to add to them; P-38 slugs are vicious. A man once took three and is still around — the odds are four hundred to one for surviving with two.

"A brave man," the other said in a tone that was commentary, not compliment.

"I was hiding in the biggest hole I could find. If I could have located a bigger one I'd have been in it."

"This woman is beautiful, but don't you prefer white women?"

"I love to love them all," Nick replied. The guy was supercool or crazy. Cracking like that with a brown man behind him with a gun.

A horrible face appeared in the doorway behind the other two. Ruth gasped. Nick said, 'Take it easy, baby."

The face was a rubber mask worn by a third man of medium size. He had apparently chosen the most horrible one they had in stock, red gaping mouth with protruding teeth, a fake bloody slash down one side. Mr. Hyde on a bad day. He handed a coil of white line and a large jackknife to the small man.

The big man said, "You, girl. Lie down on the bed and put your hands behind you."

Ruth turned to Nick, her eyes wide with terror. Nick said, "Do as he says. They'll clean out the place and they don't want to be followed in a hurry."

Ruth lay down, her hands above her magnificent buttocks. The small man paid no attention to them as he circled the room and efficiently roped her wrists together. Clove hitches, Nick noted, probably a sailor at one time.

"Now you, Mr. Deming," said the man with the gun.

Nick joined Ruth, and felt the reverse coils slipped over his hands and drawn tight. He expanded his muscles to gain some slack but the man wasn't fooling.

The big man said, "We'll be busy here for a while. Behave yourself and when we're gone you can get loose. Don't try it now. Sammy — you watch them." He paused for a moment in the door. "Deming — prove you've really got savoir-faire. Roll her over with your knee and finish what you started." He chuckled and went out.

Nick listened to the men in the other room, guessing at their movements. He heard drawers in the desk open, the shuffle of "Deming's" papers. They explored closets, opened suitcases from the closets and his briefcase, went through the bookcases. This operation was completely mad. He couldn't get two pieces of the puzzle to fit — yet.

He doubted that they'd find anything. The submachine gun above the lamp would only be exposed by really tearing the place apart, the pistol in the garage was in an almost foolproof hiding place. If they drank enough gin to reach that fourth bottle the knock-out drops wouldn't be needed. The secret compartment in the Bird? Let them look. AXE craftsmen knew their business.

Why? The question spun around in his head until it literally hurt. Who? Why? He needed more clues. More talk. If they searched the place and left it would be another wasted evening — and he could already hear Hawk's chuckle at the telling. He'd purse up his thin lips judiciously and say something like — "Well my boy, it's a good thing you didn't get hurt, anyway. You must be more careful of yourself. These are dangerous times. Better stay out of the rougher neighborhoods until I can spare you a partner to work with…"

And he'd be chuckling soundlessly all the time. Nick groaned, a sour sound of disgust. Ruth whispered, "What?"

"Nothing. We'll be all right" And then the idea hit and he thought of the possibilities behind it. The angles. The ramifications. His head stopped hurting.

He took a deep breath, squirmed lower on the bed and worked his knee under Ruth's and levered upwards.

"What are you doing7" Her black eyes gleamed close to his. He kissed her and kept up the pressure until she rolled over onto her back on the king-size bed. He followed her, his knee again thrust between her legs.

"You heard what the man said. He's got the gun."

"My God, Jerry. Not now."

"He wants savoir-faire. We'll follow orders with nonchalance. I'll be in shape in a couple of minutes."

"No!"

"Rather get shot?'"

"NO! But…"

"Do we have a choice?"

Steady, patient training had made Nick the complete master of his body, including his sexual equipment. Ruth felt the pressure against her thigh, rebelled and squirmed violently as he hitched himself across her marvelous body. "NO!"

Sammy woke up. "Hey, what you do?"

Nick tilted his head around. "Just what the boss told us to. Right?"

"NO!" Ruth yelled. The pressure, was hard against her stomach now. Nick wiggled lower. "NO!"

Sammy ran to the door, yelled, "Hans," and returned to stand beside the bed in confusion. Nick noted with relief that the Walther was still pointed at the floor. What a way it would be to go, though. One bullet through you and a beautiful woman at the right moment.

Ruth writhed under Nick's weight, but her own hands, bound and pinned under her, frustrated her attempt to twist away. With both Nick's knees between hers, she was virtually pinioned. Nick pressed his hips forward. Damn. Try again.

The big man burst into the room. "You yell, Sammy?"

The short man gestured at the bed.

Ruth screamed, "NO!"

Hans barked, "What the hell's going on. Cut that noise."

Nick grunted as he strove forward again with his loins, "Just gimme time, old buddy. I'll make it."

A powerful hand grasped his shoulder and slammed him over and onto his back on the bed. "Shut your mouth and keep it shut," Hans snarled at Ruth. He looked at Nick. "I don't want any noise."

"Then why did you tell me to finish the job?"

The blond man put his hands on his hips. The P-38 was out of sight. "By God, man, you're something. You know I made a joke."

"How did I know? You got the guns. I do as I'm told."

"Deming, I'd like to wrestle with you, someday. You wrestle? Box? Fencer'

"A little. Make an appointment."

The big man's face became thoughtful. He shook his head slightly from side to side as if to encourage his brains. "I don't know about you. You're either a nut or the coolest case I've ever seen. If you're not crazy you'd be a good man to have around. How much do you make a year?"

"Sixteen thousand and what I can edge."

"Chicken feed. Too bad you're square."

"I've been wrong a few times, but I've got it made now and I'm not shooting angles any more."

"Where'd you go wrong?"

"Sorry, old pal. Grab your take and travel."

"Looks like I was wrong about you." The man wagged his head again. "Sorry to clean one of the club, but business is slow."

"Ill bet."

Hans turned to Sammy. "Go help Chick pack up. There isn't much." He turned away, then almost as an afterthought picked up Nick's pants, removed the bills from the wallet and tossed it at the bureau. He said. "You two stay still and quiet. You'll get loose soon enough after we're gone. The phone wires are cut. I'll leave the distributor cap from your car near the drive entrance. No hard feelings."

The cold blue eyes fixed on Nick's. "Not a one," Nick answered. "And we'll get to that wrestling match someday."

"Maybe," Hans said, and went out.

Nick rolled off the bed, found a rough edge on the metal frame that supported the box spring, and in about a minute had sawed through the tough cord at the expense of a patch of skin and what felt like a strained muscle. When he popped up off the floor Ruth's black eyes met his. They were wide and staring, yet she didn't seem scared. Her face was composed. "Stay very still," he whispered, and crept to the door.

The living room was empty. He had a strong desire to go for the efficient Swedish submachine gun but if this crew were his first lead, that would be a giveaway. Even oil men who had been around didn't have Tommy guns on tap. He went silently through the kitchen and out the rear door and circled the house to the garage. Beyond the floodlights he saw the car they had arrived in. There were two men beside it. He went around the garage and entered it from the back and twisted the coat hook without taking down the raincoat. The strip of wood swung out and Wilhelmina slid into his hand and he felt the sudden comfort of her weight.

A rock bruised his bare foot as he circled a blue spruce and approached the car from the dark side. Hans came from the patio, and when they turned toward him Nick saw that the two near the car were Sammy and Chick. None of them held guns now. Hans said, "Let's go."

Out of the night Nick said, "Surprise, boys. Don't move. The gun I'm holding is as big as yours."

In silence they turned toward him. "Take it easy, boys. You too, Deming. We can work this out. Is that really a gun you have there?"

"A Luger. Don't move. I'll come forward a little so you can see it and feel better. And live longer."

He stepped into the light and Hans snorted. "Next time, Sammy, we use wire. And you must have done a rotten job with those knots. When we get time I'm going to give you a new education."

"Ah did 'em tight," Sammy snapped.

"Not tight enough. What did you think you were tying up, grain bags? Maybe we better get handcuffs…"

The pointless conversation suddenly made sense. Nick yelled, "Shut up," and started to back up but it was too late.

The man behind him growled, "Hold it, bucko, or you're full of holes. Drop it. That's the boy. Come over, Hans."

Nick gritted his teeth. Smart, that Hans! A fourth man on watch and never exposed. Fine generalship. He was glad, when he awakened, that he had gritted his teeth, otherwise he might have lost several. Hans came up shaking his head, said, "You're something else," and hung a swift left on his jaw that shook the world to pieces for many minutes.

At the very moment that Nick Carter lay tied to the bumper of the Thunderbird, with the world coming and going, the golden pinwheels flashing and the pain throbbing in his head, Herbert Wheeldale Tyson was telling himself what a grand world it was.

For a lawyer from Indiana who had never made over six thousand a year in Logansport and Ft. Wayne and Indianapolis, he had it made in the shade. Congressman for one term before the citizens decided his opponent was a degree less slippery, stupid and self-interested, he had parlayed a few fast Washington connections into a great big thing. You wanted a lobbyist who got things done — you got Herbert, for certain projects. He was well connected at the Pentagon and in nine years he had learned a lot about the oil business and munitions and juice-dripping building contracts.

Herbert wasn't nice, but he was important. You didn't have to like him, you used him. and he delivered.

Tonight Herbert was enjoying himself at his favorite pastime in his small, expensive house on the edge of Georgetown. He was in the big bed in the big bedroom with a big pitcher of ice and the bottles and glasses beside the bed in which a big girl awaited his pleasure.

Right now his pleasure was watching a sex movie on the far wall. A pilot friend brought them in for him from West Germany, where they make them with sock.

He hoped the girl was getting the same lift from them that he was, although it didn't matter. She was a Korean or Mongolian or one of those wog types who worked at one of the trade offices. Dumb, maybe, but the way he liked them — a big body and a beautiful face. He wished those slobs in Indianapolis could see him now.

He felt safe. There was that unpleasantness with the Baumann outfit but they couldn't be as tough as it was whispered. Anyway the house had a complete burglar alarm system and there was a shotgun in the closet and a pistol in the bedside table.

"Watch this, baby," he chortled, and leaned forward.

He felt her move on the bed and something obscured his view of the screen and he raised his hands to push it away. Why, it came right down over his head! Hey.

Herbert Wheeldale Tyson was paralyzed before his hands reached his chin, and dead a few seconds later.