Hood of Death

Chapter IV

Because the real Nick Carter was the kind of a man who drew people to him, both men and women, when the girls returned to the conservatory they saw him from the balcony in the center of a good-sized group. He was chatting with an air force single-star about artillery tactics in Korea. Two entrepreneurs he had met at the newly reopened Ford's Theatre were trying to get his attention to talk oil. A ravishing redhead he had exchanged warm remarks with at an intimate little party was talking with Pat Valdez while she looked for on opening to get Nick's eye. Several other assorted couples had said, "Hey, there's Jerry Deming!" — and were pushing in.

"Look at that," Ruth said. 'The personality kid. He's too good to be true."

"That's oil," Jeanyee replied.

"That's charm."

"And salesmanship. I'll bet he sells that stuff by the tanker-load."

"He does, I think."

The girls sweetly penetrated the knot of bodies. Ruth claimed Nick and Jeanyee reached Pat as the soft tones of chimes sounded over the PA system and hushed the crowd.

"Sounds like the SS UNITED STATES," the redhead chirped loudly. She had almost made it to Nick, and now he was lost to her for the time being. He saw her from the corner of his eye, filed the fact for reference, but made no sign.

A man's voice said over the PA loudspeakers, in dulcet oval tones that sounded professional, "Good evening everyone. The Cushings welcome you to the All Friends dinner party, and have asked me to say a few words. This is the eighty-fifth anniversary of this dinner, which was started by Napoleon Cushing for a most unusual purpose. He wished to acquaint the philanthropic and idealistic Washington community with the need for more missionaries in the Far East, especially in China. For many years the dinner parties were influential in obtaining many kinds of support for this noble effort."

Nick took a gulp of the drink he had been nursing and thought, Oh, man, tuck Buddha in a basket. Build me a home where the water buffalo roam out of kerosene and gasoline tins.

The unctuous voice went on. "For some years, due to circumstances, this project has been somewhat curtailed, but it is the sincere hope of the Cushing family that the good works will soon be resumed.

"Due to the present size of the annual dinner, tables have been placed in the Madison Dining Room, the Hamilton Room in the left wing and in a large room at the rear of the house."

Ruth squeezed Nick's hand and said with a tiny giggle, "The gymnasium."

The speaker concluded, "Most of you have been advised where your place cards can be found. If you are not sure, the butler at the entrance to each room has a guest list and can advise you. Dinner will be served in thirty minutes. The Cushings say again — thank you all for coming."

Ruth asked Nick, "Have you been here before?"

"No. I'm working my way up."

"Come on and see the things in the Monroe Room. It's as interesting as a museum." She motioned to Jeanyee and Pat to follow and threaded away from the group.

It seemed to Nick they walked a mile. Up wide stairways, through great halls like hotel corridors, except that the furnishings were varied and expensive and every few yards a servant stood at attention to provide guidance if required. Nick said, "They have their own army."

"Almost. Alice said they employed sixty people before they cut the staff a few years ago. Some of these were probably hired for the occasion."

"They impress me."

"You should have seen the do a few years ago. They were all dressed as French court servants. Alice had something to do with modernizing that."

The Monroe Room offered an impressive selection of art objects, many of them priceless, guarded by two private detectives and a dour man who looked like an old family retainer. Nick said, "It warms the heart, doesn't it?"

"How?" Jeanyee asked curiously.

"All these wonderful things given to the missionaries, I suppose, by your grateful countrymen."

Jeanyee and Ruth exchanged glances. Pat seemed to want to chuckle but thought better of it. They went out another door and found their way to the Madison dining room.

The dinner was magnificent, ranging through fruit and fish and meat. Nick identified guy choy ngow tong, Lobster Cantonese, soot dow chow gee yok, and Bok choy ngow before he gave up as a simmering slice of Chateaubriand was placed before him. "Where can we put it?" he murmured to Ruth.

"Try, it's delicious," she answered. "Frederick Cushing IV selects the menu personally."

"Which is he?"

"Fifth from the right at the head table. He's seventy-eight. On a bland diet, himself."

"I'll be with him after this."

There were four wine glasses at each setting, and they were not allowed to remain empty. Nick sipped a half-inch from each and responded to several toasts, but a fair majority of the diners were flushed and flying high by the time the gay don go— steamed sponge cake with pineapple and whipped cream — arrived.

Then things happened smoothly and rapidly and to Nick's complete satisfaction. The guests drifted back to the conservatory and tent where the bars now dispensed coffee and liqueurs in addition to great quantities of alcohol in almost every form devised by man. Jeanyee told him she had not come to the dinner with Pat… Ruth suddenly had a headache, "All that rich food"… and he found himself dancing with Jeanyee while Ruth disappeared. Pat paired with the redhead.

Shortly before midnight Jerry Deming was paged and handed a note: My dear, I'm ill. Nothing serious, just too much food. I've gone home with the Reynolds. You might offer Jeanyee a ride to town. Please call me tomorrow. Ruth.

He gravely handed the missive to Jeanyee. The black eyes sparkled and the magnificent body came into his arms. "I'm sorry for Ruth," Jeanyee murmured, "but delighted by my luck."

The music was smooth and the floor less crowded as the wine-heavy guests drifted away. As they circled slowly in a corner Nick asked, "How do you feel?"

"Splendid. I have an iron digestion." She sighed. "It's a sumptuous affair, isn't it?"

"Sumptuous. All it needs is Basil Zaharoff's ghost popping out of the swimming pool at midnight."

"Was he fun?"

"The most."

Nick inhaled her perfume again. It invaded his nostrils from her glossy hair and gleaming skin and he savored it like an aphrodisiac. She pressed against him with a soft persistence that suggesteed affection, passion, or a blend of both. He felt a warmth at the back of his neck and far down his spine. You could raise quite a temperature with Jeanyee and about Jeanyee. He hoped she wasn't a black widow spider taught to flutter gorgeous butterfly wings as bait. Even if she was, it would be interesting, perhaps delightful, and he looked forward to meeting the talented man who tutored such skills.

An hour later he was in the Bird, humming toward Washington at an easy speed, with the fragrant and warm Jeanyee nestled in the curve of his arm. He reflected that the switch from Ruth to Jeanyee might have been contrived. Not that he minded. For his AXE assignment or personal enjoyment he would take either or both. Jeanyee seemed very cooperative — or perhaps it was the booze. He squeezed her. Then thought — but first…

"Darling," he said, "I hope Ruth is all right. She reminds me of Suzi Quong. Do you know her?"

The pause was too long. She had to decide whether to lie, he guessed, then she concluded truth was most logical and safest. "Yes. But how? I don't think they're very much alike."

"They have the same kind of Oriental charm. I mean you know what they are saying but often you can't guess what they are thinking, but you know it would be damned interesting if you could."

She thought that one over. "I see what you mean, Jerry. Yes — they're sweet girls." She slurred the tones and rolled her head gently on his shoulder.

"And Anne We Ling," he went on. "There's a girl always makes me think of lotus blossoms and fragrant tea in a Chinese garden."

Jeanyee just sighed.

"Do you know Anne?" Nick insisted.

Again the pause. "Yes. Naturally girls of the same background who bump into each other a lot tend to get together and exchange notes. I guess I know a hundred nice Chinese girls in Washington." They drove silently for several miles. He wondered if he had gone too far, relying on the alcohol in her. He was afraid he had when she asked, "Why are you so interested in Chinese girls?"

"I was in the East for a while. Chinese culture intrigues me. I like the atmosphere, the food, the traditions, the girls…" He cupped a generous breast and caressed it ever so gently with his sensitive fingers. She snuggled.

"That's nice," she murmured. "You know the Chinese are good business people. Almost anywhere we land we do well in trade."

"I've noticed. I've dealt with Chinese firms. Reliable. Good credit."

"Do you make a lot of money, Jerry?"

"Enough to get by on. If you want to see how I live — let's stop at my place for a nightcap before I take you home."

"O.K.," she drawled languidly. "But by money I mean making some for yourself, not just earning a wage. So that it comes in in nice thousand-chunks and maybe you don't have to pay too much tax on it. That's the way to make money."

"Indeed it is," he agreed.

"My cousin is in the oil business," she went on. "He was talking about getting another partner. No investment. The new man would be guaranteed a handsome salary if he had real experience in oil. But if they do well he'd share in the profits."

"I'd like to meet your cousin."

"I'll mention it when I see him."

"I'll give you my card so he can call me."

"Please do. I'd love to help you." A slim, strong hand squeezed his knee.

Two hours and four drinks later the lovely hand was squeezing the same knee with a much firmer touch — and touching a lot more of him. Nick had been pleased at the ease with which she had agreed to stop at his apartment before he drove her home to what she described as "the place the family bought in Chevy Chase."

Drink? She was hollow, but hardly another word could he pry from her about her cousin or the family business. "I help in the office," was all she added, as if she had an automatic silencer.

Play? She made not the slightest protest when he suggested that they remove their shoes for comfort — then her dress and his striped pants…"so that we can relax and not get them all wrinkled."

Stretched on the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the Anacostia River, with the lights low, the music soft and the ice and soda and whisky tucked beside the couch so that he wouldn't have to move too far, Nick thought contentedly, What a way to make a living.

Jeanyee partially stripped was Jeanyee more gorgeous than ever. She wore a silk half-slip and strapless bra, and her skin was the tasty hue of a golden-yellow peach at the instant of firm ripeness before the red softness takes over. Her hair was, he thought, the color of new oil gushing into storage tanks on a dark night — black gold.

He kissed her thoroughly but not with the continuity that would bore her. He caressed and stroked her and let her dream. He was patient, until out of the silence she said suddenly, "I can feel you, Jerry. You want to make love to me, don't you?"

"Yes."

"You're an easy man to be with, Jerry Deming. Were you ever married?"

"No."

"But you've known lots of girls."

"Yes."

"All over the world?"

"Yes." He gave the brief answers gently, swift enough to indicate they were true — and they were, but with no hint of shortness or irritation at the questioning.

"You feel that you like me?"

"As much as any girl I've ever met You're simply beautiful. Exotic. Prettier than any picture of a Chinese princess because you're warm and alive."

"You can bet I am," she breathed, and turned to him. "And you are going to learn something," she added, just before their lips blended.

He didn't have time to worry much about that, because Jeanyee applied herself to lovemaking and her activities required all his attention. She was absorbing, a magnet that drew your passion out and out and once you felt its pull and let yourself go a fraction of an inch you were caught by the irresistible attraction and nothing would stop your plunge to the core. Nor, once moved, did you want to stop.

She did not rape or ravish him, nor were her attentions those of a prostitute, bestowed with professional intensity at emotional arm's length. Jeanyee made love as if she had a license to manufacture it, with skill and warmth and so much personal relish you were swept away. A man would be a fool not to relax, and no one ever called Nick foolish.

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."

"If they're as smart and rough as you guess, you may have to fit me back together."

"I doubt it, Nicholas. You know what I think of your ability. That's why you're going in. If you'll take a cruise in your boat on Sunday morning I'll meet you off Bryan Point If the river is crowded, go southwest until we are alone."

"When will the technicians be ready for me?"

"On Tuesday at the garage in McLean. But I'll give you a complete briefing and most documents and maps on Sunday."

Nick enjoyed having dinner that evening with Ruth Moto, but he learned nothing of value, and at Hawk's suggestion, he did not press. They enjoyed some passionate moments parked at the shore and he took her home at two.

On Sunday he met Hawk and they spent three hours going over details with the precision of two architects about to let the contract.

On Tuesday Jerry Deming told his answering service and doorman and a few other significant people that he was going to Texas on business and departed in the Bird. A half-hour later he drove through the doors of a medium-size truck terminal, set well back from the road, and for the moment, he and his car vanished from the earth.

On Wednesday morning a two-year-old Buick left the truck garage and went out Route 7 to Leesburg. When it paused a man slipped out and walked the five blocks to the cab office.

No one noticed him closely as he sauntered along the busy street, because he was not the type of man you bothered to look at twice, even though he limped and carried a plain brown cane. He might have been a local merchant or someone's father out to get the paper and a container of orange juice. His hair and mustache were gray, his skin red and ruddy, and he had poor posture and carried a bit too much weight, although his frame was big. He wore a dark blue suit and a blue-gray soft hat.

He hired a cab and was driven back down Route 7 to the airport, where he got out at the charter-rental office. The mannish woman behind the counter liked him because he was so polite and clearly respectable.

His papers were in order. Alastair Beadle Williams. She checked them carefully. "Your secretary reserved an Aero Commander, Mr. Williams, and sent out a cash deposit." She became very polite herself. "Since you haven't flown with us before we would like to check you out… personally. If you don't mind…"

"Don't blame you. Wise thing to do."

"Good. I'll go around with you myself. That's if you don't object to a woman…"

"You look like the kind of woman who is a fine pilot. I can tell intelligence. I'll make a guess — you have your L.C. and your instrument rating."

"Why, yes. How did you know?"

"Always could judge character." And, Nick thought, no gal trying as hard as you are to wear pants would let the men stay ahead of her — and you have the age to have the hours in the air.

He made two approaches — both flare-outs perfect. She said, "You're very good, Mr. Williams. I'm satisfied. You're going to North Carolina?"

"Yes."

"Here are the charts. Stop by the office and we'll file a flight plan."

After he had completed the plan he said, "Depending on circumstances, I may change that plan for tomorrow. I'll telephone control personally concerning any deviation. Please don't concern yourself about it."

She beamed. "It's so good to see someone with methodical common sense. So many just want to hit the blue yonder. I've sweated some of them out for days."

He gave her a ten-dollar bill "For your time."

She was saying, "No, please," and "Thank you" all in one breath as he left.

At noon Nick landed at Manassas Municipal Airport and telephoned a cancellation on the flight plan. AXE knew hit movements to the minute and could control the controllers, but by following the routine there was less chance of drawing attention. Leaving Manassas he flew northwest, threading the powerful little ship through Allegheny mountain passes where Union and Confederate cavalry had chased and checkmated each other a century before.

It was a grand day for flying, bright sun and minimum wind. He sang "Dixie" and "Marching Through Georgia" as he crossed into Pennsylvania and landed to top off his fuel tanks. When he took off again he switched to a couple of choruses of "The British Grenadier," pronouncing the words with an English old-boy accent. Alastair Beadle Williams represented Vickers, Ltd., and Nick had the exact diction to fit.

He used the Altoona beacon, then one more Omni course, and an hour later landed at a small but busy field. He phoned for a rental car, and by 6:42 p.m. he was crawling up a narrow road on the northwest slope of the Appalachian chain. It was a one-lane track, but except for its width it was a good road, with two centuries of fill and uncounted hours of work by strong men to channel its water and build the stone walls that still bordered it. Once a busy stage road west because it followed the longer route but easier grades through the notches, it no longer was marked on maps as a through road across the mountains.

On Nick's Geological Survey map of 1892 it was marked as a through road, on the map of 1967 the center portion was just a dotted line indicating a trail. He and Hawk had gone over every detail on the maps — he felt he knew the road before he drove it. Four miles onward was the closest approach to the rear of the gigantic Lord properties, twenty-five hundred acres in three mountain glens.

Even AXE had been unable to obtain recent details on the Lord estate, although the old survey maps were undoubtedly reliable as far as most roads and buildings were concerned. Hawk had said, "We know there's an airport in there but that's about all. Of course we could have photographed and surveyed it, but there never was any reason to. Old man Antoine Lord assembled the place about 1924. He and Calgehenny made fortunes when iron and steel were king and you kept what you made. None of this nonsense about feeding people you couldn't exploit. Lord was apparently the most sophisticated of the bunch. After making forty more million in the First World War he sold most of his industrial shares and bought a lot of real estate."

The story had interested Nick. "The old boy is dead of course?"

"Died 1934. He even made headlines then by telling John Raskob he was a greedy fool and that Roosevelt was saving the country from socialism and they ought to back him instead of tripping him up. The reporters loved it. His son Ulysses inherited the estate and seventy or eighty million split with his sister Martha."

Nick had asked, "And they are…?"

"Martha was last reported in California. We're checking. Ulysses set up several charitable and educational foundations. Genuine ones — about 1936 through 1942. Before it was the clever thing to do as a tax dodge and to insure permanent jobs for your heirs. He was a captain in the Keystone Division in World Scramble Two. Got a Silver Star and a Bronze Star with an Oak Leaf Cluster. Wounded twice. He started as an enlisted man, by the way. Never traded on his connections."

"Sounds like quite a lad," Nick had observed. "Where is he now?"

"We don't know. His bankers and real estate agents and stockbrokers write to him at a post office box in Palm Springs."

As Nick drove slowly along the ancient road he recalled that conversation. The Lords hardly sounded like cooperators with a Baumann Ring or Chicoms.

He stopped in a wide space that might have been a wagon turnout and studied the map. Half a mile on there were two tiny black squares that indicated what were now probably abandoned foundations of former buildings. Beyond them a tiny mark indicated a cemetery and then, before the old road swung southwest to cross the hollow between two mountains, there should be a trail leading across a small notch to the Lord holdings.

Nick turned the car around, crushing a number of bushes, locked it and left it in the turnout. He walked along the road in the dying sunlight, enjoying the rich green verdure, the tall hemlocks and the way the white birches stood out. A chipmunk, surprised, ran ahead of him for a few yards, waving its small tail like an antenna before it leaped on a rock wall, froze for an instant in a brown and black tiny bundle of fur before blinking its shiny eyes and vanishing. Nick wished for a moment he was out for an evening stroll, that the world was all at peace and that was the important thing. But it wasn't, he reminded himself, and paused and lit a cigarette.

The extra weight of his special equipment reminded him just how unpeaceful the world was. Because the situation was unknown, he and Hawk had agreed that he come well prepared. The white nylon underjacket which gave him his overweight appearance had a dozen pockets containing explosives, tools, wire, a small radio transmitter — even a gas mask.

Hawk had said, "You'll carry Wilhelmina and Hugo and Pierre anyway. If you're taken they're enough to incriminate you. So you might as well carry the extra equipment. It may be just what you need to see you through, or anyway signal us from a tight spot I'll have Barney Manoon and Bill Rohde planted near the entrance to the estate in a dry cleaner's truck."

It made sense but the stuff was heavy on a long walk. Nick wiggled the underjacket with his elbows to spread the perspiration which was becoming uncomfortable and hiked on. He came out into a clearing where the old foundations were shown on the map and stopped. Foundations? He saw a perfect picture of a rural Gothic farmhouse at the turn of the century, complete with a broad porch on three sides, rocking chairs and a swinging hammock, a truck garden and an outhouse near a flower-bordered path at the rear. They were painted a rich yellow with white trim on windows and gutters and rails.

Beyond the house a small red barn also shown neatly in fresh paint. Two chestnut horses peeked over a post-and-rail paddock at the rear, and under a double wagon shelter he saw a buggy and some farm machinery.

Nick walked on slowly, his attention focused with interest on the charming but out-of-date scene. They belonged on a Currier and Ives calendar — The Home Place or The Little Farm.

He reached the flagstone walk that led up to the porch and his stomach tightened as a strong voice behind him, somewhere off the edge of the road, said, "Stand still, mister. There's an automatic shotgun pointed at your middle."