Hood of Death

Chapter IX

A wry grin tilted Nick's lips for an instant. "Damn, Jeanyee. I thought my old-school-tie accent was pretty good."

"It is, I suppose. But you're one of the few men who know about my acrobatic training. I talked too much in your apartment but this is one time it helped. When we were getting out that window you said Take hold. As you do for work on the bar.' I didn't have time to think about it until I was cleaning up at Villon's. Then I watched you walk. I know those shoulders, Jerry. I'd never guess by looking at you. You've been made up by experts. Who are you, Jerry Deming? Or who is Jerry Deming?"

"A guy who thinks a lot of you, Jeanyee." He had to keep her quiet until he got her in the plane. She was a cool kitten. You couldn't tell by her voice that she had nearly been killed several times tonight. "Hans has gotten too big for his collar. He's pulling a big double-cross as I told you in the room. All the girls were to be eliminated except Ruth and Pong-Pong."

"I can't believe it," she said, her calmness shaken. She gulped the words and then was silent.

I hope you can, he thought, and I wonder if you have a weapon I don't know about? He had seen her stripped. She had lost her shoes and handbag, and yet… You could strip him almost to the skin and not find the lethal gas bomb, Pierre, in the special pocket of his shorts.

She said suddenly, "Tell me what the Leader looks like. Who do you know? Where are we going? I… I just can't believe you, Jerry."

He parked the car at the side of a hangar, just a few steps from where the Aero Commander was tied down. There was a hint of dawn in the east. He put his arm around her and patted her hand. "Jeanyee, you're the greatest. I need a woman like you, and after last night I think you see you need a man like me. A man on the inside who swings more weight than Hans. Stick with me and you'll be all right. We'll go back and talk to Command One and then you can make up your mind. O.K.?"

"I… don't know…"

He turned her chin slowly and kissed her. Her lips were cool and rigid and then softer and then warm and welcoming. He knew she wanted to believe him. But this strange Asian girl had seen too much in her life to be fooled easily, or to be fooled for long. He said, "I meant it when I suggested we take a little vacation together. I know a little place near Mt. Tremper, up above New York. The foliage will soon be all in color. If you like it we can go back for at least a weekend in the fall. Trust me until we talk to the Leader."

She just shook her head. He felt a tear on her cheek. So — the beautiful Chinese girl, with all her accomplishments, was not made of steel. He said, "Wait here. I won't be a moment. O.K.?"

She nodded and he went swiftly along the hangar, watched the car for a moment and then ran to the telephone booth outside the airport office. If she did decide to run, he would see her when she came along the road or went out on the field.

He reached a number, said, "This is Plunger. At nine o'clock call the Avis office and tell them the car is at the airport. Keys wedged under the back seat."

A man replied, "Got it."

Nick ran back to the corner of the hangar, then walked casually to the car. Jeanyee sat quietly staring into the new dawn.

He watched as he warmed up the aircraft's engine. No one came out of the little office. Although some lights were on, the airport seemed deserted. He let the plane fly herself off, eased her through some mild turbulence over the morning mountains and leveled off at seven thousand feet, course 120 degrees.

He peeked at Jeanyee. She was staring straight ahead, her beautiful face a blend of concentration and what might be suspicion. He said, "Well have a good breakfast when we land. I'll bet you're hungry."

"I've been hungry before. What does the Leader look like?"

"He's not my type. Ever fly a plane? Put your hands on the wheel. I'll give you a lesson. May come in handy."

"Who else do you know? Stop stalling, Jerry."

"We could spend a lot of time on stalls. I guess that next to ice in carburetors they've killed more airmen than anything else. Watch and I'll show…"

"You'd better show me who you are, Jerry," she stopped him in incisive tones. "This has gone far enough."

He sighed. She was warming herself up for real resistance. "Don't you like me enough to trust me at all, Jeanyee?"

"I like you as much as any man I've ever met. But we're not talking about that. Tell me about Baumann."

"Ever hear him called Judas?"

She was thinking. He glanced over. She frowned. "No. So?"

"It fits."

"And you called yourself his son. You're lying as fast as you talk."

"You've lied to me since we met, darling. But I understand because you had a role to play and you didn't know me. Now I'm being honest with you."

She lost some cool. "Stop trying to turn the tables and say something that makes sense."

"I love you."

"Save that for later if you mean that. I can't believe anything you say."

Her voice was hard. The gloves were coming off. Nick said, "Remember Lebanon?"

"What?"

"Remember Harry Demarkin?"

"No."

"And they got a picture of you with Wheel-and-Deal Tyson. Bet you didn't know that." That shook her. "Yes," he followed it up — a live lead. "Hans is so stupid. He wanted to throw you to the other side. Using the picture. Imagine if you talked."

He had never used the small version of the automatic pilot designed for general aviation and small planes, but he had been checked out on it He set the course — locked the ship on. It seemed efficient. He lit a cigarette and sat back. Jeanyee refused one. She said, "Everything you have said is a lie."

"You said yourself I was too strong for an oil peddler."

"You're too much all around."

She was strikingly beautiful with those dark brows arched low and her mouth taut and the eyes glowing in concentration. She was pressing too hard. She wanted to solve this herself in case he wasn't one of the gang and she'd be in double trouble after they landed. She must have a weapon. What? Where?

At last she said, "You're some kind of cop. Maybe you did get a picture of me with Tyson. That's where your lead started."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Interpol, Jerry?"

"The U.S. has twenty-eight intelligence arms. Run through them. And half of them are looking for me."

"Maybe you're British then, but you aren't one of us. Silence. "All right…" Now her voice was low and hard, as biting and keen as Hugo after he honed the shining blade on a fine stone. "You mentioned Harry Demarkin. That makes you AXE more than likely."

"Sure. And CIA and FBI." Both sets of gloves were slipping off now. In a moment you tossed them into each other's faces and went for your Derringers or Pepperboxes.

Nick felt regret. She was so gorgeous — and he had hardly begun to explore her talents. That spine was made of flexible steel cable, all covered with dense foam rubber. You could… She moved a hand suddenly and he alerted. She flicked a bead of sweat from the neat valley under her lips.

"No," she said bitterly. "You aren't amateur night or a law clerk marking time until he can make a connection."

Nick's eyebrows went up. He must tell Hawk that one. "You did a perfect job on Demarkin. Dad approved."

"Stop that crap."

"Now you're angry with me."

"You're a fascist bastard."

"You jumped to that idea awful fast. I saved your life. We were — very close in Washington, I thought. You're the kind of a girl I could…"

"Bullshit, buster," she interrupted. "I was soft for a few hours. Like almost everything else in my life, it's gone sour. You're law. But I wish I knew which and what."

"All right then. Tell me how it went with Tyson. Did you have any trouble?"

She sat sullenly in an attitude of simmering rage, her arms folded. He tried a few more remarks. She refused to reply. He checked the course, admired the new autopilot, and sighed and slumped in his seat He put out his cigarette.

A few minutes later he mumbled, "What a night. I'm pooped." He relaxed. Sighed. The day was cloudless. He glanced down at the forested mountains, undulating under them like billows of green, unevenly rising bread. He peeked at his watch, checked course and speed, and estimated wind and drift. He mentally computed the aircraft's position. He dropped his eyelids and pretended to doze.

When he next risked a glance through slitted eyes her arms were unfolded. Her right hand was out of sight and that worried him, but he dared not move and stop whatever she was doing. He could feel the tension and menace of her purpose. Sometimes he thought that, because of his training, he could smell danger like a horse or dog.

He lost sight of her other hand.

He gave a dull sigh and murmured, "Don't try anything, Jeanyee, unless you're a hot pilot yourself. This thing is on a new autopilot that I'll bet you aren't checked out on." He sank lower in the seat. "Flying through these mountains is tough anyway…"

He breathed deeply, his head tilted away from her. He heard tiny movements. What was it? Perhaps her brassiere was 1000-1b. test nylon and made a garrote. Even if it had a self-locking clip he could handle that Explosive? Not in a plane. Blade? Where? The feeling of danger and evil became so strong he had to make an effort to keep from moving, looking, acting in self-protection. He kept his eyes slitted, watching.

Something moved at the top of his small field of vision and came down. Instinctively he stopped breathing on an intake as some sort of film lowered over his head and he heard a tiny "Phut." He held his breath — thought gas. Or a vapor of some kind. So that's how they did it! With the Hood of Death! It must be instantaneous, murderous stuff with fantastic expansion to enable a girl to take men like Harry Demarkin and Tyson. He exhaled a few cubic centimeters to keep the stuff from getting at his nasal tissues. Drew up his pelvis to keep pressure in his lungs.

He counted. One, two, three… she had closed it around his neck… held it tight with a strange gentleness. 120, 121, 122, 123…

He let every muscle and tissue go limp, except those of his lungs and pelvis. Like a Yogi he commanded his body to be utterly relaxed and lifeless. He let his eyes drift open a little. 160, 161, 162…

She lifted one of his hands. The arm lay as limp and lifeless as wet paper pulp. She dropped it — again with the strange tenderness. She was talking. "Good-bye, baby. You were something else. Please forgive me. You're a rat bastard like all the others but I guess the nicest rat bastard I ever met. I wish it was different I'm a born loser. Someday the world will be different If I ever get up to those Catskills I'll remember you. Maybe I'll remember you anyway… for a long time." She gave a small sob.

He had little time now. His senses were dulling quickly, the blood flow was slowing. She opened a window. Lifted from his head a hood of silk-thin plastic. She rolled it between her palms, looking at it as it compressed and vanished like a magician's scarf. Then she held it up between a thumb and forefinger. Attached to its bottom dangled a colorless capsule no bigger than a clay marble.

She waggled the small ball back and forth. It was attached to the postage-stamp-size packet in her hand by a tiny tube, like an umbilical cord. "Nasty thing," she said bitterly.

"It sure is," Nick agreed. He blew out his remaining air with a blast, leaned over her to breathe only the fresh flow from her window. As he sat back in his own seat she screamed. "You!…"

"Yeah, me. So that's how you got Harry and Tyson."

She crawled to the side of the small cabin like a newly captured chipmunk in a box trap, avoiding a grab, searching for a way out.

"Relax," Nick said. He made no effort to grab her. 'Tell me all about Geist and Akito and Baumann. Perhaps I can help you."

She got the door open against the wind pressure. Nick turned off the autopilot and throttled down. She squirmed out of the cabin feet first. She looked directly at him, with an expression compounded of horror and hate and a strange weariness.

"Come back," he said — authoritative and loud and clear. "Don't be a fool. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not dead. I held my breath."

She balaneed half out of the plane. He could grab her wrist, and with his strength and a left tilt of the ship probably tumble her in whether she wanted to or not. Should he? She would be as valuable to AXE dead as alive, because of the plan he was making. If she survived she'd spend drab years in the secret Texas compound few Americans guess about, fewer see, and none mention. Years? She was entitled to a choice. His jaw hardened. He glanced at the bank-turn indicator and held the ship level. "Come back in, Jeanyee."

"Good-bye."

Her two words seemed softer and sad; without heat or hate — or was it his illusion? She was gone.

He estimated position again, went down a few hundred feet. Near a narrow country road he saw a sign on a barn, OX HOLLOW, located it on an oil company map and marked it on his chart.

When he landed the owner of the charter outfit was on duty. He wanted to talk about flight plans and business difficulties. Nick said, "Good ship. Lovely trip. Thank you so much. "Good-bye."

Either Jeanyee's body hadn't been found or the airport check hadn't reached this far yet. He called a cab from the telephone booth on the edge of the road. Then he called Hawk's current floating number — a circuit changed at random for use when scramblers were unavailable. He reached him in less than a minute. Hawk said, "Yes, Plunger."

"Suspect number twelve committed suicide about fifteen miles, 290 degrees from Ox Hollow which is about eighty-five miles from last action point."

"Well find it."

"No link to the firm or me. Better connect and cool, though. We were in my transportation. She left."

"Understood."

"We should meet. I have interesting points."

"Can you make it Fox time? Point Five?"

"See you there."

Nick hung up and stood with his hand on his chin for a moment. AXE would provide the Ox Hollow area authorities with an acceptable explanation for Jeanyee's death. He wondered if anyone would claim her body. He must check that. She was on the other team, but who has a chance to choose?

Fox Time and Point Five were a simple code for time and place, in this case a private meeting room at the Army and Navy Club.

Nick rode in a cab to within three blocks of the truck terminal near Route 7. He got out and walked the remaining distance after the cab was out of sight. The day was sunny-hot, traffic a thundering stream. Mr. Williams vanished.

Three hours later "Jerry Deming" rolled the Thunderbird into the stream of cars and mentally marked himself "present" in current society. He stopped at a stationery store and bought a common black marking pencil and a block of notepaper, along with a packet of white envelopes.

In his apartment he scanned his odds and ends of mail, opened a bottle of Saratoga water, and wrote five notes. Each was the same — And then there were five.

From the data sheets Hawk had given him he took the likely addresses of Ruth, Suzi, Anne, Pong-Pong and Sonya. Likely because Anne's and Sonya's file included the notation subject may use this address for mail only." He addressed the envelopes by printing and fastened the packet together with a rubber band.

Carefully he studied the cards and papers he had taken from the two men in the lounge of the house in Pennsylvania — he thought of it as the "private sporting annex." They seemed to be legitimate members of the cartel which controls the eagle's share of Mideast oil.

Then he set his alarm-radio and went to sleep until 6:00 P.M. He had one drink at the Washington-Hilton, dined on steak, salad and pecan pie at DuBarry's, and at ten minutes of eight strolled into the Army and Navy Club. Hawk was waiting for him in the comfortably furnished private room — a room engaged and used for only one month, then they would switch to another location.

His chief was standing near the small unlit fireplace and he and Nick exchanged a firm handshake and a long look. Nick knew the tireless head of AXE must have done his usual long day's work — he usually reached the office before eight Yet he seemed as calm and fresh as a man who has had an afternoon nap. There were tremendous reserves in that spare, stringy body.

Hawk's genial, leathery features focused on Nick as he made his own evaluation. It was a mark of his perception that he withheld their usual banter. "I'm glad you came out all right, Nicholas. Barney and Bill said they heard faint sounds of considerable — ah, target practice. The county coroner has Miss Ahling. The death won't make the wire services."

"She chose death. But you might say I allowed her the choice."

"Then it was not technically a Killmaster termination. I'll report it so. Have you written your report?"

"No. I was dead tired. I'll do it tonight. Here's the way it was. I drove up the road we marked on the map…"

He told Hawk exactly what had happened, using sparse phrases. When he finished he gave Hawk the cards and papers taken from the oil men's wallets.

Hawk looked at them bitterly. 'The name of the game seems always to be money. The information that Judas-Bormann is somewhere in the nasty web is priceless. Can he and Command One be the same?"

"Possibly. I wonder what they will do now? They'll be puzzled and worried about Mr. Williams. Will they go to ground?"

"Perhaps. But I believe they may blame the British and carry on. They're doing something far too big to dismantle their apparatus. They'll wonder if Williams was a thief, or a lover of Jeanyee's. They'll consider stopping whatever they're up to, and then they won't."

Nick nodded. Hawk was logical, as always. He accepted a small brandy which Hawk poured from a decanter. Then the senior man said, "I have a bit of bad news. John Villon had a strange accident. His rifle discharged in his Jeep and he drove over a bank. The slug went right through him of course. He's dead."

"Those devils!" Nick pictured the neat farmhouse. A retreat from society that had turned into a trap. "He thought he could handle them. But those listening devices were a giveaway. They must have grabbed him, searched the place carefully and decided to eliminate him."

"That's the best answer. His sister Martha is entangled with a rightest outfit in California. She's a queen in the Squires of the White Camellia. Ever hear of it?"

"No, but I get the picture."

"We're watching her. Do you have any suggestions for our next move here? Do you want to continue as Deming?"

"I'd protest if you told me not to." It was Hawk's way. He had their next moves planned, but he always asked for suggestions.

Nick produced the packet of letters addressed to the girls and described them. "With your permission, sir, I'll mail them. There must be a weak link among them. I think it will make a strong impression. Let them wonder — who's next?"

Hawk produced two cigars. Nick accepted one. They lit them. The aroma was strong. Hawk studied his thoughtfully. "A worthwhile needle, Nick. I wish I had thought of it. You'd better write four more."

"More girls?"

"No, extra copies for these addresses for Pong-Pong and Anne. We're not completely sure where they get their mail." He checked a notebook and wrote rapidly, tore out a page and gave it to Nick. "It will do no harm if a girl gets more than one. It would weaken the threat if one got none."

"You're right."

"Now another thing. I detect a certain sadness in your usual jolly attitude. Look." He put a five by seven photoprint in front of Nick. "Taken at the South Gate Motor Hotel."

In the picture were Wheel-and-Deal Tyson and Jeanyee Ahling. It was a poor sideshot taken in bad light, but you could see the faces. Nick handed it back. "So she did scrub Tyson. I was almost sure."

"Feel better?"

"Yes. And happy for Tyson. He went out satisfied."

"I'm glad, Nicholas, that your research is so thorough."

"That hood gimmick is fast. The gas must have astonishing expansion and lethal qualities. Then it seems to disperse or break down quickly."

"Well work on it. Of course the lab will find it easier when you bring back a sample."

"Where will I find one?"

"You have me there, and I know you know it." Hawk frowned. Nick kept quiet. "We ought to have everyone under surveillance who has anything to do with Akito or the girls or the men in Pennsylvania. You know how hopeless that would be, with our staff. But I do have a small lead. Many of our friends go often to the Chu Dai Restaurant. On the shore below Baltimore. Know it?"

"No."

"The food is excellent. They've been open four years and do a big gross. It's one of the places with a dozen big banquet rooms that cater to weddings and business parties and such. The owners are two Chinese and they check out clean. Especially so since Congressman Reid has a piece of the action."

"Chinese again. How frequently I catch a whiff of Chicom possibilities."

"Quite so. But why? And where does Judas-Bormann fit in?"

"We know him." Nick listed slowly, "Selfish, greedy, cruel, ruthless, cunning — and in my opinion mad as a hatter."

"But every so often we peer into the looking glass and there he is," Hawk added meditatively. "What a combination it might be. Chicoms using him because they need Caucasian fronts, connections, heaven knows what."

"Do we have a man in the Chu Dai?"

"We had. We let him get out because he found nothing. And that lack of staff again. It was Kole. He posed as a slightly rummy parking lot attendant. He found nothing but he said the place smelled wrong."

"That was the kitchen." Hawk did not give his usual small smile. He was really worried about this one. "Kole is a good man. There must be something there."

Hawk said, "The inside help is almost all Chinese. But we've been in as phone men and we helped sand and wax floors. Our boys found nothing that way either."

"Should I check it?"

"Whenever you wish, Mr. Deming. It's expensive but we want you to live well."

For four days and nights Nick was Jerry Deming, pleasant young man at the right parties. He wrote the extra letters and mailed all of them. Barney Manoon had a look at the former Lord estate, posing as a stale Conservation man. It was guarded and deserted.

He went to a party at the Manger Annapolis given by one of the seven thousand Arabian princes who love to swing in the city where the money originates. Watching the fat smiles and never-still eyes he decided that if he really were a Jerry Deming he would chuck the deal and get as far from Washington as possible. After eight weeks it was boring.

Everyone played a role. You weren't really Jerry or John… you were Oil or State or White House. You never talked about vital or interesting matters, you chattered on the fringes of them. His frown changed to a warm and genial expression as he spotted Suzi Quong.

About time! It was his first sight of one of the girls since Jeanyee's death. They and Akito and the others were staying out of sight or busy with other matters, about which Nick Carter as N3 would have given a lot to know. Suzi was part of a Utile cluster around the prince.

The lad was a bore. His hobby was blue movies and staying off the big, rich peninsula between Africa and India as much as he could. He had his interpreter explain, twice, that the hors d'oeuvres for this little get together were especially flown from Paris. Nick had tasted them. They were excellent.

Nick eased his way to Suzi. Caught her eye by planned chance, and reintroduced himself. They danced. After small talk he isolated the chic Chinese girl, snared a pair of drinks and let fall the key question. "Suzi, I've had dates with Ruth Moto and Jeanyee Ahling. Haven't seen them around for ages. Are they abroad, do you know?"

Of course, I remember, you're the Jerry Ruth is going to try and help make a connection with her father." It was too quick. "She thinks a lot of you." Her expression clouded. "But you didn't hear about Jeanyee?"

"No."

"She's dead. Killed in an accident in the country."

"No! Not Jeanyee."

"Yes. Last week."

"Such a young, lovely girl…"

"It was a car or an airplane or something."

After an appropriate pause Nick raised his glass and said softly, "To Jeanyee."

They drank. It established a cord of intimacy. He spent the rest of the evening weaving the first-line-aboard into a hawser. The connecting cable was secured so swiftly and easily that he knew he was having help on her end of the lines. Why not? With Jeanyee gone, if the other side was still interested in the services of "Jerry Deming" they would have instructed the rest of the girls to strengthen contact.

When the doors were opened to another large private room in which was spread a buffet, Nick escorted Suzi into the feeding chamber. Although the prince had engaged a number of conference-banquet-party rooms, his name must have gotten out on the sucker-list circuit. The rooms were crowded, the booze and lavish buffet consumed with gusto by a large number of Washington casuals whom Nick recognized as party crashers. Good luck to them, he thought, as he watched a neatly dressed couple fill plates with beef and turkey — spread the goodies at home.

Shortly after midnight he discovered that Suzi planned to take a taxi home."… I live near Columbia Heights."

She said her cousin had brought her and had had to leave.

Nick wondered if the other five girls were attending functions tonight. Each one brought by a cousin — so that she would be available to contact Jerry Deming. "Let me drive you home," he said. "I'm going to take a little spin anyway. It would be nice to go by way of the park."

"That's sweet of you…"

And sweet it was. She was quite willing to stop at his apartment for a late nighter. She was delighted to take her shoes off and nestle "just for a moment" on the couch overlooking the river.

Suzi was as cute and cuddly as one of the pretty Chinese dolls you find in the better San Francisco shops. All charm and smooth skin and gleaming black hair and attentiveness. Her conversation was smooth.

And that gave Nick his lead. Smooth! He recalled Jeanyee's polish, and the way the girls had talked while he eavesdropped in the Pennsylvania mountains. All of the girls fitted a mold — they behaved as if taught and polished for an objective, as the best madams used to school their courtesans.

It was more subtle than just providing a group of superior playmates for affairs like the one at the ex-Lord place. Hans Geist could handle that, but it went deeper. Ruth and Jeanyee and Suzi and the rest were… experts? Yes, but top teaching might make experts. He pondered while Suzi blew warm breath against his chin. Dedicated. That was it He decided to push.

"Suzi, I wish I could get in touch with Jeanyee's cousin. I suppose I could find him somehow. She said he might have a very interesting proposition for an oil man."

"I think I can reach him. Would you like me to have him call you?"

"Please do. Or do you think it might be too soon after — after what happened to her?"

"It might be better. You would be — someone she wanted to help. Almost like one of her last wishes."

That was an interesting angle. He said, "But are you sure you know the right one? She may have many cousins. I've heard about your Chinese families. I think he lives in Baltimore."

"Yes, that's the one…" She stopped. He hoped that Suzi was such a good actress that she would take her cue too quickly and the truth would slip out. "At least, I think he does. I can reach him through a friend who knows the family well."

"I'll be awfully grateful," he murmured, kissing the top of her head.

He kissed much more of her, for Suzi had learned all her lessons well. Instructed to captivate, she went all out. She did not have Jeanyee's contortionist's skill, but her smaller, resilient body offered enthusiastic vibrations especially her own. Nick fed her compliments like syrup, and she lapped them up. Under the agent there was a woman.

They slept until after seven, when he made coffee and brought it to her in bed and awakened her with proper gentle affection. She tried to insist on a cab but he wouldn't have it — protesting that if she insisted she was angry with him.

He drove her home, and noted the address off 13th Street It was not the one listed in AXE's records. He phoned it in to the data office. At six-thirty, as he was about to dress for what he dreaded as a boring evening — Jerry Deming was no longer fun — Hawk called him. Nick switched on the scrambler and said, "Yes, sir."

"I noted the new address for Suzi. That only leaves you three girls to go. Extracurricular, I mean."

"We played some Chinese checkers."

"Imagine. So fascinating you kept at it all night?" Nick refused the bait Hawk knew he would call in an address promptly, deduced he had left Suzi in the morning. "I have some news," Hawk went on. "The contact number you gave Villon was called. Heaven knows why they would bother checking it at this late date unless we are up against Prussian thoroughness or a bureaucratic boggle. We gave nothing away and the caller hung up, but not before our countercircuit established the area. The call was from area code three-o-one."

"Baltimore."

"Very probably. Add that to something else. Last night Ruth and her father went to Baltimore. Our man lost them in the city but they were headed south of the city. Note the connection?"

"The Chu Dai Restaurant."

"Yes. Why don't you drive up there and have a nice dinner? We think the place is innocent, which is all the more reason why N3 might find out otherwise. Stranger things have happened in the past."

"O.K. I'll leave at once, sir."

There was more suspicion or intuition about the Baltimore place than Hawk would say. The way he put it — we think think the place is innocent— was a cautionary signal if you knew the logical workings of that intricate mind.

Nick hung up his dinner jacket, donned the shorts with Pierre in its special pocket and the two incendiary caps forming a V where his legs joined his pelvis, and put on a dark suit. Hugo the stiletto was on his left forearm, and Wilhelmina under his arm in the especially fitted, tilted sling. He carried four ballpoint pens — only one of which could write. The other three were Stuart's grenades. He carried two cigarette lighters, the heavier one with an identification knob on its side was the one he treasured. Without the ones like it he would still be in the Pennsylvania mountains, probably buried.

At 8:55 he turned over the Bird to a parking lot attendant of the Chu Dai Restaurant, which was a lot more impressive than its name. It was a cluster of connected buildings on the shore with giant parking lots and much glowing neon. A large, obsequious Chinese maitre d' greeted him in an entrance lobby that could have been used for a Broadway theatre. "Good evening. Do you have a reservation?"

Nick handed him the five-dollar bill folded in his palm. "Right here."

"Yes, indeed. For one?"

"Unless you see someone who would like to make it two."

The Chinaman chuckled. "Not here. The Oasis downtown for that. But first you have a good meal with us. Just three or four minutes. Wait in here please." He gestured grandly at a room furnished in the carnival decor of a North African harem with Oriental touches. Amid the red plush, satin drapes, bold gold tassels and luxurious couches a king-size color TV flamed and bleated.

Nick grimaced. "I'll have a breath of air and a smoke."

"So sorry, there's nowhere to walk. We had to use it all for the parking lots. You can smoke in here."

"I may want to rent a couple of your private meeting rooms for an all-day business conference and banquet. Anybody handy to show me around?"

"Our convention office closes at five. A meeting for how many people?"

"Six hundred." Nick picked the respectable figure out of the air.

"Wait right here." The Chinese factotum put up a velvet cord which caught the people behind Nick like fish in a weir. He hurried away. One of the potential customers caught by the rope, a flush-faced jolly with a gorgeous woman in a red gown, grinned at Nick.

"Hey — how'd you get in so easy? Gotta have a reservation?"

"Yeah. Or give him an engraved picture of Lincoln. He's collector."

"Thanks, ole goodbuddy."

The Chinese returned with another, thinner Chinese, and Nick got the impression that the bigger man wasn't made of fat — you might find hard flesh under that appearance of plumpness. The big man said, "This is our Mr. Shin, Mr…"

"Deming. Jerry Deming. Here's my card."

Shin guided Nick aside while the maitre d' resumed channeling the fish. The man with the woman in red was taken right in.

Mr. Shin showed Nick three lovely meeting rooms that were empty, and four even more striking with their decorations in place and parties in progress.

Nick probed. He asked to see the kitchens (there were seven), the rest rooms, the coffee bars, the meeting equipment, movie projection room, Xerox machine and the cloak looms. Mr. Shin was affable and thorough, a good salesman.

"Do you have a wine cellar or shall we send up from Washington…?" Nick let the question hang. He had seen the damn place from end to end — the basement was the only place left.

"Right this way."

Shin took him down a wide flight of stairs near the kitchen, produced a large key. The basement was big, well lit, and built of solid concrete block. The wine cellar was cool, clean, and stocked as if the bubbly were going out of style. Nick sighed. 'Wonderful. We'll just specify what we want on the contract."

They went back up the stairs, "You are satisfied?" Shin asked.

"Perfectly. Mr. Gold will call you in a day or two."

"Who?"

"Mr. Paul Gold."

"Ah, yes." He conducted Nick back to the entrance lobby and handed him over to Mr. Big. "Please see that Mr. Deming has anything he wishes — compliments of the house."

"Thank you, Mr. Shin," Nick said. How about that! If you tried to con a free dinner with a pitch about hiring a hall they'd catch you every time. Play it cool and they bought the brick. He saw color brochures in a rack in the lounge and picked one up. It was a magnificent custom job by Bill Bard. The photographs were striking. He hardly opened it when the man he had dubbed Mr. Big said, "Come, please."

The dinner was sumptuous. He settled for a simple meal of butterfly shrimp and Steak Kow, with tea and a bottle of Rose, although the menu offered Continental and Chinese dishes in profusion.

Just comfortably full, over his last cup of tea he read the color brochure, noting every word in it because Nick Carter was a well-trained and thorough man. He went back and read one paragraph again. Ample parking for 1000 cars— valet parking service— private marina for guests arriving by boat.

He read that again. He hadn't noticed any dock. He asked for a check. The waiter said, "Complimentary, sir."

Nick tipped him and went out. He thanked Mr. Big, praised the house cuisine, and stepped into the mellow night.

When an attendant came for his ticket he said, 'They tell me I can come over in my boat. Where's the dock?"

"Nobody uses it no more. They stopped that."

"Why?"

"Like I said. No business for it — I guess. Thunderbird. Right?"

"Right."

Nick drove slowly up and down the highway. The Chu Dai was built almost over the water, and he could not see any marina behind it. He U-turned and went south again. About three hundred yards below the restaurant there was a small marina, with one dock jutting well out into the bay. One light burned at shoreside, the boats he could see were all dark. He parked and walked back.

A sign said MAY MOON MARINA.

A wire gate barred the dock from the shore. Nick looked swiftly around, vaulted it, and walked out on the planking, trying to keep his footfalls from sounding like a muffled drum.

Halfway out the pier he stopped, just out of reach of the dim light. The boats were an assortment — the kind you find where the marina service is minimum but the dockage price is right There were only three that were over thirty feet, and one at the dock end that loomed larger in the darkness… perhaps a fifty-footer. Most were hidden under canvas coverings. Only one showed a light Nick walked quietly up to it, a thirty-six foot Evinrude, neat but of indeterminate age. The yellow glow from its ports and hatch barely reached the dock.

A voice sprang at him out of the night "Can I help you?"

Nick peered down. A deck light snapped on and he saw a thin man of about fifty sitting in a deck chair. He wore old brown khakis that blended with the background until the light outlined him. Nick waved a casual hand. "I'm looking for dock space. I heard it was reasonable here."

"Step down. They got some. What kinda boat you got?"

Nick went down the cleated gangway to the floating planks and climbed aboard. The man indicated a cushioned seat. "Welcome aboard. Don't git much company."

"I've got a twenty-eight-foot Ranger."

"Do your own work? No service here. Lights and water is all."

"That's all I want."

"This might be the place then. I get my spot free for being nightwatch. They have a man on days. You can see him nine to five."

"Italian boy? I thought someone said…"

"Nope. Chinese Restaurant up the street owns it. They never bother us. Want a beer?"

Nick didn't, but he wanted talk. "Love it My turn when I tie up."

The older man went into the cabin and returned with a can. Nick thanked him and snapped off the top, raised it in salute. They drank.

The old man snapped off the light "Nice here in the dark. Listen."

The city was suddenly far away. The rush of traffic was Overlaid by the slap-slap of water, the moan of a whistle from a large vessel. Out on the bay colored lights winked. The man sighed. "My name's Boyd. Retired Navy. You work in town?"

"Yes. Oil business. Jerry Deming." They touched hands. "Owners use the dock at all?"

"Did once. Had an idea folks might come along in their boats to eat. Damn few did. Too easy to jump in a car." Boyd snorted. "They own that cruiser out at th' end I guess you know the ropes. Don't pay to see too much around here."

"I'm blind and dumb," Nick said. 'What's their racket?"

"Li'l poontang and maybe a pipe or two. I dunno. Most every night some of 'em go out or come in in the cruiser."

"Maybe spies or something?"

"Naw. I had a word with a friend of mine in Navy Intelligence. He says they're O.K."

So much for my competition, Nick thought Still, as Hawk had explained, the Chu Dai outfit looked clean. "They know you're ex-Navy?"

"Naw. I told 'em I use ta be a hand on a fishing boat in Boston. They swallowed it. Offered me the nightwatch when I haggled about price."

Nick gave Boyd a cigar. Boyd produced two more beers. They sat for long periods in comfortable silence. The cruiser and Boyd's remarks were interesting. When the second can was gone Nick stood up and shook hands. "Many thanks. I'll come down and see 'em in the daytime."

"Hope you do. I can tell a good shipmate. You Navy?"

"No. Did my time Army. But I've been on the water a bit."

"Best place."

Nick drove the Bird down the road and parked it between two warehouses a quarter-mile from the May Moon Marina. He walked back on foot and found a cement company pier from which, hidden in the blackness, he had a fine view of Boyd's boat and the big cruiser. In about an hour a car stopped at the marina and three people got out. Nick's excellent vision identified them even in the dim light — Suzi, Pong-Pong and the slim Chinese he had seen at the head of the stairs in Pennsylvania and who might have been the man behind the mask in Maryland.

They strolled down the dock, exchanged words with Boyd he could not hear, and went aboard the fifty-footer. Nick thought rapidly. This was as good a lead as he was likely to get What to do with it? Get help and check on the cruiser's habits? If everybody thought the Chu Dai crew was so legitimate, they'd probably have that covered. A great idea would be to plant his beeper on the vessel and track it with a copter. He took off his shoes, slipped into the water and swam slightly out and around the cruiser. There were lights on her now, but the engines had not been started. He probed for a crevice into which he could wedge a beeper. Nothing. She was sound and clean.

He swam to the nearest small boat in the marina and cut off a length of three-quarter-inch manila mooring line. He would rather have had nylon, but the manila was solid and did not feel too old. With the line around his waist he went up the dock ladder and silently boarded the cruiser, forward of her cabin windows. He went around to the bay side and peeked in. He saw an empty head, an empty master stateroom, and then came to a porthole of the lounge. The three who had come aboard were sitting calmly, with the air of people waiting for someone or something. The slim Chinese went into the galley and came back with a tray bearing a teapot and cups. Nick grimaced. Opponents who drank booze were always easier to handle.

Sounds from the dock alerted him. Another car had arrived and four people were coming toward the cruiser. He crawled forward. There was no place to hide on the bow. The vessel looked fast and she had trim lines. There was only a low hatch on the foredeck. Nick secured his line to an anchor-bridle cleat with a tight bowline knot and went over the port side into the water. They'd never notice the line unless they used an anchor or tied up on their port side.

The water was warm. He debated whether to swim away in the darkness. He had not planted the beeper. In his soggy clothes and armament he could not swim fast. He had not removed them because stripped he looked like an arsenal and he hadn't wanted to leave all the valuable gear — especially Wilhelmina — on the dark dock.

The engines rumbled. He tested the line thoughtfully, pulled himself up two feet and threw two bowlines on bights — the seaman's bosun's chair. He had done a lot of strange and dangerous things, but this might be too much. Should he go for the copter?

Feet stamped on deck. They were releasing their dock-lines. They didn't believe in warming up their engines much. His mind was made up for him — they were under way.

He swung forward and grabbed the sheer of the bow, worked his rump into the loop of the line and forked his arms and legs along each side of the bow. The cruiser engines were revved up and water pounded his behind. He hitched himself higher as the fast boat roared down the bay. Every time she dipped into a swell, water slammed into his legs like the blows of a rough masseur.

In open way the cruiser's throttle was opened even more. She rammed through the night. Nick felt like a fly straddling the nose of a torpedo. What in hell am I doing here? Unload? The boat's sides and screws would chop him into hamburger.

Every time the boat bounced he was pounded against the bow. He learned to make V-springs of his arms and legs to cushion the blows, but it was a constant battle not to have his teeth knocked out.

He swore. His position was deadly dangerous and, he felt, ridiculous. Here I go! AXE's N3. Roaring down Chesapeake Bay ass backwards!