Hood of Death (5 page)

The next day was a hot, sunny Thursday. Nick slept until nine, then enjoyed breakfast in the restaurant of "Jerry Deming's" apartment house — fresh orange juice, three scrambled eggs, bacon, one piece of toast and two cups of tea. When he could, he scheduled his living pattern like that of an athlete staying in condition.

His big body wouldn't stay in first-class shape by itself, especially when he enjoyed a certain amount of rich food and alcohol. Nor did he neglect his mind, especially where current affairs were concerned. His newspaper was
The New York Times,
and via AXE's cover-name subscriptions he read periodicals ranging from
Scientific American
to
The Atlantic
and
Harper's.
Not a month went by that his expense account didn't list four or five significant books.

His physical skills demanded a continual, although not regularly scheduled, program of practice. Twice a week unless "on location" — AXE vernacular for on a job — he practiced tumbling and judo, punched the bags and swam methodically underwater for long minutes. Also on regular schedule he talked into his recorders, polishing his excellent French and Spanish, improving his German and the three other languages in which, as he put it, I can "get a broad, get a bed, and get directions to the airport."

David Hawk, who was impressed by almost nothing, once told Nick that he thought his greatest asset was his acting ability. "... the stage lost something when you came into our business."

Nick's father had been a character actor. One of the rare chameleons who slipped into any role and became it. The kind of a talent that smart producers search for. "See if you can get Carter," was said often enough to give Nick's father all the roles he chose to take.

Nick had actually grown up all over the United States. His education, split between tutors, studio and public schools, seemed to benefit by the variety. At the age of eight he was polishing his Spanish and crap-shooting backstage with the company playing
Está el Doctor en Casa?
By his tenth year — because
Tea and Sympathy
had a long run and the lead was a mathematical genius — he could do most algebra in his head, quote the odds on all poker and blackjack hands and do perfect Oxonian, Yorkshire and Cockney imitations.

Shortly after his twelfth birthday he wrote a one-act play which, revised slightly a few years later, is now in the books . and he discovered that the
savate
taught him by the French tumbler, Jean Benoist-Gironière, was as effective in an alley as on a mat.

It was after the night show, when he was headed home alone. Two would-be muggers had closed in on him in the lonely yellow glare of the deserted passageway from the stagedoor to street He stamped a toe, kicked a shin, dove on his hands and lashed out like a mule to connect with a groin and then cartwheeled for a
grand coup
and a chin-kick. Then he went back into the theatre and brought his father out to view the crumpled, moaning figures.

The senior Carter noted that his son spoke calmly and his breathing was perfectly normal. He said, "Nick, you did what you had to do. What'll we do with them?"

"I don't care."

"Want to see them arrested?"

"I don't think so," Nick had replied. They had gone back into the theatre and when they went home, an hour later, the men were gone.

A year later Carter senior discovered Nick in bed with Lily Greene, a luscious young actress who later did well in Hollywood. He just chuckled and went out, but after a later discussion Nick found himself passing college entrance exams under another name and entering Dartmouth. His father was killed in an automobile accident less than two years later.

Some of these memories — the best ones — marched through Nick's thoughts as he walked four blocks to the Health Club and changed to his swim trunks. In the sunny rooftop gym he exercised at an easy pace. Rested. Tumbled. Sunbathed. Worked out on the rings and trampoline. An hour later he worked up a sweat on the bags and then swam steadily for fifteen minutes in the big pool. He practiced Yoga breathing and checked his underwater time, grimacing when he noted that he was forty-eight seconds short of the official world's record. Well — you can't do everything.

Just after twelve Nick eased his way through luncheon-bound foot-traffic to his swank apartment house to keep his appointment with David Hawk. He found his senior officer in the apartment. They greeted each other with handshakes and silent, friendly nods; a blend of controlled warmth built on long association and mutual respect.

Hawk wore one of his quiet gray suits. When he slumped his shoulders and walked carelessly, instead of with his usual marching stride, he could be a major or minor Washington businessman, civil servant or a visiting taxpayer from West Fork. Average, undistinguished, not to be remembered.

Nick remained silent. Hawk said, "We can talk. I think the boilers are starting to be lit."

"Yes, sir. How about a cup of tea?"

"Excellent. Had lunch?"

"No. I skip it today. A counterbalance for all the canapes and seven-course dinners I'm getting on this assignment."

"Put the water on, my boy. We'll be very British. Maybe it will help. We're up against the kind of thing in which they specialize. Threads within threads and no beginning to the knot. How did it go last night?"

Nick told him. Hawk nodded occasionally and toyed carefully with an unwrapped cigar.

"Dangerous spot, that. No weapons and taken and tied. Let's not risk it again. I'm sure we're dealing with cold killers and it might come up your turn. Plans-and-Operations doesn't agree with me one hundred percent, but I think they will after we meet tomorrow."

"New facts?"

"New
nothing.
That's the beauty of it. Herbert Wheeldale Tyson was found dead in his home this morning. Ostensibly of natural causes. I'm beginning to like that phrase. Every time I hear it my suspicions double. And now with good reason. Or better reason. You recognize Tyson?"

"Nickname Wheel-and-Deal. A string-puller and greaser. One of fifteen hundred or so like him. I can name perhaps a hundred."

"Right. You know him because he was rising to the top of the smelly barrel. Now let me try and put the edges of the puzzle together. Tyson is the fourth man to die of natural causes and they all knew each other. They were all substantial holders in Mideast oil stocks and munitions complexes."

Hawk paused and Nick frowned. "You expect me to say this is not at all unusual in Washington."

"Quite right. Another piece. In the last week two important and very respectable men have received death threats. Senator Aaron Hockburn and Fritching at the Treasury."

"And they're tied in with the other four somehow?"

"Not at all. Neither of them would be caught having lunch with Tyson, for instance. But they both have tremendous key positions which can affect — Mideast oil and certain war contracts."

"They were only threatened? Not ordered to do anything?"

"I believe that will come later. I think the four deaths will be used as terrifying examples. But Hockburn and Fritching aren't the type to scare, although you never can tell. They called the FBI and they cross-fertilized with us. I told them AXE might have something."

Nick said carefully, "It doesn't look as if we have much — yet."

"That's where you come in. How about that tea?"

Nick got up, poured and brought in the cups with two teabags in each. They had been through this ritual before. Hawk said, "Your lack of faith in me is understandable, although after all these years I thought I deserved more ..." He sipped tea, peered at Nick with the twinkling glint which always foreshadowed a satisfying revelation — like laying down a powerful hand for a partner who fears he has overbid.

"Show me that other piece of the puzzle you're hiding," Nick said. "The one that fits."

"Pieces, Nicholas.
Pieces.
Which you're going to fit into place, I'm sure. You're warm. You and I know that was no ordinary robbery last night Your visitors were looking and sounding out. Why? Let's guess they wanted to know more about Jerry Deming. Is it because Jerry Deming — Nick Carter — is close to something and we don't realize it yet?"

"... or Akito keeps a damn close check on his daughter?"

"... or the daughter is in on it and she played victim?"

Nick frowned. "I won't discount it. But she could have killed me when I was tied up. She had a razor. She could have gotten a butcher knife as easily and carved me like a roast."

"Perhaps they need a Jerry Demiog. You're an experienced oil man. Underpaid and probably greedy. You may be approached. That will be a lead."

"I searched her bag," Nick said reflectively. "How did they tail us? They couldn't have had those four riding around all day."

"Oh," Hawk pretended regret. "There is a beeper on your Bird. One of the old twenty-four-hour type. We left it in place in case they decide to pick it up."

"I knew that," Nick turned the tables — gently.

"You did?"

"I swept the frequencies with the house radio. I didn't find the beeper itself but I knew it had to be there."

"You might have told me. Now a more exotic subject. The mysterious East. You've noticed the plenitude of pretty girls with slanting eyes in the social swing?"

"Why not? Since 1938 we've been creating a new crop of Asian millionaires every year. Most of them arrive here sooner or later with the family and the loot."

"But they stay out of sight. There are others. We assembled the guest lists from over six hundred and fifty functions during the past two years and put them on the computer. Among Oriental females six charmers top the list for attendance at parties of international or lobbying importance. Here..." He handed Nick a memo form.

Nick said, "I've seen three of them plus Ruth. Probably just wasn't introduced to the others. The number of Eastern girls caught my attention but it hasn't seemed important until you showed me this pattern. Of course I've met about two hundred other people during the last six weeks, of every nationality in the world..."

"But not including other lovely flowers from the Orient."

"True."

Hawk tapped the slip of paper. "Others may be in the group or whatever it is but didn't show up in the computer pattern. Now for the nugget...

"One or more of these darlings was at least at one gathering where they could have met the dead men. The computer tells us that Tyson's garage man tells us he
thinks
he saw Tyson leave in his car about two weeks ago with an Oriental girl. He's not sure but it's an interesting piece for our puzzle. We're checking Tyson's habits. If he had a meal at any major restaurant or hotel or surfaced more than a few times with her, well find it out."

"Then we'll know we're on a possible track."

"Although we won't know where we're going. Keep your ears open for mention of the Confederation Oil Company of Latakia. They tried to do some business through Tyson and another of the dead men, Armbruster, who told his law firm to turn them down. They own two tankers and charter three more with a lot of Chinese in the crews. They are prohibited from carrying U.S. cargoes because they've made trips to Havana and Haiphong. We can't pressure them because there is high-level French money involved and they have tight Baalh connections in Syria. Confederation is the usual five corporations stacked one on the other and exquisitely tangled in Switzerland and Lebanon and London. But Harry Demarkin got word to us that something called the Baumann Ring is the center of power."

Nick repeated it "The Baumann Ring."

"You're on."

"Baumann.
Bormann.
Martin Bormann?"

"Possible."

Nick's hard-to-surprise pulse quickened. Bormann. The mysterious aged vulture. As elusive as smoke. One of the most wanted men on earth, or off it. It sometimes seemed as if he operated from outer space. His death had been reported dozens of times since his boss died in Berlin on April 29, 1945.

"Is Harry still probing?"

Hawk's face clouded. "Harry died yesterday. His car went over a cliff above Beirut."

"Genuine accident?" Nick felt a sharp pang of regret. AXEman Harry Demarkin had been his friend, and you didn't develop many in this business. Harry had been fearless but cautious.

"Perhaps."

It seemed to echo in the moment of silence —
perhaps.

Hawk's thoughtful eyes were as bleak as Nick had ever seen them. "We're about to open a bag of big trouble, Nick. Don't underestimate them. Remember Harry."

"The worst of it is — we're not sure what the bag looks like, where it is or what's in it."

"Good description. Nasty situation all around. I feel as if I'm sitting you down at a piano with the seat full of dynamite that goes off when you hit a certain key. I've got to ask you to play and I'm unable to tell you which is the deadly key because I don't know either!"

"There's the chance it's less serious than it looks," Nick said, not believing it but as cheer for the older man. "I may discover that the deaths are astonishing coincidences, the girls a new play-for-pay group and Confederation the usual crowd of promoters and ten percenters."

"True. You're relying on the AXE maxim —
only the stupid are sure, the intelligent are always in doubt.
But for God's sake be very careful, the facts we have point in many directions and that's the worst kind of a case." Hawk sighed and took a folded paper from his pocket "I can give you a little more help. Here are dossiers on the six girls. We're still digging into their backgrounds, of course. And here..."

He held a small bright metal pellet, about twice the size of a baby lima bean, between his thumb and forefinger. "A new beeper from Stuart's department. You squeeze this green dot and it will activate for six hours. Range about three miles in the country. Depends on conditions in a city. Whether you're shielded by buildings and so on."