Hood of Death (2 page)

"Not me. I'm planning ahead."

And so I am, he thought, as he braked when the small red reflector that marked the almost hidden drive came into sight. He turned in, went forty yards and stopped in front of a sturdy wooden gate made of cypress planks stained a rich red-brown. He cut the engine and the lights.

The stillness was astonishing, when the roar of the engine and the ripple of the tires stopped. He gently tilted her chin toward him and the kiss was smoothly begun; their lips undulated together in a warm and stimulating and moist blending. He stroked her lissome body with his free hand, cautiously advancing just a little further than he ever had before. He was pleased to feel her cooperating, her lips parting slowly to the probe of his tongue, her breasts seeming to return his gentle massage with no shiver of retreat. Her breath quickened. He matched his own to its sweet-scented beat — and listened.

Under the insistent pressure of his tongue her lips at last parted fully, flaring like a flexible hymen as he formed a lance of flesh, exploring the pungent depths of her mouth. He teased and tickled, feeling the quivers of reaction flutter through her. He caught her tongue between his lips and sucked gently ... and he listened.

She was wearing a simple dress of thin white sharkskin with a button front. His deft fingers unslipped three buttons and he stroked the smooth skin between her breasts with the backs of his fingernails. Lightly, thoughtfully — with the force of a butterfly stamping on a rose petal. She stiffened briefly and he was careful to keep the rhythm of his caress even; accelerating it only when her breath exploded into him with a warm panting rush and she made small humming sounds. He sent his fingers on a soft exploratory cruise around the swelling globe of her right breast. The hum lowered to a sigh as she pressed against his hand.

And he listened.
The car came slowly and silently along the narrow road past the driveway, its headlights a floating glow in the night. They were just too decorous. He had heard them pause when he had turned off. Now they were checking. He hoped they had good imaginations and had seen Ruth. Eat your hearts out, boys!

He slid the fastener of the half-bra apart, where it met between her splendid cleavage, and enjoyed the smooth, warm flesh that greeted his palm. Delicious. Inspiring — he was glad he wasn't wearing his especially made jock shorts; the weapons in the form-fitting pockets would have been comforting, but the stricture annoying. Ruth said, "Oh, my dear," and bit his lip lightly.

He thought, I hope it's just a teenager looking for a parking spot. Or perhaps it was a carload of sudden death for Nick Carter. The removal of a dangerous piece in a game that was being played now, or a legacy of revenge earned in the past. Once you earned the classification of Killmaster you bought the risks.

Nick ran his tongue up the silky cheek to her ear. He began a beat in time with his hand which now enveloped a magnificent warm breast inside the bra. He matched her sigh with his own. If you die today — you don't have to die tomorrow.

He drifted his right forefinger upward and inserted it delicately in the other ear, forming a triple titillation as he varied the pressures in time with a little symphony all his own. She shivered with pleasure, and he found with some dismay that he enjoyed shaping joy for her and he hoped she had no connection with the car on the road which had stopped a few hundred yards away. He could hear it easily in the silence of the night. She could hear nothing for the moment.

His hearing was acute — indeed, the instant he wasn't physically perfect AXE wouldn't give him assignments like this and he wouldn't take them. The odds were deadly enough as it was. He heard the tiny creak of a car door-hinge, the sound of a stone struck by a foot in the blackness.

He said. "Darling, how about a drink and a swim?"

"Love it," she answered, with a little hoarse gulp before the words.

He pressed the transmitter button for the gate actuator and the barrier moved aside, closing automatically behind them as they followed the short winding drive. It was just a deterrent for trespassers, not a barrier. The property fencing was simple open post-and-rail.

"Gerald Parsons Deming" had built a charming country home, seven rooms and a giant patio floored with bluestone facing the swimming pool. The houselights and exterior floodlights went on when Nick pressed a button on a post at the edge of the parking area. Ruth gurgled with delight.

"It's lovely! Oh, the beautiful flowers. Do you work on the landscaping yourself?"

"Quite often," he lied. "Too busy to do all I'd like to. A local gardener comes twice a week."

She paused on the flagstone walk beside a column of climbing roses, a vertical color bar of reds and pinks, whites and off-whites. "They're so lovely. It's part of being Japanese — or part Japanese — I guess. Even a single flower can thrill me."

He kissed the back of her neck before they walked on, and said, "Just the way one beautiful girl can thrill me? You're just as lovely as all these flowers together — and you're alive."

She laughed appreciatively. "You're sweet, Jerry, but I wonder — how many girls have you led up this walk?"

"The truth?"

"I hope so."

He unlocked the door and they went into the large living room with its giant fireplace and wall of glass facing the pool. "Well, Ruth — the truth. The truth to Ruth." He led her to the little bar and flicked on the record player with one hand, holding her fingers with the other. "You, my sweet, are the first girl I ever brought here alone."

He saw her eyes widen, then knew by the warmth and softness of her expression that she decided he was telling the truth — which he was — and she loved it.

Any girl would, if she believed you, and the build-up and setting and mounting intimacy were right tonight. His double might have brought fifty girls here — knowing Deming he probably had — but Nick was telling the truth and Ruth's intuition verified it.

He built martinis with swift motions while Ruth sat watching him across the narrow oaken bar, her chin in her hands, her black eyes dreamy-alert. Her flawless skin still gleamed with the emotion he had aroused and Nick caught his breath at the astonishingly beautiful portrait she made as he put the glass in front of her and poured.

She's bought it but won't believe it, he thought. Oriental caution, or the doubts women harbor even as their emotions lead them astray. He said softly, "To you, Ruthie. The prettiest picture I've ever seen. An artist would love to paint you right this instant."

"Thank you. You make me feel — very happy and warm, Jerry."

Her eyes glowed at him over the cocktail glass. He listened. Nothing. They were coming through the forest now, or perhaps had already reached the smooth green carpet of lawn. They would circle carefully and soon discover that the picture windows were ideal for observation of those inside the house.

I'm bait. We didn't mention it, but I'm just the cheese in the AXE trap. It was the only way. Hawk wouldn't have set it up like this if there were any other out. Three men of importance dead. Natural causes on the death certificates. No leads. No clues. No pattern.

You couldn't give the bait much protection, Nick mused grimly, because you didn't have any idea what might scare the quarry, or at what strange level it might appear. If you set up complicated safeguards, one of them might be part of the pattern you were seeking to uncover. Hawk had decided on the only logical course — his most trusted agent would be the bait.

Nick had followed as closely as he could the Washington paths of the dead men. Unobtrusively he received invitations via Hawk to innumerable parties, receptions and business and social gatherings. He went to convention hotels, embassies, private homes and estates and clubs from the Georgetown to the University and Union League. He grew sick of hors d'oeuvres and filet mignons and he became tired of climbing in and out of dinner jackets. The laundry didn't return his pleat-front dress shirts fast enough and he had to call Rogers Peet to deliver a dozen by special messenger.

He had met dozens of important men and beautiful women and he received dozens of invitations which he respectfully declined, except for those which involved people the dead men had known or places they had gone. He was instantly popular and most women found his quiet attentiveness fascinating. When they discovered that he was an "executive in oil" and single, some of them were persistent by note and telephone.

He had turned up exactly nothing. Ruth and her father seemed perfectly respectable and he asked himself if he was honestly checking her out because his built-in trouble antenna gave a slight spark — or because she was the most desirable beauty of the hundreds he had met in the last few weeks.

He smiled into the gorgeous dark eyes and captured her hand where it lay on the polished oak near his own. There was one question: Who was out there and how had they picked up his trail in the Thunderbird? And why? Had he actually struck oil? He grinned at the situation pun as Ruth said softly, "You're a strange man, Gerald Deming. You're more than you seem."

"Is that some wisdom from the Orient or Zen or what?"

"I think a German philosopher said it first as a maxim — 'Be more than you seem.' But I've been watching your face and eyes. You've been far away from me."

"Just dreaming."

"Have you always been in the oil business?"

"More or less." He spun his prefabricated story. "I was born in Kansas and drifted down to the oil fields. Spent some time in the Mideast and made friends with a few of the right men and got lucky." He sighed and grimaced.

"Go on. You thought of something and stopped..."

"Now I'm about as far up as I'll go. It's a good job and I ought to be satisfied. But if I had a college degree I wouldn't be limited."

She squeezed his hand. "You'll find a way around that. You have — you have a
vibrant
personality."

"I've been around." He grinned and added the sleeper. "Actually I have done more than I tell. In fact a couple of times I didn't use the name Deming. It was a fast deal in the Mideast and if we could have stood off the London cartel for a few months I'd be a rich man today."

He shook his head as if in deep regret and stepped to the hi-fi console and switched from the player to the radio bands. In a shower of static he spun down the frequencies and in the long waves he caught it —
bip
—
bip
—
bip.
So that was how they followed him! Now the question was, had a beeper been hidden on his car without Ruth's knowledge, or did his beautiful guest carry it in her handbag or fastened to her clothing or — you had to be thorough — in a plastic suppository? He switched back to a recording, the strong, sensual imagery of Peter Tschaikovsky's Fourth, and ambled back to the bar. "How about that swim?"

"Love it. Give me a minute to finish this."

"Want another?"

"After we swim."

"Okay."

"And — where's the bathroom, please?"

"Right here..."

He conducted her into the master bedroom and showed her the big bath with its Roman sunken tub in pink ceramic tile. She kissed him lightly and went in and closed the door.

Swiftly he returned to the bar where she had left her handbag. Usually they took them to the John. A trap? He was careful not to disturb its position or arrangement as he checked its contents. Lipstick, bills in a money clip, small gold lighter which he opened and inspected, a credit card... nothing which might be the beeper. He replaced the items precisely and picked up his drink.

When would they come? When he was in the pool with her? He disliked the helpless feeling which the situation gave him, a nasty sense of exposure, the unpleasant fact that he couldn't strike first.

He wondered dourly if he had been in the business too long. If weapons meant confidence he ought to quit Did he feel defenseless because thin-bladed Hugo wasn't strapped to his forearm? You couldn't cuddle a girl much with Hugo on you before she'd feel it.

Lugging Wilhelmina, the modified Luger with which he could usually hit a fly at sixty feet, was also impossible in his role of Deming-the-Target. If felt or found, it was a giveaway. He had to agree with Eglinton, the AXE gunsmith, that Wilhelmina had drawbacks as a favorite arm. Eglinton altered them as he wanted them, installing three-inch barrels on perfect actions and fitting them with butt plates of thin transparent plastic. It reduced the size and cut the weight, and you could see the cartridges march up the ramp like a stick of little bottle-nosed bombs — but it was still a lot of gun to carry.

"Call it psychological," he had argued with Eglinton. "My Wilhelminas have got me through some tough ones. I know exactly what I can do from every angle and every position. I must have burned ten thousand rounds of the nine-milly in my time. I
like
the gun."

"Take another look at this S. & W., Chief," Eglinton had urged.

"Would you try and talk Babe Ruth out of his favorite bat? Tell the Mets to switch gloves? I go hunting with an old guy in Maine who has got his deer every year for forty-three years with a Springfield 1903. Ill take you up there with me this summer and let you talk him into using one of the new autoloaders."

Eglinton had given up. Nick chuckled at the memory. He glanced at the brass lamp that hung above the giant couch in the conversation pit across the room. He wasn't
entirely
helpless. AXE craftsmen had done what they could. Yank that lamp and down came the ceiling wallboard, carrying with it a Swedish Carl Gustav SMG Parabellum with its stock in place for you to grab.

In the car's compartment were Wilhelmina and Hugo and a tiny gas bomb known by the codeword Pierre. Under the bar the fourth bottle of gin on the left side of the locker contained a tasteless version of Michael Finn that would put you out in about fifteen seconds. And in the garage the next to last coat hook — the one with the shabby, least attractive raincoat — would open the hook-board with a full turn to the left. Wilhelmina's twin sister lay there on a shelf between the studs.