Hood of Death (7 page)

"I didn't get that impression, Jeanyee. But be alert. If he's a thief he's no use to us." Ruth sighed. "But what a body..."

"You're not jealous?"

"Of course not. Given a choice I'd pick
him.
Given an order, I take Pat and make the most of it."

What Ruth and Jeanyee did not discuss — never discussed — was their conditioned taste for Caucasian rather than Oriental men. Like most girls raised in a certain society, they had adopted its norms. Their ideal was a Gregory Peck or Lee Marvin. Their Leader knew this — he had been carefully briefed by Command One, who often discussed it with their psychologist, Lindhauer.

The girls closed their handbags. Ruth started to leave but Jeanyee hung back. "What shall I do," she asked thoughtfully, "if Deming is
nor
what he seems? I still have that strange feeling..."

"That he might be on the other team?"

"Yes."

"I see..." Ruth paused, her face expressionless for an instant, then stern. "I wouldn't want to be you if you're wrong, Jeanyee. But if you became sure, I suppose there would be only one thing to do."

"Rule seven?"

"Yes. Hood him."

"I never made that decision on my own."

"The Rule is clear. Hood him. Leave no traces."

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.