Nick Carter - Death of the Falcon

As I drove by, I had taken a quick look at the house where Candy had said Abdul and the man Hawk and I suspected was the Sword had gone inside. It seemed to fit into the neighborhood of red brick, split-level ranch houses. Probably about twenty to twenty-five years old and tree-shaded in summer, it was boxed in by “hedges that had been allowed to grow just high enough to block the view of casual passers-by, without appearing as an obvious guarantee of privacy. The break in the front hedge came at the driveway, which led to a two-car garage at the rear of the property. A flagstone walk led up to the front door. From all outward appearances, it looked like the home of a moderately well-to-do family.

If the CIA operated its “safe houses” as AXE did those it maintained, that image of respectability would have been carefully cultivated by the regular occupants of the house. Hawk usually assigned two agents to each of the havens that we used for clandestine meetings, or to hide enemy agents who’ve “turned” until complete new identities can be established for them, or as recuperation sites for wounded personnel. The resident agents, usually a man and woman who posed as a married couple, are instructed to be friendly with their neighbors, but not so sociable that the people next door come calling unexpectedly. Hawk likes to set up our safe houses in residential locales, rather than in remote areas more open to surprise attack. And it seemed that the CIA had adapted a similar setup, at least in so far as their selection of neighborhoods.

I walked past the house and went up to the door of the home next to it. It opened a moment after I’d rung the bell, but only as far as a chain permitted. A gray-haired woman poked her nose around the opening at the same time the muzzle of a German shepherd jutted out at me. The woman asked pleasantly, with just a trace of suspicion, “Yes?” The shepherd didn’t say anything, but expressed his suspicions more clearly with a deep growl. She quieted him with a, “Hush, Arthur!”

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I’m looking for the DeRoses. I don’t have the exact number, but they’re supposed to live on Military Road, near Utah, and I thought perhaps you might know them.”

“No, I don’t recognize the name. But there are a lot of new people in the neighborhood in the past couple of years.”

“They’re a young couple,” I explained. “She’s a blonde, about thirty, and Augie is about the same age. He’s a big guy; you’d be sure to notice him, because he’s about six-feet-four and weighs around two hundred and forty pounds. Oh yes, they drive a VW camper.”

She had been shaking her head until I mentioned the camper, then a hint of recognition crossed her face. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “there is a nice young couple living next door. They’ve been there about a year, but I haven’t gotten to know them except to say hello. I’m sure they’re not your friends, though. She’s not a blonde, and he’s not that big. Maybe that tail, but sort of on the thin side. The only thing is…”

“Yes?” I prodded.

“Well, I did notice when I drove my husband to the bus this morning to go to work that there was a Volkswagen camper in the driveway over there.”

“What time was that?”

“About a quarter to eight or so, I guess, since that’s when we usually leave.”

“I didn’t notice one over there now,” I said. “Did you happen to see it leave?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. I was just coming out the door later in the morning — it must have been noon or twelve-thirty maybe — when I saw it back off and drive away. I was going down to visit a friend on Legation Street, and—”

“Did you see who was in it?” I interrupted. “Maybe it was my friends.”

“No, I didn’t. It was gone before I got down to the sidewalk, and they seemed to be in a hurry. I’m sorry.”

I was pretty certain where the Volkswagen and its crew of killers had been headed; they had a rendezvous on Canal Road that had been hastily scheduled by a phone call. I thanked the woman for her help and said maybe I would try next door, just in case the people in the camper had been my friends, calling on another neighbor. The shepherd growled again as I turned to walk away, and it almost got its snout pinched as she closed the door.

Walking casually up the drive of the CIA hideaway, I kept going around the side of the house to the garage. Its swing-up door proved to be unlatched and I slid it upward on well-oiled hinges. Sherima’s limousine was still parked there, beside a Mustang that I assumed belonged to the regular occupants of the house. Closing the door quietly, I crossed to the little patio of the ranch house. A barbeque cart, rusted from standing out in the winter snows, stood there.

Not so good, boys, I thought to myself. Real homeowners would have stored the barbeque in the garage for the winter.

The screen door was locked, but a little prying with the point of my stiletto forced it open. The back door was locked, too. My plastic American Express card slid back the bolt, and while I was holding it in place, I tried the knob with my other hand. It turned and the door opened. I returned the credit card to my wallet before pushing the door back further, and was relieved to discover that there was no chain latch on it.

Stepping inside quickly, I found myself in the kitchen. The house was silent as I looked around. Dishes, probably from breakfast, had been washed and stacked in a drainer beside the sink. I tiptoed on into the dining room, then the living room. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere downstairs. Then, just as I was about to start up the half flight of stairs that obviously led to the bedrooms, a small hole in the plaster on the wall beside the stairs caught my eye. Using the stiletto point again, I dug a slug out of the wall. It looked like a .38 that had flattened itself in the plaster. Bending down, I examined the cheap Oriental throw rug that covered the floor in the front entryway.

Almost lost in the pattern was a crimson stain. Someone opened the front door and got shot, I decided. Probably by a .38 with a silencer. There was a coat closet in the little foyer. The door was locked, I discovered, and that was unusual enough to make me want to see what was inside. Trying a few of my master keys, I found one that turned the simple lock.

Slumped on the closet floor under the coats that hung there was the body of a man. The corpse wore a hat and coat and I could tell he had been tall from the way his knees had been doubled up to wedge him into the confined space. Pushing back the hat, which was slouched forward over his face, I saw where a bullet had struck him in the left eye. So much for half of the “nice young couple next door.” He’d apparently been getting ready to leave the house when someone came to the front door and he’d made the fatal mistake of not using its peephole to see who was outside before opening it. Whoever was standing there had his silenced gun ready, and had fired as soon as the door opened, then caught his victim and lowered him gently to the rug on the floor without the dead man’s “wife” even knowing what had happened.

She had to be somewhere in the house, too, I decided. The Sword’s men wouldn’t have risked carrying out a corpse. Luger drawn, I climbed the stairs to the upper level. In the stillness that filled the house, the slight creak of the carpeted steps sounded loud. A bedroom door stood open to my right at the top of the stairs. I went in and found it empty. Quickly, I crossed to the closet. It held a man’s clothes and nothing else. A quick flip of the spread showed me there was nothing under the bed, so I went back out into the hall and slowly opened the next door on the same side. It was a bathroom — empty. The medicine cabinet over the sink held men’s toiletries and a razor. The dead man downstairs must have had stomach trouble; bottles of antacids lined one of the shelves. Well, it wouldn’t bother him anymore.