Nick Carter - Hood of Death

"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.