Nick Carter - Hood of Death

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?"