Nick Carter - A Korean Tiger

Hawk shattered his pleasant little reverie. "Here we are. Just down this street."

Nick caught a glimpse of a blue and white street sign as the big car wheeled off the pavement onto an oiled dirt road. Bond Mill Road. Nick sighed, banished the ghost of the happy little blonde, and came alert.

It seemed a pleasant enough little suburb, not a recent subdivision, and the builders had left some fine old trees. The houses, in the twenty-five or thirty thousand dollar class, were well spaced. School was not yet out and at this hour there was a paucity of children, though their spoor was everywhere in the form of bikes, wagons, jungle gyms and various other impedimenta. A typical scene of American peace and tranquility, in this case enhanced by a faint breeze from Chesapeake Bay and the golden patina of Maryland sun.

"In a place like this," Nick said, "a murder must really set them on their ear."

"You can say that again," Hawk growled. "But in a way all the excitement helped us. Thank God the FBI called me in time. I got them to go sub rosa on it and the Laurel cops were very cooperative once they knew the score. With the FBI underground the papers haven't smelled a thing yet. They think it's just another wife murder. The usual thing — that Bennett killed his fat ugly old wife and ran off with another woman. We've got to keep them thinking along those lines." With fervor he added, "The story has been buried for the past few days. I hope to God it stays that way."

Nick chuckled and lit a cigarette. "Amen."

The limousine pulled off the road through a narrow wooden gate set in a white rail fence that needed paint. They followed a gravel drive around behind a small Cape Cod-type house. There was a ramshackle one-car garage also needing paint. The car stopped and Hawk and Nick got out. Hawk told the chauffeur to wait and they walked around to the front of the little house. A variety of flower beds, once carefully tended and now choked with weeds, bordered the flagstone walk.

Nick glanced over the grounds. "Bennett had quite a lot of land here."

"Couple of acres. Lot of land, not much house. Spent what money he had on privacy. He didn't want people living too close to him."

They rounded the front of the house and approached a small, screened porch. A big cop put down a magazine and disentangled himself from a metal chair. He had a red face and a growl like a bulldog. "Who are you? What do you want here?"

Hawk flashed a gold Presidential Pass. AXE did not exist for the ordinary American public. The cop looked at the pass and his manner became most respectful. But he said: "The house is sealed, sir. I don't know about…"

Hawk gave the cop a hard stare. Nick watched with a concealed grin. Hawk could be pretty terrifying at times.

Hawk nodded at Nick. "Slip that seal, Nick. Take it easy. We'll want to leave it intact."

The cop began to protest again. "But, sir! I don't think… I mean my orders are to…"

As Nick went deftly to work on the metal seal on the screen door he listened to Hawk putting the cop straight.

"Just two things," Hawk was saying. "Just two things mat you got to remember to forget, Officer. Forget is the operative word. Forget you ever saw that gold pass — and forget you ever saw us! You don't forget them, you ever mention them to anybody on this earth, and your name will be mud until the day you die! You got that, Officer?"

"Y-yes, sir. I got it, sir."

Hawk nodded brusquely. "You damned well better. Now get back to your girlie book and forget us. We'll leave everything just the way we found it."

By this time Nick had finagled the seal, unbroken, and he and Hawk went into the house. It was stifling, muggy and humid, the smell of dust mingling with a ghost of old furniture polish — and just a trace of the rotten, sickly sweet effluvia of death. Nick sniffed.

Hawk said: "She was dead a little over a week before they found her. This place is going to need fumigating before they can sell it."

He led the way down a narrow, cheaply carpeted hallway. Nick glanced to his left, into the living room, and did not waste a second glance. Furniture that was strictly Grand Rapids, purchased on credit, done in what some wag had once called "early American stupid." A TV set in a dark plastic cabinet, a rump-sprung sofa, a scarred coffee table heaped with old magazines. A few bad copies of bad pictures on the puce walls.

"The Ivans couldn't have been paying Bennett much," he told Hawk. "Or the guy isn't so dumb after all — at least he didn't make the big mistake most of them do."

Hawk nodded. He was opening a padlock on a basement door. "No. He didn't spend any money. That's part of the puzzle, son. It might be the reason he got away with it for so long — or maybe the Russians just never paid him!"

Nick Carter frowned. "In that case Bennett was, is, a really dedicated Commie? Working for nothing!"

Hawk chewed his dead cigar and mumbled around it. "Wait and see. I think the guy was a really dedicated nut, but maybe you can come up with some fresh ideas."

The basement door came open. Nick followed the older man down a steep flight of unpainted wooden stairs. Hawk reached for a dangling cord and pulled on an overhead light. The 100-watt bulb was unshielded and revealed the small basement in a pitiless glare. In one corner was a small oil furnace and a tank; in the other corner were tubs and a washer and dryer.

"Over here," said Hawk. He led Nick to the far wall of the basement, opposite the foot of the stairs. He pointed out dark, circular scars on the concrete floor. "Used to have an old coal furnace, see. Stood right here. And in here was the coal bin. Good job, eh? The FBI thinks Bennett did it all himself. They've got a theory that even his wife didn't know about it."

Hawk was tapping the roughly finished concrete wall with the back of his hand. He smiled at Nick. "Feel it It looks natural enough, innocent, but feel it."

Nick touched the concrete and felt it give slightly. He looked at his boss. "Plywood? Wallboard, something like that. He smeared a thin layer of concrete over it?"

"Right Watch now."

After a moment's searching Hawk pressed his finger against one of the trowel marks on the concrete. The section of wall opened, turning on some concealed vertical axis, leaving a gap wide enough for a man to slip through. Hawk stepped back. "After you, son. The light switch is just to your right."

Nick stepped into the darkness and fumbled for the light Hawk followed, brushing against him, pulling the section of wall shut. Nick found the switch and flicked it The little room glowed with subdued golden light.

The first thing Nick Carter noticed was the large painting above the desk. Done in garish, violent color, it shrieked in the silence of the hidden room. Nick went closer, peering, saw a small brass plate screwed into the frame.

The Rape.

A young girl lay on her back in a tangle of tall weeds. She lay with her head back, her mouth twisted in anguish, her long blonde hair flowing into the surrounding sea of weeds. Half a black brassiere had been ripped away to expose one small soft breast. Her dress had been torn off, though tattered remnants still clung around her tiny waist. She wore panties, torn at the crotch, and a garter belt with broad black straps leading down to torn stockings. Her white legs were flung wide, one knee raised, and there were bloody smears on the inside of her thighs. Near her feet, nearly out of the picture, was a single high-heeled red slipper lying on its side.

Nick Carter whistled softly. Hawk was standing back in the shadows, saying nothing. Nick said: "Bennett do this?"

"I think so. His hobby was painting."

Carter nodded. "Not bad. Raw, but with power. Graphic enough. A psychiatrist could get a lot out of this picture — too bad I'm not one."