"Cheer up," Nick told him. "I've got a feeling, or call it a hunch, that we're going to catch Bennett. It's not going to be easy, but we'll do it. He's an amateur. He's also a hysteric and a psychotic and a romantic with the IQ of an eight-year-old. But he's not harmless! Far from it. He's deadly — as a child can be deadly. In addition to all that he's carrying those beautiful files around in his brain. I don't think that matters much to Bennett. I don't think he knows how much he knows, if you follow me, sir."
Hawk groaned audibly as he locked the basement door. "I'm not sure, Nick. I'm not sure of anything about this case any more. I'm not even sure there is a case! I keep thinking I'll wake up and find it's all a nightmare."
Killmaster gazed at his boss with a hint of commiseration. It was not like Hawk to be so distraught. Then he remembered that Hawk had been carrying the burden practically alone while he, Carter, was fresh from the beauties of nature and the arms of amour. It made a difference.
As they went through the stifling little house again Nick said, "There's a case, all right. And it might turn out to be a nightmare. But I'll whip it, sir."
The big cop stood up again as they left the house. As Nick was replacing the metal seal, intact, his roving sharp eyes caught a slight alteration in the placid suburban landscape. Something new had been added. Nick turned to the cop and nodded toward a small stand of silver birch some seventy-five yards to the east. "Who's the guy over there in the trees, watching us? He belong around here?"
The cop followed the AXEman's glance. "Oh, him! That's only Mr. Westcott. He lives next door. Snoops a lot. Nosey, sir. It was him that called us in on this case in the first place. Nothing we can do, sir. Those trees are on his property."
"Who said I wanted to do anything?" said Nick mildly. "But I think I will have a word with the gentleman. I'll meet you back at the car, sir." He left Hawk once more putting the fear of God, and the Presidential pass, into the cop and walked toward the little clump of trees.
Mr. Lloyd Westcott was a thin man in his early fifties with a tanned bald head and a small paunch. He wore slacks and a blue sport shirt and a definitely feisty manner. As Nick approached him he was swinging a weed cutter in a half-hearted manner, grubbing at some ragweed around the boles of the trees. It was, Nick conceded, as good an excuse as any for being there.
N3 slipped easily into his winning manner. The AXEman could be most personable when he chose. He smiled at the man. "Mr. Westcott?"
"Yeah. I'm Westcott." The man took a battered briar pipe from between shiny false teeth. "You a cop?"
Nick laughed. "No. Insurance." He handed the man a card from his wallet. The insurance front usually worked in situations like this.
Westcott pursed his lips and frowned at the card, then handed it back to Nick. "Okay. So what do you want from me?"
Nick smiled again. He offered a cigarette, which was refused, then lit his own. "Nothing in particular, Mr. Westcott. It's just that I'm trying to get all the information I can about Mr. Bennett. He's disappeared, as you must know, and he was rather heavily insured with us. You're a neighbor of his — did you know him well?"
Westcott laughed harshly. "Know him? Nobody knew that nut very well! He and that fat slob of a wife kept strictly to themselves. Which was all right with the rest of us around here — they didn't belong here anyway! I, we, all of us around here, we all knew something like this would happen someday. And sure enough…"
Nick regarded the man steadily. This might be only suburban spite and snobbishness, yet he could not afford to overlook an angle.
With intent to flatter he said: "I can't seem to get much out of the police. Either they don't know much or they just aren't talking. Now you, Mr. Westcott, you look like an intelligent and alert man. What do you think really happened over there?"
There was no mistaking the genuineness of Westcott's expression of amazement. "Happened? No question of that, mister. Just what the cops think. That crazy bastard killed his wife and ran away — probably with some other dame." Westcott grinned nastily. "Can't say I blame him for running away — that wife of his was a real mess. Only he didn't have to kill her."
Nick looked disappointed. He shrugged his big shoulders. "Sorry I bothered you, Mr. Westcott. I thought you might know something, have noticed something, that the police overlooked. But I guess you're right — it's just a routine case of wife murder. Goodbye."
"Wait a minute." Westcott tapped his pipe on his teeth. "I do know something the cops don't. Because I didn't tell them. I… I don't like to get mixed up in anything, see, so when they asked me questions I just answered those questions, see. I didn't shoot off my mouth any, didn't volunteer anything."
Nick waited patiently. "Yes, Mr. Westcott?"
"I don't see how it would have helped the cops any if I had told them," said Westcott defensively, "but this Bennett was a real nut. He used to dress up and parade around the neighborhood at night, see. In a sort of costume. I used to watch him. Follow him, just to see what he was up to."
Nick smiled again. "And what was he up to, Mr. Westcott?"
"Among other things he was a peeper. A Peeping Tom. He used to prowl the neighborhood and look in bedroom windows, trying to watch women dressing or undressing."
Nick stared at the man. His mobile lips quirked a bit as he said, "You saw him doing this, Mr. Westcott?"
"Yeah. A lot of times — well, anyway two or three times. He didn't come around my place, though, so I…"
Nick picked it up smoothly. "He didn't come around your place, Mr. Westcott, so you didn't bother to report him to the police? Is that it?"
Westcott's face was flushed. "Well, yes. Like I said, I don't like to get mixed up in anything. The guy wasn't really hurting anything and I, uh…" His voice trailed off.
Nick Carter kept a straight face. Obviously Bennett had interfered with Westcott's own peeping and that, while it must have been annoying, was definitely not a police matter!
Westcott must have sensed Nick's thought because he hurried on in an attempt to blur the moment over. "I got a pretty good look at him sometimes, when he didn't know I was watching. He was always dressed like he thought he was in a TV show or something — you know, the trench-coat and the smart aleck hat. He would always have the coat buttoned up under his chin and the hat pulled down over his eyes. And he always kept his hands in his pockets, too. Like maybe he had a gun, you know."
Westcott tapped out his pipe on a birch tree. "After what happened, him murdering his wife, I mean, he probably did have a gun, huh? I'm glad now that I never called him on the peeping stuff. He might have shot me!"
Nick turned away. He flipped a hand in farewell. "I don't think so, Mr. Westcott. The gun wasn't loaded. And now that you've got the field to yourself again — let me wish you happy peeping. And thanks for everything."
He did not turn at the faint sound behind him. It was only Mr. Westcott's pipe dropping from his open mouth.
In the car, on the way back into Washington, he told Hawk what Westcott had revealed. Hawk nodded without any real interest, "It only confirms what we already know. Bennett is a nut. So he liked to peep and play cops and robbers at night — that's not going to help us catch him."
Nick wasn't so sure. But he kept his peace and for a time they drove in silence. Hawk broke it. "I had a thought back there in the room — just before you went off into that trance. I'll tell you if you promise not to die laughing."
"Promise."
"Okay." Hawk crunched fiercely on a dry cigar. "As I was saying back there — if the Kremlin put one over on us, really succeeded in planting Bennett on us, then why in hell haven't they been using him? Contacting him? Milking him for all it was worth? It just doesn't make sense that the Ivans would plant a sleeper on us for thirty years! Five, yes. Maybe ten. That's been done. But thirty! That's a hell of a long sleeper."