The extra weight of his special equipment reminded him just how unpeaceful the world was. Because the situation was unknown, he and Hawk had agreed that he come well prepared. The white nylon underjacket which gave him his overweight appearance had a dozen pockets containing explosives, tools, wire, a small radio transmitter — even a gas mask.
Hawk had said, "You'll carry Wilhelmina and Hugo and Pierre anyway. If you're taken they're enough to incriminate you. So you might as well carry the extra equipment. It may be just what you need to see you through, or anyway signal us from a tight spot I'll have Barney Manoon and Bill Rohde planted near the entrance to the estate in a dry cleaner's truck."
It made sense but the stuff was heavy on a long walk. Nick wiggled the underjacket with his elbows to spread the perspiration which was becoming uncomfortable and hiked on. He came out into a clearing where the old foundations were shown on the map and stopped. Foundations? He saw a perfect picture of a rural Gothic farmhouse at the turn of the century, complete with a broad porch on three sides, rocking chairs and a swinging hammock, a truck garden and an outhouse near a flower-bordered path at the rear. They were painted a rich yellow with white trim on windows and gutters and rails.
Beyond the house a small red barn also shown neatly in fresh paint. Two chestnut horses peeked over a post-and-rail paddock at the rear, and under a double wagon shelter he saw a buggy and some farm machinery.
Nick walked on slowly, his attention focused with interest on the charming but out-of-date scene. They belonged on a Currier and Ives calendar — The Home Place or The Little Farm.
He reached the flagstone walk that led up to the porch and his stomach tightened as a strong voice behind him, somewhere off the edge of the road, said, "Stand still, mister. There's an automatic shotgun pointed at your middle."
Chapter V
Nick stood very, very still. The sun, now only a short way above the mountains to the west, was hot on his face. In the forest a jay screamed, loud in the silence. The man with the shotgun had everything going for him — surprise, concealment, and his quarry against the sun.
Nick had halted with the brown cane swung forward. He held it there, six inches above the ground, without lowering it. The voice said, "You can turn around."
The man came out from behind a black walnut tree flanked by scrub brush. It looked like an observation post that had been arranged to be unnoticed. The shotgun looked like an expensive Browning, probably the Sweet 16 with no compensator. The man was of medium size, about fifty, dressed in a gray cotton shirt and pants but wearing a soft hat in a tweed pattern that would hardly be sold locally. He looked intelligent His quick gray eyes roved over Nick without haste.
Nick returned the look. The man stood easy, cradling the shotgun with his hand near the trigger, the muzzle pointed low and to the right. A novice might have decided that here was a man you could take with speed and surprise. Nick decided quite differently.
"I've had a little trouble up here," the man said. "Mind telling me where you're heading?"
"Over the old road and trail," Nick replied in his perfect old-boy accent "My name is Alastair Williams. I'm with Vickers. I'm on holiday and I'm following one of your excellent government survey maps. I'll be glad to show you ray identification and the map, if you desire."
"If you please."
Wilhelmina felt comfortable against his left rib cage. She could spit in a scant fraction of a second. Nick's judgment said that they both would finish neck and neck and dead. He carefully took the map from the side pocket of his blue jacket and his wallet from the inner breast pocket. He removed two cards from the wallet — a "Vicker's Security Division" pass complete with his picture, and a Universal Air Travel Card.
"Would you mind holding them straight out in your right hand?"
Nick didn't mind. He congratulated himself on his judgment as the man bent forward and took them with his own left hand, holding the gun well back and away. He took two steps back and glanced at the cards, noted the area listed in the corner of the map. Then he walked forward and handed them back. "Please excuse this reception. I have some truly dangerous neighbors. It's not quite like England."
"Oh, I'm sure," Nick answered as he put away the papers. "I'm familiar with your mountain people and their clannishness and dislike of government revenooers — do I pronounce that right?"
"Yes. You'd better come in for a cup of tea. Stay the night if you like. I'm John Villon. I live here." He gestured at the storybook farmhouse.
"Charming place," Nick said. "I'd love to join you in a cup and have a closer look at that lovely farm. But I want to get over the mountain and back. Can I call on you about four o'clock tomorrow?"
"Certainly. But you're starting out a bit late."
"I know. I left my car in the turnout because the road became so narrow. Which puts me a half-hour off schedule." He was careful to say shedule. "I often hike at night. I carry a small lamp. There'll be a moon tonight and actually I see quite splendidly at night. Tomorrow I'll retrace the trail by day. It can't be a bad path. It's been a road for almost two centuries."
"The going is easy enough, except for some stony washouts and a cleft where there was once a wooden bridge. You'll have to clamber down and up and ford a stream. Why are you so set on walking this trail?"
"A distant cousin of mine came over it by stage in the last century. Wrote a book about it In fact he went all the way to your West Coast I'm going to retrace his route. It will take me several years of holidays, but then I'm going to write a book about the changes. This will make a fascinating anecdote. Actually this area is more primitive than when he came through."
"Yes, it is. Well — best of luck. Stop by tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you, I will. I'll be looking forward to that tea."
John Villon stood on the grassy center of the road and watched Alastair Williams stride away. A large, plump, limping figure in city clothes, walking purposefully and apparendy with indomitable serenity. The instant the hiker was out of sight, Villon went into the house, walking purposefully and swiftly himself.
Although Nick stepped briskly, his thoughts debated caution. John Villon? A romantic name, and a strange man in a mysterious location. He couldn't spend twenty-four hours a day in those bushes. How had he known of Nick's approach?
If a photoelectric cell or TV scanner monitored the road, that meant big-time, and big-time meant a connection with the Lord estate. Which meant…?
It meant a reception committee, for Villon must have communication with the others over the mountain notch traversed by the side trail. It was logical. If the operation was as big as Hawk suspected, or it proved to be the Baumann gang, they wouldn't leave a back door unwatched. He had hoped to spot the watchers first, which was why he had left the car.
He looked behind him, saw nothing, and discarded the limp and swung on at a near-trot that covered ground rapidly. I'm the mouse. They don't even need cheese because I'm committed. If it's a trap it will be a good one. The people who set it buy the best.
He glanced at the map as he moved, checking the tiny figures he had penciled on it when measuring distances with a scale-gauge. Two hundred forty yards and a left and a right turn and over a brook. He hopped. O.K. on the brook and his estimated location was correct Now 615 yards rising straight for what was about 300 feet up in the distance. Then a sharp left and along what had seemed on the map to be a level track along a bluff. Yes. And then…
The old road turned right again but the side trail over the notch should go straightish before it turned left His keen eyes spotted the worn path and opening in the forest wall and he swung in through a grove of hemlocks brightened here and there by a white birch.