Seated on the couches, looking as relaxed as an evening soiree at a Hunter Mountain resort hotel, he saw men and girls; he noted Jeanyee, Ruth, Suzi, Pong-Pong Lily and Sonya Ranyez from their photographs; Akito, Hans Geist, Sammy and a slim Chinese who, by his movements, might have been the man in the mask at the raid on "Deming's" in Maryland.
Ruth and her father must have been in the car that had passed him on the road. He wondered if they had come here specifically because Akito had met "Alastair Williams."
One of the girls was replenishing drinks. Nick noted how swiftly Pong-Pong Lily lifted the table lighter and held it for Hans Geist to light a cigarette. She had that look as she watched the big blond man — Nick filed the observation for reference. Geist sauntered slowly back and forth, talking, and the others listened intently and sometimes laughed at what he said.
Nick watched thoughtfully. What, how, why? Company executives and some of the girls? Not quite. Whores and pimps? No — the atmosphere was right but the attitudes didn't fit; nor was it an ordinary social gathering.
He took out a tiny stethoscope with a short tube and tried it on the double-glass; frowned when he couldn't hear a thing. He had to get into that room or to a point where he could hear. And if he could record some of that conversation on the little machine no bigger than a deck of cards that occasionally irritated his right hip bone — he must speak to Stuart about that — he might have some answers. Certainly Hawk's eyebrows would go up when he played it back.
If he wandered in as Alastair Beadle Williams his welcome would last for ten seconds and he would live for about thirty — there were brains in that bunch. Nick scowled and crept on through the plantings.
The next window looked in on the same room, and so did the one after it The next was a cloak room and lounge with what looked like washrooms leading off from it. The last windows were to a trophy room and library, all dark paneling and rich brown carpeting, where two hard-looking executive types were seated deep in conversation. "I'd like to hear that deal, too," Nick muttered.
He peeked around the corner of the building.
The guard did not look easy. He was an athletic type in a dark suit who evidently took his duties seriously. He bad a camp chair set back in the shrubs, but he didn't stay in it He strolled back and forth, looked at the three floodlights that illuminated the portico area, stared into the night. He never remained with his back to Nick for more than a few moments.
Nick watched him through a screen of bushes. He made a mental check of the dozens of offensive and defensive items in the magician's coat provided by the ingenious Stuart and AXE's technical men. Ah, well — they couldn't think of everything. It was up to him, and the odds were not good.
A man more circumspect than Nick would have weighed the situation and perhaps withdrawn. The idea never even occurred to the Axe agent Hawk thought of as "our best." Nick did remember something Harry Demarkin had once said, "I always push because they don't pay us to lose."
Harry had pushed once too often. Perhaps it was now Nick's turn.
He tried something else. He blanked his mind for a moment, and then pictured the darkness at the road gate. As if his thoughts were a silent movie he constructed a shape that approached the barrier, produced a tool and tampered with the lock. He even imagined the sounds, the clang as the man pulled on the chain.
Holding the picture in his mind he looked at the guard's head. The man started to turn toward Nick, then seemed to listen. He took several steps, seemed uneasy. Nick concentrated, knowing he was helpless if anyone approached him from behind. Perspiration ran down his neck. The man turned. Looked toward the gate. Stepped out on the walk, staring into the night.
Nick took ten silent steps and sprang. A chop, a jab with fingers formed into a rounded spearpoint, and then an arm-lock around the neck for insurance as he dragged the man back toward the corner of the house and into the bushes. It was over in twenty seconds.
Like a cowboy securing a steer after bulldogging it at a rodeo, Nick whipped two short lengths of line from his coat and threw clove hitches and square knots around the man's wrists and ankles. The thin nylon formed tighter manacles than handcuffs. A ready-made gag leaped into Nick's hand — he no more had to think or explore the pockets than a cowboy had to hunt for his pigging strings — and was secured across the man's open mouth. Nick dragged him into the thickest clump of shrubs. He would not awaken for an hour or two.
As Nick straightened car lights flashed at the road gate, paused and came on. He dropped down beside his victim. A black limousine whirled up to the portico and two well-dressed men, both about fifty, got out. A chauffeur type hustled around the car, seemed surprised at the lack of a doorman-guard, and stood for a moment in the light after his passengers had gone into the house.
If he is a friend of the guard it will be all right, Nick reassured himself. Hopefully, he watched. The driver lit a short cigar, glanced around, shrugged and got in and drove back toward the main house. He wasn't going to foul up his buddy who had probably left his post for a good and entertaining reason. Nick sighed with relief. Personnel problems can have advantages.
He went swiftly to the door and peered through the small glass pane. The men had disappeared. He opened the door, slipped through, and ducked into what had looked like a cloak room with washrooms.
The room was empty. He peeked back into the hall. Now was the time if ever — while the newcomers were the center of attention.
He took a step forward and a voice behind him said questioningly, "Hello…?
He whirled. One of the men from the trophy room looked at him suspiciously. Nick smiled. "I've been looking for you!" he said with enthusiasm he did not feel. "Can we talk in there?" He stepped to the trophy room door.
"I don't know you. What…?"
The man followed automatically, his expression hardening.
"Look at this." Nick conspiratorally produced a black notebook, concealed it in his hand. "Come out of sight. We don't want Geist to see it."
The man followed, scowling. The other man was still in the room. Nick grinned broadly and called, "Hello. Take a look at this."
The seated man stepped forward to join them, his expression one of complete suspicion. Nick pushed the door shut The second man reached inside his coat. Nick moved fast. He hooked his powerful arms around their necks and rapped their heads together. They went down, one silent, one moaning.
As he gagged and bound them, after tossing an S & W Terrier .38 and a Spanish Galesi .32 behind a chair, he was glad he had used restraint. These were older men — probably attendees, not guards or Geist's boys. He stripped their pockets and wallets of papers and cards, stowing them in a trouser pocket. No time to study them now.
He checked the hall. It was still empty. He slipped silently along it, saw the group around the fireplace in intent and cheerful conversation, and crawled behind a couch. He was too far away — but he was in.
He thought, A real Alastair would say "In for a penny, in for a pound." O.K.! All the way!
Halfway down the room there was another conversation center — a grouping of furniture beside the windows. He crawled to it and found concealment between tables at the back of a couch. They held lamps, magazines, ashtrays and cigarette boxes. He rearranged some of the articles to make a barrier through which he could peek.
Ruth Moto was serving the newcomers drinks. They remained standing, as if they came for a purpose. When Jeanyee arose and went to the further of the men — a bankerish type who wore a meaningless permanent smile — the purpose was clear. She said, "I'm so glad I pleased you, Mr. Carrington. And I'm awfully glad you came back."