"Yes," Villon answered. "We'll know when they're coming. At least twenty minutes in advance."
"The same way you knew I was coming up the road?"
"Yes."
The gray eyes looked right at you when Villon spoke, yet the man had tremendous reserve. His expression seemed to say, "I won't lie to you, but I'm quick to tell you if it's none of your business." Nick was suddenly very glad he had decided, when he first came up the old road, not to try and jump that Browning shotgun. Recalling Villon's work with the rifle, he was especially pleased with that decision. The least he might have gotten was a leg blown off. Nick asked, "TV scanner?"
"Nothing so complicated. Along about 1895 a railroad man came up with a device called an iron mike. Ever hear of it?"
"No."
"The first one was just a sort of carbon telephone receiver planted alongside the track. When a train went by you heard the sound and you knew where it was."
"An early bug."
"That's right Mine are improved, of course." Villon pointed to a walnut box on the wall which Nick had thought was a hi-fi speaker. "My iron mikes are much more sensitive. They transmit without wires, and they're only activated when the sound level rises, but otherwise the credit goes to that unknown telegrapher on the Connecticut River Railroad."
"How do you tell whether someone is passing on the road or the mountain trail?"
Villon opened the front of the little cabinet, exposed six indicator lights and switches. "When you hear sounds you take a look. The light tells. If more than one is lit you cut the others off for a moment, or raise the sensitivity of the receiver with a rheostat."
"Splendid." Nick took the .45 out of his belt where it was hurting his rib and put it carefully on the wide table. "Many thanks. Mind telling me who? What? Why?"
"If you'll do the same. British intelligence? Your accent isn't quite right unless you've lived in this country a long time."
"Most people don't catch that. No, not British. Do you have any Luger ammo?"
"Yes. I'll get you some in a moment. Let's just say I'm an anti-social guy who doesn't want to see people hurt and is crazy enough to butt in."
"I'd rather say you're Ulysses Lord." Nick dropped the English accent. "You had a helluva record with the 28th Division, Captain. You started as a shavetail with the old 103rd Cavalry. Wounded twice. You can still handle an M-1. You kept this hunk of property when the estates were sold, perhaps for a hunting camp. Later you rebuilt this old farm."
"Villon" put teabags in cups, added hot water. "Who are your?"
"I can't tell you, but you were close. Ill give you a number in Washington to call. They'll partly endorse me if you identify yourself carefully through the Army records office. Or you can visit them down there and you'll be reassured."
"I'm a fair judge of men. I think you're all right. But jot down that number. Here…"
Nick wrote the number that would put a caller through a screening process which — if the caller was legitimate — would eventually put him in touch with an assistant of Hawk's. "If you'll take us to my car we'll get out of your way. How much time have we got before they block the road end?"
"It's a twenty-five-mile circle over narrow roads. We've got some time."
"Will you be all right?"
"They know me — and they know enough to leave me alone. They don't know I helped you."
"They'll guess."
"To hell with them."
Jeanyee came into the kitchen, her features repaired and composed. Nick resumed his accent. "Did you two introduce yourselves? We were so busy out there…"
"We chatted coming over the hill," Villon said dryly. He handed them cups of tea. From the walnut speaker came a scries of lazy thuds. Villon fussed with the switches. "Deer. You get so you can tell all the animals after awhile."
Nick noted that Jeanyee not only had her composure back, she wore a stiff expression he did not like. She had had time to think — he wondered how close to the truth her conclusions were. Nick asked, "How are your feet? Most girls aren't used to traveling in just stockings. Tender?"
"I'm not the delicate type." She tried to put it casually, but resentful fires glowed in the black eyes. "You've gotten me into a terrible mess."
"You might say that. Most of us blame others for our difficulties. But it seems to me that you found your way into a mess — entirely without my help."
"Baumann's son you said? I think…"
The wall speaker bugled the rousing music of a hound's baying. Another joined him. They seemed to advance into the room. Villon held up one hand and turned down the volume with the other. Feet thudded. They heard a man grunt and gasp, another breathing hard like a long distance runner. The sounds grew louder then died away — like a march past in a movie. "There they come," Villon declared. "Four or five men and three or four dogs, I'd say."
Nick nodded agreement "Those weren't Dobermans."
"They've got Rhodesian Ridgebacks and German Sheppherds too. The Ridgebacks can track like bloodhounds and attack like tigers. Marvelous breed."
"I'm sure," Nick said dourly. "I can hardly wait."
"What is this?" Jeanyee exclaimed.
"A listening device," Nick explained. "Mr. Villon has microphones planted on the approaches. Like TV scanners without the video. They just listen. Marvelous device, really."
Villon drained his teacup and put it neatly in the sink. "I don't think you really plan to wait for them." He left the room for a moment and returned with a box of nine millimeter parabellum cartridges. Nick refilled Wilhelmina's clip, put another twenty or so in his pocket.
He pushed in the clip, raised the action with his thumb and forefinger and watched a cartridge travel up to the chamber. He put the gun back in the harness. It rode under his arm as comfortable as an old shoe. "You're right. Let's go."
Villon drove them in the Jeep to the turnout where Nick had left the rented car. Nick paused after he climbed out of the Jeep. "You're going back to the house?"
"Yes. Don't tell me to wash out the teacups and put them away. I will."
"Watch yourself. That bunch is not to be fooled with. They may take your M-1 and match the slugs."
"They won't."
"I think you ought to take off for awhile. They'll be hot."
"I'm in these mountains because I won't do what other people think I should."
"Heard from Martha lately?"
It was a chance test. Nick was surprised by the direct hit. Villon swallowed, scowled and said, "Good luck." He rammed the Jeep back into some brush, turned it and was gone.
Nick tooled the rented car swiftly down the old road. When he reached the highway he turned left, away from the direction of the Lord property. He had memorized the map of the area and used a circle route toward the airport. On top of a rise he stopped, strung out the little antenna wire of his transceiver and called the two AXEmen in the dry cleaner's truck. He disregarded FCC requirements. "Plunger calling B office. Plunger calling B office. Come in."
Barney Manoon's voice came almost at once, loud and clear. "B office. Go ahead."
"I'm out. See any action?"
"Plenty. Five cars in the last hour."
"Operation complete. Get out unless you have other orders. Tell the bird. You'll use a phone before I will."
"No other orders here. Need us?"
"No. Go home."
"O.K. Finish."
"Finish and out."
Nick climbed back into the car. Barney Manoon and Bill Rohde would return the truck to the AXE office in Pittsburgh and fly to Washington. They were good men. They probably had not just parked the truck near the entrance of the estate, but concealed it and set up an observation point in the woods. Which was — Bill told him later — just what they did.