He applied his tremendous strength on the rope, then sighed. Cotton line but not household grade, shipboard stuff and strong. He worked up ample saliva, tongued it onto a section at his wrists, and began to gnaw steadily with his strong white teeth. The stuff was tough. He was chewing monotonously with his eyeteeth at the tough, sodden mass when Ruth came out and found him.
She had donned her clothes, right down to her trim white high-heeled pumps, and she strolled across the blacktop and looked down at him. He felt that her stride was too steady, her stare too calm, for the situation. It was depressing to consider that she might be on the other team in spite of what had happened, and the men had left her to administer some sort of coup de grâce.
He turned on his widest smile. "Hi, I knew you'd get loose."
"No thanks to you, you sex maniac."
"Darling! What a thing to say. I risked my life to chase them off and really save your honor."
"You might have at least untied me."
"How did you get loose?"
"The way you did. Rolled off the bed and ripped skin off my arms scraping the rope on the bed frame." Nick felt a wave of relief. If she had been left behind to close his book she wouldn't have had to get herself loose. She continued with a frown, "Jerry Deming, I think I'll leave you right there."
Nick thought rapidly. What would a Deming say in a situation like this? He exploded, "Dammit, Ruthie, enough is enough! Get a knife and cut these ropes now. I'm not fooling. I left you on that bed for your own safety. The only reason I pretended to screw you was to start a noisy fuss. Now you get me loose right now or when I do get loose I'll paddle your pretty ass so that you won't sit down for a month and after that I'll forget I ever knew you. What kind of a crazy girl are you…"
He stopped when she laughed and bent down to show him a razor blade she held concealed in her hand. She sliced his fetters carefully. "There, my hero. You were brave. Did you actually attack them barehanded? They might have killed you instead of tying you up."
He rubbed his wrists and felt his jaw. That big fellow Hans packed a wallop! "I keep a pistol hidden in the garage because if the house is burgled I figure there's a chance of it not being found there. I got it and I bagged the three when a fourth one hidden in the bushes got me. Then the one called Hans clouted me. Those guys must be real pros. Imagine leaving a picket out? They fooled hell out of me."
"Be thankful they didn't do worse. I imagine your travels in the oil business have gotten you used to violence. You acted without fear, I think. But you can get hurt that way."
He thought, They train them with cool at Vassar, too, orthere's more to you than meets the eye. They walked to the house, the lovely girl holding the arm of the naked, powerfully built man. When Nick was stripped he made you think of an athlete in training, a pro footballer perhaps.
He noticed that she kept her eyes averted from his body, as a nice young lady should. Was it an act? He called as he climbed into a pair of plain white boxer shorts, "I'll phone the police. They never catch anybody out here but it'll cover my insurance and maybe they'll keep a closer eye on the joint."
"I called them, Jerry. I can't imagine where they are."
"Depends on where they were. They have three cars for about a hundred square miles. Another martini?…"
The officers were sympathetic. Ruth had garbled the call slightly and they had wasted time. They made comments about the large number of burglaries and holdups by city hoodlums. They wrote it up and borrowed his spare keys so that their BCI men could recheck the place in the morning. Nick thought it was a waste of time — and so it proved.
After they had gone he and Ruth had their swim and another drink and danced and cuddled a bit but the zing had gone out of the evening. In spite of her stiff-upper-lip in the pinch, he thought she seemed thoughtful — or nervous. As they swayed in tight embrace on the patio, in time with Armstrong's trumpet on a blue-and-easy number, he kissed her several times but the mood was gone. The lips didn't melt any more, they were flaccid. The beat of her heart and the tempo of her breathing did not accelerate as they did before.
She noticed the difference herself. She took her face away from his, but laid her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jerry. I guess I'm really timid. I keep thinking about what might have happened. We could be — dead." She shuddered.
"We're not," he replied and squeezed her.
"Would you have really done it?" she asked.
"Done what?"
"On the bed. What the man called Hans — suggested."
"He was being a wise guy and it backfired."
"How?"
"Remember when Sammy yelled for him? He came in and then sent Sammy out for a few minutes to help the other guy. Then he left the room himself and that was my chance. Otherwise we'd still be tied on that bed, maybe, with them long gone. Or they'd be here sticking matches under my toes to make me tell where I hide money."
"Do you? Hide money?"
"Of course not. But didn't it look like they had a false tip that I do."
"Yes. I see."
If she saw, Nick thought, that's fine. At least she was puzzled. If she was on the other team, she would have to admit that Jerry Deming behaved and thought like a typical citizen. He bought her a fine steak at Perrault's Supper Club and took her home to the Moto residence in Georgetown. Not far from the lovely little house in which Herbert W. Tyson lay dead, waiting for the maid to find him in the morning and the hurried doctor to decide another abused heart had let its bearer down.
He did collect one small plus. Ruth invited him to be her escort at a dinner party at the Sherman Owen Cushings' on Friday week — their annual All Friends affair. The Cushings were rich, reserved and had begun accumulating real estate and money before the du Ponts began making gunpowder, and they had held onto most of it. There were plenty of Senators who wangled for a Cushing bid — and never got it. He told Ruth he was quite sure he could make it. He would confirm with a call on Wednesday. Where would Akito be? In Cairo — which was why Nick might fill his seat. He learned that Ruth had met Alice Cushing at Vassar.
The next day was a hot, sunny Thursday. Nick slept until nine, then enjoyed breakfast in the restaurant of "Jerry Deming's" apartment house — fresh orange juice, three scrambled eggs, bacon, one piece of toast and two cups of tea. When he could, he scheduled his living pattern like that of an athlete staying in condition.
His big body wouldn't stay in first-class shape by itself, especially when he enjoyed a certain amount of rich food and alcohol. Nor did he neglect his mind, especially where current affairs were concerned. His newspaper was The New York Times, and via AXE's cover-name subscriptions he read periodicals ranging from Scientific American to The Atlantic and Harper's. Not a month went by that his expense account didn't list four or five significant books.
His physical skills demanded a continual, although not regularly scheduled, program of practice. Twice a week unless "on location" — AXE vernacular for on a job — he practiced tumbling and judo, punched the bags and swam methodically underwater for long minutes. Also on regular schedule he talked into his recorders, polishing his excellent French and Spanish, improving his German and the three other languages in which, as he put it, I can "get a broad, get a bed, and get directions to the airport."
David Hawk, who was impressed by almost nothing, once told Nick that he thought his greatest asset was his acting ability."… the stage lost something when you came into our business."