I rolled over, uncased the binoculars again and began to study the house in detail, memorizing it.
At midnight I put the binoculars in their leather case and left them on the mountain ledge. I had no further use for them. I slung the Feinwerkbau pellet rifle over one shoulder. I crisscrossed the battery pack of the sniperscope I’d taken from George’s dead body over my other shoulder. I carried the kite to the very edge of the mountain ridge, fastened myself into its aluminum frame seat, and — taking a deep breath — I launched myself into the night sky!
For a moment I plunged sickeningly downward before I could correct my balance. Then the updraft sweeping along the side of the mountain caught me, lifting me a hundred feet higher. The equipment made it awkward at first, but I finally found the right position. And then I was a giant bat in the sky, soaring effortlessly through the dark night. Through the sniper-scope sight I had no trouble spotting Bradford’s mansion. I could make out every detail of its flat-surfaced, semi-mansard roof. I could actually count each individual chimney and flue that stuck up through the tiles. Every eave and window was as brightly delineated as if it were daylight!
Below me “police” cruisers guarded the road as I crossed high over their heads. The attack dogs sniffed and snarled against the metal of the chain-link inner fences, furious at their inability to get at the “troopers” patrolling along the outside of the fences. The invisible beams of the ground sensors crisscrossed the lawn uselessly.
Had anyone looked up at the sky, he would have had a difficult time seeing me, because the covering of the hang-kite was black nylon. I was just a darker shadow against the blackness of the sky, and tonight there was no moon to silhouette me.
I banked the huge kite to lose altitude. It doesn’t take long to fly a mile in a hang-kite, and I had almost 1500 feet of altitude to lose before I could touch down on Bradford’s roof. Presently I was a 100 yards away and perhaps fifty feet above it. At the last moment I took my eye away from the sniperscope finder, grabbed both aluminum sidebraces with my hands and got ready for the landing impact.
When you touch down with a hang-kite, you come in at a run. I didn’t have much room on that roof to run. I was just damned lucky I found enough space for the half-dozen paces I needed to come to a stop without breaking a leg.
Taking a deep breath, I unlatched the safety belt, laying the hang-kite down on the roof surface. I unslung the sniperscope battery pack and equipment, placing them on top of the hang-kite. The framework, the equipment and the Feinwerkbau pellet gun I wrapped in the nylon covering, stowing the. whole package away neatly beside one of the chimneys.
Cautiously I made my way across the roof to the edge. An eave was directly below me. I swung onto it. The window was no problem. Since it was on the third floor of the mansion, no one had bothered to lock it against intruders.
Then I was inside, treading carefully across the darkened room to the doorway. Easing open the door, I peered into the corridor. The hallway was empty. Walking softly, I made my way to the far end.
Sixty rooms, and where was Bradford?
The corridor ended at a railing. Above me was an enormous skylight. Three stories below, the main hall of the manor spread out, with the stairwell circling the sides all the way down. Corridors branched off the stairwell at each landing.
Somehow the layout seemed vaguely familiar. I knew damn well I hadn’t been there before, but I kept getting the feeling that I knew the place!
Then I remembered. The mansion had originally belonged to one of the earliest and richest of the families in the region. Over the years the family had made the estate into one of the great showplaces of New England. Its halls were hung with the finest collection of early American art in the world. Two original Stuart portraits of Washington were in the collection. Most people know the Stuart painting of George Washington that’s on dollar bills and postage stamps. There were others. Two of the best hung in this collection.
It was no coincidence that I remembered so much about the manor house. It had been the subject of a lengthy article, complete with color photographs and floor plan, in American Heritage magazine.
You wouldn’t know it to look at Hawk, who dresses in crumpled clothes and smokes cheap, foul-smelling cigars, but he’s one of the best-read men I’ve ever known. Just a few months ago, over a drink in his home, he had dragged out that particular issue of American Heritage and had made me read the article about “Pentwick Hall” — the name of the estate Alexander Bradford now owned. Hawk had wanted to show me photos of the collection of paintings.
What I remembered was the floor plan of the mansion. Now I knew exactly where to find Alexander Bradford! It took me a moment to sort through my memory and to orient myself. Then, as silently as I could, I stole down a flight of stairs to the second floor and took the corridor on the right to the master suite.
To my surprise, there was no one guarding the halls, but then, why should there be? With troopers on patrol, with a double electrified fence, with savage attack dogs and sensor beams, who’d think protection was necessary inside the house?
Bradford’s bedroom was actually a full suite with a huge salon opening onto the hallway and a large bedroom to the right of the salon.
Quietly I turned the door knob. I inched the door open, stepped inside and carefully shut it behind me. I was in a small foyer. I could see part of the room, lit comfortably by the warm glow of table lamps and wall sconces. The furniture was genuine Sheraton and Hepplewhite, the rich woods polished by age, wax and hand rubbing to a deep, glowing patina.
I moved into the salon — and stopped. Sitting in an armchair facing me was a distinguished-looking, lean-faced man with black hair streaked with gray. His eyes were deep-set and burned with an inner intensity. He was wearing a brocaded dressing gown. In his lap rested a large, very old, leather-covered book.
In his hand, pointing at me, was a large, very modern automatic pistol!
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said in a well-modulated voice. “You are Nick Carter?”
I nodded.
“I lost my bet,” he said with an almost whimsical smile. “I didn’t think you could do it.” His accent was pure Harvard-Boston. It sounded almost English. “I wagered that you’d not be able to get through the defenses I’d set up. I seem to have underestimated you.”
“Who’d you bet with?” I asked.
“With me.” Sabrina’s voice floated across the room to me. She was sitting in a corner in an armchair, a delicate crystal wine glass in her hand. “I knew that if anyone could do it, it would be you, Nick. Would you tell us how you managed it?”
Bradford murmured, “It really doesn’t matter, my dear. The point is, he’s here.” He eyed me appraisingly. “No weapons? I’m surprised.”
“He has a knife,” said Sabrina. “It’s strapped to his forearm.”
Bradford lifted an eyebrow. “Oh? How did you find that out, my dear?”
“I made love to him,” Sabrina answered.
Bradford lifted the gun. “Take it off,” he ordered. “And be sure to move slowly.”
I unstrapped Hugo and let the knife and its sheath fall to the floor.
“No other weapons?”
“Search me,” I said.
Bradford laughed. “Not a chance. Take off your shirt.”
I took off Raymond’s shirt. I stood there, nude from the waist up.
“My God,” said Bradford, fascinated, “the man’s covered with scars!” He continued his observation for a moment. Then he said, “You know, Carter, you intrigue me. I doubt if there’s another man alive who could have gotten to me at all — let alone in the short time you’ve taken to learn my identity and seek me out. Nor could anyone else have escaped my men as you’ve done. Several of them are among the best mercenary soldiers in the world.”