A Korean Tiger Read online

  Chapter 3

  During the drive to Laurel in the chauffeur-driven Cadillac that Hawk had requisitioned, his chief expounded on a point which, in the ordinary course of things, would not have concerned Nick Carter.

  As they left D.C. behind and entered Maryland Hawk said: "I know that normally you leave politics to the politicians, son, but have you been keeping up with the current hassle about the CIA?"

  Nick, thinking briefly of Peg Tyler's marvelous breasts and thighs, admitted that he had not, recently, so much as glanced at a newspaper.

  "I didn't think so." Hawk's tone was sardonic. "But for your information certain Congressmen, and Senators, are raising a hell of a stink. They think CIA has too much autonomy, and they want to do something about it, bring the agency under tighter supervision."

  Nick grinned as he tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. "Any Congressman that wants to do that can't be all bad. Those meatheads can use a little supervision, I'd say. Their fumbling damned near got me killed in Mexico this last jaunt."[2]

  Hawk rolled down a window. He decorated the serene, rolling Maryland landscape with a beat-up cigar. "The point is — that if they succeed in supervising the CIA then we're next. AXE! The CIA can function in the limelight, but we can't! I won't even try. The day Congress comes poking its nose in the affairs of AXE is the day I resign. Anything like that would ruin us overnight. We might as well take a front page ad in The New York Times!"

  Nick remained silent. It was a tempest in a teapot. He doubted that Congress would be allowed to investigate AXE and, even if it did, that Hawk would resign. The old man was too firmly wedded to his job for that. The only way Hawk would ever quit was by mandate of the retirement law — even then they would have to bind him and carry him, kicking and screaming, from his little office.

  But it turned out that Hawk was not merely fuming. He was making a point. Now he said: "I know, and you know, that we always operate under cover, in the 'black' and with top secrecy. I don't have to tell you that."

  "But you are telling me, sir. Why?"

  His boss pulled the cellophane off a fresh cigar. "Just to remind you. And maybe help you a little. Normal secrecy and precautions, which are usually tight in any case, are being doubled and tripled in this Bennett thing. We, AXE and all the other agencies involved, have slammed a total blackout on this matter. All over the world. If the press ever gets hold of it we're dead. All of us, but especially AXE. Just because Bennett worked for us last!" Hawk bit off the end of his cigar and spat it out the window. "Damn it to hell! Why couldn't the bastard have ended up in Agriculture, or Commerce — any place but us!"

  Killmaster had to admit that there was some reason for Hawk's trepidation. If the newspapers ever sniffed the scent, ever found out that a Commie agent had been able to lie doggo in Washington for thirty years, to be discovered only after he had made the mistake of murdering his wife, there was going to be a lot of undiluted hell to pay. It could blow the dome right off the Capitol!

  They were in the outskirts of the little town of Laurel now. The chauffeur seemed to know where he was going. As the big limousine turned off U.S. 1 and headed for the business section Hawk said, "I've been out here once before. As soon as the FBI boys started checking and found out that Bennett worked for us they called me. But I want you to see for yourself. That's why I haven't explained more — your first impressions might be valuable. Might help you catch Bennett. He was a real kook, a concealed kook, and I've got a hunch that you're the only man who has a chance of catching him." Hawk glanced at his watch and groaned. "Unless, of course, he's having dinner in the Kremlin about now."

  "Maybe he hasn't made it yet," Nick consoled. "Even if he's running in that direction. You've shot the works on this, I take it? The complete bit?"

  Hawk nodded. "Yes. Of course. That's really our- only chance — that he's been forced to hide, go to ground and wait until things cool off a bit. They won't, of course, not until we get him. But he might not know that. I said he's not really very bright. But I've got the net out — our people, the CIA, the FBI, Scotland Yard, the Sureté, Interpol — you name it and I've done it. Of course there's a risk there, too, but I had to take it."

  Nick understood. With so many working on a case the chances of a leak increased almost geometrically. It was, as his boss said, a chance they must take.

  They had left the downtown section behind now and were again heading north. To their right was the Laurel Race Track. Nick remembered it well. He had lost a few hundred there on a long-ago weekend. What had been her name — Jane? Joan? Debbie? Mary? Lou Ann! That was it. Lou Ann somebody or other. A happy little blonde girl who had won consistently while Nick hadn't been able to pick a winner. Nick grinned to himself as he recalled something else — Lou Ann had had a thing about brassieres and refused to wear them. The result, as he recalled it now, had been a little spectacular.

  Hawk shattered his pleasant little reverie. "Here we are. Just down this street."

  Nick caught a glimpse of a blue and white street sign as the big car wheeled off the pavement onto an oiled dirt road. Bond Mill Road. Nick sighed, banished the ghost of the happy little blonde, and came alert.

  It seemed a pleasant enough little suburb, not a recent subdivision, and the builders had left some fine old trees. The houses, in the twenty-five or thirty thousand dollar class, were well spaced. School was not yet out and at this hour there was a paucity of children, though their spoor was everywhere in the form of bikes, wagons, jungle gyms and various other impedimenta. A typical scene of American peace and tranquility, in this case enhanced by a faint breeze from Chesapeake Bay and the golden patina of Maryland sun.

  "In a place like this," Nick said, "a murder must really set them on their ear."

  "You can say that again," Hawk growled. "But in a way all the excitement helped us. Thank God the FBI called me in time. I got them to go sub rosa on it and the Laurel cops were very cooperative once they knew the score. With the FBI underground the papers haven't smelled a thing yet. They think it's just another wife murder. The usual thing — that Bennett killed his fat ugly old wife and ran off with another woman. We've got to keep them thinking along those lines." With fervor he added, "The story has been buried for the past few days. I hope to God it stays that way."

  Nick chuckled and lit a cigarette. "Amen."

  The limousine pulled off the road through a narrow wooden gate set in a white rail fence that needed paint. They followed a gravel drive around behind a small Cape Cod-type house. There was a ramshackle one-car garage also needing paint. The car stopped and Hawk and Nick got out. Hawk told the chauffeur to wait and they walked around to the front of the little house. A variety of flower beds, once carefully tended and now choked with weeds, bordered the flagstone walk.

  Nick glanced over the grounds. "Bennett had quite a lot of land here."

  "Couple of acres. Lot of land, not much house. Spent what money he had on privacy. He didn't want people living too close to him."

  They rounded the front of the house and approached a small, screened porch. A big cop put down a magazine and disentangled himself from a metal chair. He had a red face and a growl like a bulldog. "Who are you? What do you want here?"

  Hawk flashed a gold Presidential Pass. AXE did not exist for the ordinary American public. The cop looked at the pass and his manner became most respectful. But he said: "The house is sealed, sir. I don't know about..."

  Hawk gave the cop a hard stare. Nick watched with a concealed grin. Hawk could be pretty terrifying at times.

  Hawk nodded at Nick. "Slip that seal, Nick. Take it easy. We'll want to leave it intact."

  The cop began to protest again. "But, sir! I don't think... I mean my orders are to..."

  As Nick went deftly to work on the metal seal on the screen door he listened to Hawk putting the cop straight.

  "Just two things," Hawk was saying. "Just two things mat you got to remember to forget, Officer. Forget is the operative word. Forget you ever saw th
at gold pass — and forget you ever saw us! You don't forget them, you ever mention them to anybody on this earth, and your name will be mud until the day you die! You got that, Officer?"

  "Y-yes, sir. I got it, sir."

  Hawk nodded brusquely. "You damned well better. Now get back to your girlie book and forget us. We'll leave everything just the way we found it."

  By this time Nick had finagled the seal, unbroken, and he and Hawk went into the house. It was stifling, muggy and humid, the smell of dust mingling with a ghost of old furniture polish — and just a trace of the rotten, sickly sweet effluvia of death. Nick sniffed.

  Hawk said: "She was dead a little over a week before they found her. This place is going to need fumigating before they can sell it."

  He led the way down a narrow, cheaply carpeted hallway. Nick glanced to his left, into the living room, and did not waste a second glance. Furniture that was strictly Grand Rapids, purchased on credit, done in what some wag had once called "early American stupid." A TV set in a dark plastic cabinet, a rump-sprung sofa, a scarred coffee table heaped with old magazines. A few bad copies of bad pictures on the puce walls.

  "The Ivans couldn't have been paying Bennett much," he told Hawk. "Or the guy isn't so dumb after all — at least he didn't make the big mistake most of them do."

  Hawk nodded. He was opening a padlock on a basement door. "No. He didn't spend any money. That's part of the puzzle, son. It might be the reason he got away with it for so long — or maybe the Russians just never paid him!"

  Nick Carter frowned. "In that case Bennett was, is, a really dedicated Commie? Working for nothing!"

  Hawk chewed his dead cigar and mumbled around it. "Wait and see. I think the guy was a really dedicated nut, but maybe you can come up with some fresh ideas."

  The basement door came open. Nick followed the older man down a steep flight of unpainted wooden stairs. Hawk reached for a dangling cord and pulled on an overhead light. The 100-watt bulb was unshielded and revealed the small basement in a pitiless glare. In one corner was a small oil furnace and a tank; in the other corner were tubs and a washer and dryer.

  "Over here," said Hawk. He led Nick to the far wall of the basement, opposite the foot of the stairs. He pointed out dark, circular scars on the concrete floor. "Used to have an old coal furnace, see. Stood right here. And in here was the coal bin. Good job, eh? The FBI thinks Bennett did it all himself. They've got a theory that even his wife didn't know about it."

  Hawk was tapping the roughly finished concrete wall with the back of his hand. He smiled at Nick. "Feel it It looks natural enough, innocent, but feel it."

  Nick touched the concrete and felt it give slightly. He looked at his boss. "Plywood? Wallboard, something like that. He smeared a thin layer of concrete over it?"

  "Right Watch now."

  After a moment's searching Hawk pressed his finger against one of the trowel marks on the concrete. The section of wall opened, turning on some concealed vertical axis, leaving a gap wide enough for a man to slip through. Hawk stepped back. "After you, son. The light switch is just to your right."

  Nick stepped into the darkness and fumbled for the light Hawk followed, brushing against him, pulling the section of wall shut. Nick found the switch and flicked it The little room glowed with subdued golden light.

  The first thing Nick Carter noticed was the large painting above the desk. Done in garish, violent color, it shrieked in the silence of the hidden room. Nick went closer, peering, saw a small brass plate screwed into the frame.

  The Rape.

  A young girl lay on her back in a tangle of tall weeds. She lay with her head back, her mouth twisted in anguish, her long blonde hair flowing into the surrounding sea of weeds. Half a black brassiere had been ripped away to expose one small soft breast. Her dress had been torn off, though tattered remnants still clung around her tiny waist. She wore panties, torn at the crotch, and a garter belt with broad black straps leading down to torn stockings. Her white legs were flung wide, one knee raised, and there were bloody smears on the inside of her thighs. Near her feet, nearly out of the picture, was a single high-heeled red slipper lying on its side.

  Nick Carter whistled softly. Hawk was standing back in the shadows, saying nothing. Nick said: "Bennett do this?"

  "I think so. His hobby was painting."

  Carter nodded. "Not bad. Raw, but with power. Graphic enough. A psychiatrist could get a lot out of this picture — too bad I'm not one."

  Hawk merely grunted. "You don't have to be a head shrinker to know that Raymond Lee Bennett was, or is, a real character. Go ahead. Look around and draw your own conclusions. That's why we came here. I want you to get it firsthand. I'll keep out of it until you're finished."

  Killmaster, with a skill born of long practice, began to go over the room. To a casual onlooker, one who did not know Nick Carter, his methods might have appeared indolent, even slovenly. But he missed nothing. He seldom touched anything, but his eyes — strange eyes that could change color like a chameleon — roved incessantly and fed back a constant stream of information to the brain behind the high forehead.

  Bookshelves formed one entire wall of the little room. Nick cast a knowing eye past the spines of scores of paperback and hard-cover books. "Bennett was a mystery fan," he told the silent Hawk. "Also a spy buff — that figures in a way, I think. There is everything here from Anna Katherine Green through Gaboriau and Doyle to Ambler and LeCarré. The best and the worst Maybe the guy used them as handbooks for his profession."

  "Keep going," Hawk muttered. "You haven't seen anything yet. The FBI brought in a psychologist and let him roam around. He didn't seem to get far — acted a little put out because Bennett wasn't around to take a Rorschach test".

  Nick pulled open the top drawer of the desk. "Hummmm — this is pretty good pornography. Expensive, too. Maybe that's where his money went."

  "Pornography? The FBI didn't tell me anything about any pornography!" Hawk came out of the shadows to gaze over Nick's shoulder.

  Nick chuckled. "Better watch it, sir. You're a little old for this high-voltage stuff. And weren't you going to the doctor for blood pressure a little while back?"

  "Hah!" Hawk reached to take one of the glossy prints from Nick. He studied it with a frown. He shook his head. "It can't be done. Not like that. It's physically impossible."

  The print in question involved three women, a man, and a dog. Nick gently took the picture from Hawk and reversed it. "You had it upside down, sir."

  "The hell I did!" Hawk studied the picture again. "Damned if I didn't, at that. Hummm — this way it's just possible." He scaled the print back into the drawer and nodded at a steel cabinet standing in one corner of the room. "Take a look in that." He went back into the shadows near the wall.

  Nick opened the cabinet. The contents were intriguing, to say the least. Nick lit a cigarette and studied them with a half smile and half frown. Maybe Raymond Lee Bennett wasn't very bright, or too well endowed physically, but he was certainly a chap of many facets. Most of them on the oddball side.

  On hooks in one corner of the cabinet was a collection of women's girdles, corsets, and garter belts. Some of the garments had long stockings attached to them. On the floor of the cabinet were women's shoes with extremely high spike heels and one pair of high-heeled patent leather boots that buttoned to the knee.

  Nick whistled again, softly. "Our boy was a fetishist from way back, it seems."

  Hawk was sour. "That's what the FBI psychologist said in his report. So where does that get us?"

  Nick was cheerful. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. More important, he was beginning to get an inkling, some faint foreshadowing, of what Raymond Lee Bennett was really like.

  He took a collection of dog whips from a shelf in the steel cabinet. Also a slender quirt of braided leather. "Bennett liked to whip people. Probably women. Without doubt women. Hmmm — but where could he find any women to whip? Living in a place like this, and looking the way he did? Not
that his looks would work against him in the sort of sexual underworld he obviously wanted, liked, to move in. Did move in — or did he? Maybe he didn't. Couldn't. In Baltimore, sure. Maybe even in Washington, these days. But that would have been risky as hell — sooner or later he would have gotten caught, in trouble, and his cover would have been blown. But he was never blown. This neat little suburban fraud of his was never penetrated until he blew it himself."

  Nick dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on the stub. As he did so he noticed the chalked outline on the drab brown linoleum. The chalk was scuffed and partially erased in places, but the outline still denoted a corpse of considerable heft.

  Nick pointed to the chalk marks. "His wife, Hawk!" For once he forgot the "sir" with which he habitually addressed the older man.

  Hawk shook his head doubtfully. "You think she did know about this room, then? That she was his companion in the fun and games that went on down here? But that means that she must have known he was working for the Russians, or been working for them herself. And that I won't buy! Two people couldn't have kept that secret for thirty years. One, just maybe. It looks like Bennett did. But not his wife, too."

  Nick lit a fresh cigarette. He ran strong fingers through his crisp brown hair. "I agree with you on that, sir. I don't think she knew about the spying bit. She wouldn't have to know. No real reason why she should. But I think she was his sexual companion, if you want to call it that, in the nutty sex games Bennett liked to play. I would bet on it. We won't find them now, because Bennett either destroyed them or took them with him, but I'll bet there was a Polaroid camera around here with a lot of exposed film. Probably he had a timer on it so he could join the lady and take his own pictures."

  Hawk, his hands in his pockets, was staring moodily at the desk. "Maybe you're right, Nick. One thing I do know — there's no secret drawer in that desk. The FBI did everything but tear it apart. I trust them on that. They didn't flub it."

  "Yes," said Nick. "Bennett probably has them with him. They'll be some consolation on long cold nights when he's hiding out."