used Nick Carter. If Nick couldn't do it, it couldn't be done.
Could he use Nick in a private vendetta for another man? The problem made no attempt to go away or to solve itself. It was still there when Hawk at last sought his pillow again. The booze had helped a bit and he fell into an uneasy sleep at the first peeping of birds in the forsythia outside his window.
Cecil Aubrey and the MIS man, Terence, were due again Tuesday, in Hawk's office at eleven- Hawk was in the office at a quarter of nine. Delia Stokes was not yet in. Hawk hung up his light raincoat — it was beginning to drizzle outside — and went straight to the phone and called Nick's apartment in the Mayflower.
Hawk had made his decision while driving to the office from Georgetown. He knew he was weaseling a bit and shifting the burden a little after all, but now he could do it with a fairly clear conscience. Tell Nick all the facts, with the Englishmen present, and let Nick make his own decision. It was the best Hawk could do, considering his greed and his temptation. He would be fair. He swore it to himself. If Nick turned down the mission that would be the end of it. Let Cecil Aubrey seek elsewhere for an executioner.
Nick did not answer. Hawk swore and slammed the phone down. He stripped his first cigar of the morning and put it in his mouth. He tried Nick's apartment again, letting the ring go on and on. No answer.
Hawk slammed the phone down again and stood glaring at it. Screwing again, he thought. Shacked up. In the hay with some beautiful .doll and he'll report in when he gets damned good and ready. Hawk scowled, then nearly smiled. Couldn't blame the boy for reaping his rosebuds while he could. It didn't last long, God knew. Not long enough. Been a long time since
he'd
been able to reap any rosebuds. Ah, golden girls and lads alike must come to dust...
To hell with that! When Nick did not answer on the third attempt Hawk went out to look at the logbook on Delia's desk. The night duty officer was supposed to keep it updated. Hawk ran his finger down the list of neatly penned entries. Carter,
as
were all top AXE men, was on call twenty-four hours a day and was supposed to call in and check every twelve hours. And to leave an address or phone number where they could be reached.
Hawk's finger stopped on the entry:
N3 — 2204 hrs. — 914-528-6177...
It was a Maryland prefix. Hawk scribbled the number on a scratch sheet and went back into his own office. He dialed the number.
After a long series of rings a woman said, "Hello?" She sounded sleepy and hungover.
Hawk barged straight into it. Let's get Romeo out of the sack.
"Let me speak to Mr. Carter, please."
Long pause. Then, coldly, "To whom did you wish to speak?"
Hawk bit his cigar savagely. "Carter. Nick Carter! This is very important. Urgent. Is he there?"
More silence. Then he heard her yawn. Her voice was still cold as she said, "I'm sorry. Mr. Carter left some time ago. I really don't know when. But how on earth did you get this number? I..."
"Sorry, lady." Hawk snapped the phone down again. Damn! He sat down, put his feet on the desk and stared at the bilious puce walls. The Western Union clock ticked in defense of Nick Carter. He wasn't overdue on his call in. Still some forty odd minutes to go. Hawk swore under his breath and could not understand his own unease.
Delia Stokes came in a few minutes later. Hawk, masking his anxiety — for which he could produce no good reason — set her to ringing the Mayflower every ten minutes. He got on another line and began making discreet inquiries. Nick Carter, as Hawk well knew, was a swinger and his range of acquaintances was long and catholic. He might be in a Turkish bath with a senator, having breakfast with the wife and/or daughter of some diplomatic VIP — or he might be in a crap game in Goat Hill.
Time passed without results. Hawk kept glancing at the clock on the wall. He had promised Aubrey a decision todays Goddamn the boy
Could he use Nick in a private vendetta for another man? The problem made no attempt to go away or to solve itself. It was still there when Hawk at last sought his pillow again. The booze had helped a bit and he fell into an uneasy sleep at the first peeping of birds in the forsythia outside his window.
Cecil Aubrey and the MIS man, Terence, were due again Tuesday, in Hawk's office at eleven- Hawk was in the office at a quarter of nine. Delia Stokes was not yet in. Hawk hung up his light raincoat — it was beginning to drizzle outside — and went straight to the phone and called Nick's apartment in the Mayflower.
Hawk had made his decision while driving to the office from Georgetown. He knew he was weaseling a bit and shifting the burden a little after all, but now he could do it with a fairly clear conscience. Tell Nick all the facts, with the Englishmen present, and let Nick make his own decision. It was the best Hawk could do, considering his greed and his temptation. He would be fair. He swore it to himself. If Nick turned down the mission that would be the end of it. Let Cecil Aubrey seek elsewhere for an executioner.
Nick did not answer. Hawk swore and slammed the phone down. He stripped his first cigar of the morning and put it in his mouth. He tried Nick's apartment again, letting the ring go on and on. No answer.
Hawk slammed the phone down again and stood glaring at it. Screwing again, he thought. Shacked up. In the hay with some beautiful .doll and he'll report in when he gets damned good and ready. Hawk scowled, then nearly smiled. Couldn't blame the boy for reaping his rosebuds while he could. It didn't last long, God knew. Not long enough. Been a long time since
he'd
been able to reap any rosebuds. Ah, golden girls and lads alike must come to dust...
To hell with that! When Nick did not answer on the third attempt Hawk went out to look at the logbook on Delia's desk. The night duty officer was supposed to keep it updated. Hawk ran his finger down the list of neatly penned entries. Carter,
as
were all top AXE men, was on call twenty-four hours a day and was supposed to call in and check every twelve hours. And to leave an address or phone number where they could be reached.
Hawk's finger stopped on the entry:
N3 — 2204 hrs. — 914-528-6177...
It was a Maryland prefix. Hawk scribbled the number on a scratch sheet and went back into his own office. He dialed the number.
After a long series of rings a woman said, "Hello?" She sounded sleepy and hungover.
Hawk barged straight into it. Let's get Romeo out of the sack.
"Let me speak to Mr. Carter, please."
Long pause. Then, coldly, "To whom did you wish to speak?"
Hawk bit his cigar savagely. "Carter. Nick Carter! This is very important. Urgent. Is he there?"
More silence. Then he heard her yawn. Her voice was still cold as she said, "I'm sorry. Mr. Carter left some time ago. I really don't know when. But how on earth did you get this number? I..."
"Sorry, lady." Hawk snapped the phone down again. Damn! He sat down, put his feet on the desk and stared at the bilious puce walls. The Western Union clock ticked in defense of Nick Carter. He wasn't overdue on his call in. Still some forty odd minutes to go. Hawk swore under his breath and could not understand his own unease.
Delia Stokes came in a few minutes later. Hawk, masking his anxiety — for which he could produce no good reason — set her to ringing the Mayflower every ten minutes. He got on another line and began making discreet inquiries. Nick Carter, as Hawk well knew, was a swinger and his range of acquaintances was long and catholic. He might be in a Turkish bath with a senator, having breakfast with the wife and/or daughter of some diplomatic VIP — or he might be in a crap game in Goat Hill.
Time passed without results. Hawk kept glancing at the clock on the wall. He had promised Aubrey a decision todays Goddamn the boy
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