The hacienda was basically L-shaped, with the base of the L facing this long wall, shaded by English yew trees. He had long since decided that this wall afforded his best chance of getting inside the enclave unseen.
From beneath his woolen shirt he unwound the long silken rope that had been readied at his request by the Armorer in Washington. At one end was a flat unfolding metal bar that split into three to become a small grappling hook when he pushed onto the end of each bar three small rubber balls with barbed spikes. He swung the rope, lengthening it slightly on each swing, until he had enough play on it to loft it high into the night sky. Up, over, and down on the other side of the pointed stakes of the stockade it went, making a soft but audible bump as the spikes bit into the timber. Angel froze, waiting in the darkness like a trapped animal; but there was no challenge from the sentries. Nothing moved. He stood warily and tested the rope. It stretched slightly as he put all his weight on it, and then he went up the rough face of the stockade like a squirrel. Pausing at the top, he threw one arm over and checked for any sound of alarm. Hearing none, he unhooked the grapple and threw it down to the invisible ground inside the enclave. Below him was impenetrable darkness. He swung over the top of the fence and vaulted down. He rolled to break his fall, not silent but very quietly, and found himself among ornamental shrubs and bushes, perhaps fifty feet from the rear of the building. The soft thump of the pump was louder, more powerful. The ground trembled slightly with each stroke. Inside the house someone was playing the piano. Liszt, he thought, surprised.
Swiftly locating the rope and grapple, Angel disassembled it and stowed it in the many-pocketed pants. The rope he wound around his waist beneath the shirt. Then he squatted on the ground, taking the time to control his breathing, summoning the inner sense of presence that his Korean teacher, Kee Lai, had taught him long ago.
Then he moved like a prowling tiger toward the house.
Flattened against the wall, he eased along it until he came to the first of the tall, brilliantly lit windows. A rapid glance inside revealed a huge dining room, lit by cut-glass chandeliers, the table laid for dinner. The tablecloth was snow-white linen, the cutlery silver, the glasses sparkling crystal. Three place settings, he noted idly, wondering who Nix’s guests might be. Then he worked around to the northern corner of the house, concealed by the blue-black shadows near the ground, until he could see the paved-stone patio in front of the pool. Over the patio was a loggia, from which depended grape-bearing vines and climbing plants whose flowers gave off a honeyed perfume. A low table and some chairs stood in the center of the sheltered patio, and a man came out of the house with a silver tray bearing a wine bottle and glasses which he proceeded to set out on the table. The man was short and squat and when he moved into the slab of light coming from the windows, Angel saw that he was an Oriental.
Now Angel eased around the front of the house, flat to the wall, moving like a stealthy predator, senses alert for the faintest sign of danger. The absence of guards was jarring, and he frowned. Inside the house, the Liszt sonata continued. Whoever was playing played beautifully, he thought.
Then all the lights went out.
~*~
‘So, the sleeper awakes. Welcome, Angel. Welcome to the kingdom of Hercules Nix!’
Angel opened his eyes, and the blurred figure standing above him became clear as focus returned.
‘You?’ he said. He tried to get up, then winced as he felt the stiffness of the muscles in his neck.
‘Me,’ Nix said. ‘I am surprised you remember me so well.’
‘I remember you, Hecatt,’ Angel said, sitting up and looking around. He was in a sumptuously appointed bedroom with velvet drapes on the windows and what looked like an Aubusson carpet on the floor. ‘You’re the kind nobody ever forgets.’
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ Nix replied. ‘More than you can imagine.’
‘You’re Hercules Nix?’
‘That is correct. The man you once knew as Ernie Hecatt is, to all intents and purposes, dead and buried. In his place stands one of the richest men in the United States—I, Hercules Nix!’
‘You can call a rat any damned thing you want,’ Angel said flatly. ‘It’s still a rat.’
His host’s darkly smiling mien changed suddenly to a black mask of anger, and the gloved left hand drew back as if to strike Angel down. Then, with a huge indrawn breath, Nix controlled his anger and pasted the smile back on his face. Only the eyes, burning like fire, betrayed the passion beneath the surface. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, softly. ‘You’ll not enrage me, Angel. I have waited far too long to spoil my pleasure. There will be no cheap escape for you.’
‘Escape? What are you talking about?’
‘Surely you do not think you are here by accident?’
‘I’m not?’
‘My dear Angel, I thought you would be flattered at all the trouble I have taken to get you here.’
‘I’m flattered, I’m flattered. Now tell me what the hell you’re talking about.’ Angel said. He swung his legs down to the floor and got to his feet warily. His head swam slightly, but that was all. ‘How did I get up here?’
‘Yat Sen,’ Nix said. ‘My valet. I found him in San Francisco, where he was working in a hand laundry. He has passed through every known level of the martial arts, Angel. I have heard that the Justice Department teaches these skills.’
‘Have you, now?’ Angel parried.
‘Let me warn you just once,’ Nix said silkily, ‘not to be foolhardy. Yat Sen would be to your puny abilities what a Grand Master would be to a beginner at chess.’
‘Sure,’ Angel said, letting his scorn show.
‘Just remember that he came across twenty feet of open ground to stun you and you did not hear as much as the whisper of his feet.’
‘True enough,’ Angel admitted, remembering. He had never heard of any man possessing the skills that Nix boasted his man had. That didn’t mean it wasn’t possible. He decided to repeat an earlier question.
‘My dear Angel, I have been expecting you confidently ever since I first started trading with The People—the Comanches, in this case. Isn’t it amazing how all these Mongolian savages refer to themselves as The People? To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed that it took so long to attract you to my little, ah, hide-away. I thought at first that the Tyrell business would do it, but instead you sent someone else.’
‘Jaime Lorenz,’ Angel said.
‘He was very clumsy, Angel. Clumsier even than you, and you were very obvious. My men took him outside San Antonio and brought him here.’
‘He’s dead, then?’
‘Alas, yes. So very few men survive the, ah, rigors of the valley. But he served his purpose. I knew that when he arrived, your coming was but a matter of time. What is it, sixty days after departure you assume death?’
‘You know a lot about the department.’
‘Lorenz told me a lot.’
‘So you knew I was coming?’
‘Of course. Your movements from the moment you arrived in Galveston have been reported to me. You have been under observation every inch of the way.’
‘You seem to have it all buttoned up,’ Angel said.
‘Ah, do not think you have an ace up your sleeve, my dear fellow. I’m afraid your arrival through the mountains was also observed. I’ve been watching your every move.’ He smiled at the look of chagrin on his prisoner’s face, and bowed sardonically.
‘Why did you let me stay out so long? Why didn’t you send your boys out to get me?’ Angel asked.
‘What, and spoil my pleasure?’ Nix said, throwing back his huge head and laughing. ‘After I have gone to so much trouble to arrange everything? No, no, my dear Angel. I wanted you to have every advantage. I wanted you to know just exactly what you were up against here in my valley. And I am sure, now, that you do know. So you, as well as I, may relish what comes next.’
‘Which is?’
‘Oh, come, not now,’ Nix smiled. ‘This eve
ning you will dine with me. I want to spend some time with you. It may surprise you, Angel, but I respect your abilities. I confess myself eager to discover just how good you are. But that is tomorrow. Tonight … well, perhaps you are like Scheherazade. Perhaps for you there will be no tomorrow.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ Angel said harshly. ‘I’m not really kitted out for a dinner party.’ He gestured at his mud-smeared face and hands, his soiled clothing, comparing it with the fine black broadcloth suit of his captor.
‘I’m afraid I won’t take no for an answer,’ Nix said, showing his teeth. ‘We have plenty of time to take care of your needs.’ He clapped his hands once, and then again. As if by magic the Oriental, Yat Sen, appeared in the doorway. He bowed without speaking.
‘Mr. Angel’s bath is ready?’ Nix asked expansively. Yat Sen bowed again, yes.
‘Good. Look after him, Yat Sen. We dine at nine, Angel.’
He went out through the tall double doors, and the Oriental looked at Angel expectantly.
‘Please no trouble,’ he said quietly. Like many of his race, he had difficulty with the pronunciation of the r’s and l’s. ‘Trouble’ came out ‘tlubber.’ Angel nodded as Yat Sen stepped to one side, and gestured, this way. He reckoned correctly that it would take five steps to be beside the Oriental, and on the fifth step he was moving very fast, his hands perfectly right, his body beautifully set for the blow which he delivered sideways at Yat Sen’s carotid artery. Nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand, tenfold, would have been killed on the spot by the blurring hand. Not one in a million could have done what Yat Sen then almost casually did. He intercepted Angel’s hand. All Angel’s strength, all his speed, and all his skill were behind the blow, yet the Oriental caught it in midair the way a kid catches a bouncing ball, and he held it totally immobile with the most astonishing strength Angel had ever encountered.
‘Please,’ Yat Sen said. ‘Take bath, no tlubber.’
Angel looked at his own hand held fast in the unbudging fist of the Oriental, and he let out his breath in one long, astonished sigh. ‘Yat Sen,’ he said. ‘That was impossible.’
‘Not impossibar,’ Yat Sen said, handing him a fragrant bar of toilet soap. ‘Enjoy bath. I get crothes.’
Angel shook his head silently as the Oriental padded out of the bathroom. Then he quickly got out of his dirty clothes and slid into the soft water. He was direly in need of a bath, and soaped himself vigorously, getting rid of the accumulated dirt of his outdoor days. As he bathed, he let his mind range over the things he had learned in the last few hours. The supreme, almost contemptuous, confidence of the man who called himself Hercules Nix, formerly Ernie Hecatt, trickster, thief, and murderer. He was still all these things: he had virtually admitted responsibility for the death of Tyrrell, and had indubitably had Jaime Lorenz killed. This astonishing house, the awesome, casual power of the Oriental, Yat Sen. The killing country that lay beyond the safety of the stockade, with the Comanche camp at its heart. A battalion of cavalry would have its work cut out making a successful attack on Nix’s stronghold. One man, even if he were free, would seem to have no damned chance at all. He cursed himself for allowing Nix to take him with such contemptuous ease, like a man catching goldfish in his own pond. He looked up as Yat Sen came back into the steamy bathroom.
‘Crothes leady,’ Yat Sen said. ‘Want shave?’
‘Leave the razor on the shelf,’ Angel said casually. ‘I’ll do it myself.’
Yat Sen’s face changed slightly, and Angel realized that he was witnessing the nearest expression Yat Sen had to a smile.
‘Ah, solly,’ the Oriental said. ‘Might cut Yat Sen thloat instead.’
‘Yat Sen!’ Angel said reproachfully. ‘Would I do a thing like that?’
‘Bet you ass,’ Yat Sen said. ‘Get out bath. I shave.’
‘OK,’ Angel grinned. ‘But you turn your back, now.’
Yat Sen’s face contorted again in its strange impersonation of a smile. ‘You damn blave,’ he said. ‘Or damn stupid. Not know which.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ Angel said.
Half an hour later, immaculate in a dark blue three-piece suit with wide lapels cut in the latest style, and a fine cambric shirt with diamond studs and buttons which fitted him quite well, Angel descended the ornate staircase and followed Yat Sen into the drawing room. It was beautifully furnished to disguise its main fault, a low, beamed ceiling, and managed even so to appear light and spacious. The furniture was very old and obviously very expensive. Angel knew very little about antiques, but he knew when he was looking at them. There were not many pieces in the room less than a hundred and fifty years old.
Hercules Nix came beaming to meet him, as if Angel were an old and honored friend arriving in his own coach at some Georgetown dinner. Nix handed him a glass of Amontillado and as he did, the gentle music from the ornate rosewood piano in the far corner of the room stopped. One of the most beautiful women Frank Angel had ever seen stood up behind it and smiled at him.
‘My dear,’ Nix said, smiling at Angel’s expression, savoring the moment. ‘Come and meet our guest, Mister Frank Angel, who works for the Department of Justice in Washington. Angel, this is my wife Victoria.’
Chapter Six
‘Well,’ Victoria Nix said, rising from her seat at the table. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen?’
She smiled at Angel, who smiled back as he and her husband rose and stood silently as she went out of the dining room, the silk of her gown rustling, the piled-high auburn hair catching bright highlights from the shining chandeliers. She had hardly spoken during the meal, and it had become immediately apparent to Angel that whatever her relationship to Hercules Nix was based upon, it was not love. She had flinched visibly every time he turned toward her, the way an often-beaten dog will. Unless spoken to directly, she had kept her eyes cast down, a dreamy expression behind them.
Angel turned to see Nix watching him. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ he said.
‘Of course,’ Nix said, offhandedly, the way a man will acknowledge a compliment about the horse he is riding.
‘Where did you meet?’
‘We first met, ah, near her home. Her father owned a ranch on the Brazos above Waco.’
‘How long was it after your escape?’
‘Quite soon, as a matter of fact,’ Nix said urbanely. He selected a cigar from the humidor that Yat Sen had brought into the room on noiseless feet. He rolled it between his fingers, listening to the crackle of the leaves. He sniffed it, and then nodded, giving it back to Yat Sen, who trimmed it with a gold cigar-cutter and then came around the table to perform the same service for Angel. The cigars were fine Havanas, and the smoke curled lazily toward the brilliant lights in the still air.
‘So that’s where you went to ground,’ Angel mused aloud. Nix smiled.
‘You’re perspicacious, Angel. I’ll tell you the rest to save you guessing. Old Tom Stacey—Victoria’s father—was not only the man who saved my life. He was the very foundation of my fortune.’
‘You had nothing,’ Angel pointed out. ‘How come?’
‘Good management. Good fortune. And a little manipulation.’
‘You stole it.’
‘Oh, come, let’s not be crude, my dear fellow. I prefer to think of it as long-term forward credit.’ Nix smiled like a man pleased with a turn of phrase.
‘Like I said,’ Angel repeated. ‘You stole it. What did you do, sell dud bonds?’
‘You’re quite close to the truth, actually,’ Nix admitted, leaning back in his chair and stretching expansively. ‘But it wasn’t quite so blatant. I really am not the blatant type, you know.’
‘You know what I said about rats,’ Angel reminded him, and was rewarded by a quick flare of anger in the yellow eyes. But it lasted only a moment, and Nix smiled his self-satisfied smile again.
‘My dear Angel, I know you are not a stupid man. You will oblige me by not pretending to be obtuse. Do you wish to he
ar the story or not?’
‘Go ahead. I’ve got no place to go at the moment.’
‘I like that “at the moment”,’ Nix purred, ‘but let it pass. So: the story. Actually, it was almost childishly easy. I went to live with the Staceys when I was well again.’
‘Well? You were sick?’
‘I was sick, all right,’ Nix snarled. ‘I had to cross half of Texas on the dodge, Angel! I had to fight off a bunch of Comanches who put a hole in my arm that caused this—’ He raised his iron hand and slammed it down on the table, making the coffee cups jangle. ‘I was three-quarters dead of hunger and thirst and loss of blood. If it hadn’t been for Victoria finding me, getting help, I’d be dead now.’
‘No way she could have known that,’ Angel said, sardonically. ‘I won’t hold it against her.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Nix said, relaxing, smiling like a skull. ‘I remember you had a penchant for mordant humor. That’s as well, for you’ll be in need of it ere long.’
‘You were saying how sick you were,’ Angel said, impatiently.
‘Yes,’ Nix hissed. ‘I was ill. But I pulled through. Do you know how I pulled through?’
‘Because you’re such a wonderful human being?’
‘Because I wanted revenge, Angel!’ Nix said, ignoring the other man’s shaft. ‘I wanted revenge! I swore as I lay dying that I would survive, that I would pull through. I wanted to live so that one day I would be able to kill you!’
‘Join the club,’ Angel said. ‘There’s a lot of members.’
‘I don’t doubt that,’ Nix said, drawing in a deep breath. The angry light in his eyes faded again, and Angel again noted the big man’s iron control. ‘At any rate, I discovered that Tom Stacey was a poor enough rancher and an even worse businessman. He was one of the directors of a cattleman’s bank in Waco, and it was going to the dogs. I soon showed him where he was going wrong, and how to put it right. He was—grateful.’
Angel nodded. Nix had obviously chosen to forget that as Ernie Hecatt he had been a liar and a cheat and a thief. He was proud of having helped to set the little cattleman’s bank on its feet—no doubt so that he could rob it the better. Not for the first time, Angel marveled at the capacity of the human race to delude itself. But there was no point in saying this to Nix. Angel leaned back and listened.
Stop Angel! (A Frank Angel Western Book 8) Page 4
