Warren Murphy - The End of the Beginning

He settled down in the privacy of his quarters to catch up on the wonderful daytime dramas.

On the TV an advertisement for tooth polish ended the selling moments and the program began again. After a few more raised eyebrows from Dr. Winston and a little hinting at a devastating revelation by Beatrice Sloane, grand-niece of Mayor Simon Parkhurst and former drug-addicted homecoming queen, the program ended.

As the Planet Revolves was followed by Search for Yesterday. Not quite as brilliant as the show that preceded it, but it was still good.

When the program ended at 3:30, the Master of Sinanju's eyes were damp. Releasing a contented sigh, he pressed off the television with a long finger.

Closing his papery eyelids, he began replaying the best scenes in his mind. His harmony was disrupted by the sound of approaching footfalls. He hoped they would pass by, but was dismayed when they stopped outside his chambers.

There was a sharp rap at the door.

The dramas were over. Ugliness was about to intrude on his day once more. With a sigh Chiun opened his eyes.

"Enter," he called reluctantly.

Harold Smith came into the room, a pinched expression on his lemony face.

"Master Chiun, I-" He stopped dead in his tracks. "My God, what happened here?" Smith gasped.

"Where?" Chiun asked, brow dropping in confusion.

"The body," Smith replied, eyes wide with shock. "My God, there's a dead body at your feet." Chiun turned a bland eye on the floor before him. A white-clad man lay facedown on the painted concrete.

"Oh, that." The Master of Sinanju waved. "Not to worry. I will have my pupil remove it when he gets back." He smiled. "You are looking exceptionally fit today, Emperor."

It was as if Smith didn't hear. He hurried over to the body. Crouching, he pressed his fingers to the man's throat, searching in vain for a pulse.

Chiun crinkled his nose in displeasure. This Smith hadn't even acknowledged the compliment he had just received. Chiun already suspected the man was crazy. Now he could add rude to the list of his current employer's shortcomings.

"There's no pulse," Smith said.

"No," Chiun agreed.

"This man is dead," Smith stated sickly.

"He's white. Who cares?" Chiun shrugged. "No offense," he added, lest this rude madman was the sort of lunatic who got offended by the truth.

"What happened?"

The Master of Sinanju raised his palms in confusion.

"I am not sure I understand your question, Emperor. He breathed, then he ceased breathing. Dead is dead."

"Master Chiun, you should have called me about this," Smith said. "I sent him to get you. When you didn't come to my office, I came to see why." Crouching beside the body, he looked over to the seated Oriental. "Did he say anything before he died? Perhaps clutch his heart or left arm?"

"I believe he said something," Chiun admitted. "I did not really hear, engrossed as I was in the travails of poor Lance Langdon and his alcohol-abusing wife. He got in the way, so I removed him."

Smith had been looking down at the body. Chiun's words stilled the blood in his veins. Moving only his eyes, he looked up over the tops of his rimless glasses at the placid face of the Master of Sinanju.

"Did you say 'removed'?" he asked levelly.

"No need to thank me," Chiun assured him, raising a hand to ward off praise. "The peace of mind you gain from knowing that this interrupting serf no longer stalks the halls of your castle is more than enough thanks for me."

Smith rolled the man onto his back. The body was already cold.

He didn't see it at first, so small was it. But then his eyes fell on it. A half moon sliver of a mark between the eyes just above the nose. It was the kind of mark that might be left by a puncturing fingernail.

"My God," Smith groaned again. "You killed this man. "

"Perhaps a small thank-you," Chiun said modestly. "If you insist."

"Chiun, this is unacceptable," Smith spluttered. "You killed a man in cold blood. A Folcroft employee, no less."

Shaking his head in shock, Smith dropped to his backside on the floor.

Smith's pale face was more ashen than normal. As he studied his employer, the Master of Sinanju's eyes narrowed.

"Maybe your humble servant is not understanding this correctly, O Emperor," he said slowly, "but it almost sounds like you are not pleased that I did you this favor."

"Favor? This is no favor. It's another catastrophe in a week of catastrophes. Chiun, you can't go around killing people just because they disturb you while you're watching television. How on earth am I supposed to explain this?"

Chiun had assumed he was misunderstanding his employer. But he was right. The fussbudget wasn't going to thank him for disposing of this rabble at all. He was actually upset.

The Master of Sinanju's face puckered.

Some unused silverware lay on a bench near a cheap sideboard. Reaching over, Chiun scooped up a soup spoon and thrust it deep into the orderly's forehead.

"He tripped while delivering bowls of gruel," Chiun said thinly. Explanation delivered to this rude lunatic of an employer, who refused to give so much as a simple thank-you to his royal assassin, the old Korean rose to his feet in a single fluid motion and swept from the room. His bedroom door slammed shut.

Still seated on the floor, the CURE director cast a queasy eye across the orderly's corpse. The spoon jutted from the broad forehead like a shiny silver handle.

"What have I gotten myself into?" Smith implored the cinder-block walls.

He pushed himself to his feet. Grabbing the body by the ankles, he began dragging it wearily across the room.

REMO COULDN'T believe it. He was actually coming back to Folcroft Sanitarium. Voluntarily. MacCleary had once told him that his psychological profile said he wouldn't leave. According to their research, Conn assured Remo that he wouldn't take off. Remo was a patriot. A do-gooder who thought if he did enough good he could make the world a better place.

Remo thought MacCleary was full of shit. He fully intended to prove wrong all the faceless quacking shrinks who had figured out every little thing about him without ever bothering to go through the trouble of meeting him.

But the quacks were right. Worse, Remo didn't really care they were right. And the icing on the cake was that Remo was actually in a good mood as he drove his car up the long lane to Folcroft's front gate.

He waved to the guard at the booth. The uniformed man didn't even raise his gray head from his magazine as Remo drove up the driveway and onto the sprawling grounds.

Remo was whistling as he parked the car. Or trying to. It became easier once he dropped the cigarette he'd been puffing and ground it out with his toe.

He knew he'd get in trouble with Chiun for smoking. If he got caught. But he'd taken precautions. He squirted a spritz of breath freshener into his mouth that he'd picked up at the store. As he walked to the building, he peeled a breath mint from a roll in his pocket and popped it in his mouth. Pausing at the fire exit, he covered his mouth with his hand and took a good whiff of his breath.

The perfect crime.

Ducking inside the building, he headed downstairs. The suit he'd worn on his assignment felt confining. He didn't know why. He'd worn suits before. And it wasn't as if his police or Marine uniforms had been loungewear. But for some reason regular clothes didn't feel right anymore. For one thing the cuffs were too snug around his wrists.

He was unbuttoning his cuffs as he pushed open the door to the Master of Sinanju's basement quarters. Chiun wasn't there.

Remo stepped into the spare bedroom, where the old Korean stored his steamer trunks.

In his infinite generosity, Chiun allowed Remo to use the small closet in the room. At the moment it was the only place Remo could really call his own.