Warren Murphy: Created, The Destroyer

Cynthia covered her face with her hands. Remo fought back an instinct to intervene. He just watched, carefully judging Felton. This was a good moment to examine his opponent's moves and search for the "precede", the tell-tale indication that all men had that gave away their intentions.

And Felton had one. The moment before he had raised his voice the second time, his right hand had nervously shot to the back of his head to pat down an invisible cowlick. It might have been just nervousness, but it had all the earmarks of a giveaway. Remo would watch for it.

Felton waited, his large hand poised above his head. Cynthia was trembling. More than she had to, Remo sensed.

Felton lowered the hand. "I wasn't going to hit you, dearest," he said in a pleading voice.

Cynthia trembled some more, and Remo knew she was rubbing it in; knew she had her father right where she wanted him and she wasn't going to let him off the hook until she got what she wanted.

"I wasn't going to hit you," Felton said again. "I haven't hit you since you were eight and ran away once."

"Go ahead, hit me. Hit me if it will make you feel better. Hit your only daughter."

"Dear, I wasn't."

She straightened up and lowered her hands to her hips. "And making a scene in front of my fiancé, the first time you meet him. He must think we're just grand."

"I'm sorry," Felton said. He turned to Remo with a glare that escalated into pure hate—the hate of a man who not only feared an enemy, but had been embarrassed before him as well.

Remo took one look into his eyes and he knew that the bodies in the Cadillac had been found. Felton knew.

"So good to see you," Felton said, his voice suppressing his hate. "My daughter tells me your name is Remo Cabell."

"Yes it is, sir. I'm glad to meet you. I've heard a great deal about you." Remo did not move to shake hands.

"Yes, I imagine you have," Felton said. "You'll have to excuse this little scene, but I have an aversion to lipstick. I've known too many women who use that lip paint."

"Oh, Daddy, you're such a prude."

"If you would, my dear, take off the lipstick, I would appreciate it." Felton's tone was a hard-forced moderation of a great desire to scream.

"Remo likes it that way, Daddy."

"I'm sure it makes no difference to Mr. Cabell and his presence here whether you wear face paint or not. I'm sure he'd like you better without it, wouldn't you, Mr. Cabell?"

Remo had a strong urge to needle, to demand even heavier lipstick, more mascara, beauty marks over both eyes. But he fought it down.

"I think Cynthia is beautiful with or without lipstick."

Cynthia flushed. She beamed and radiated like any woman who has been charged up with a compliment.

"I'd love to take off the lipstick, Daddy, if you take off that."

Felton lowered his gaze. He stepped back and like an innocent lamb, said "What?"

"You're wearing it again."

"Please, dear."

"There's no need to wear one in the house." She looked back at Remo, her beautiful neck white and smooth, catching and moulding, it seemed, the light from the ceiling.

"Daddy carries a lot of money sometimes and that allows him a permit for a gun. But that isn't the real reason he carries a gun."

"No?" Remo said.

"No," Cynthia said. "He carries one... I hate to say it... because he reads so many of those trashy mystery books." She turned back to her father. "I mean it."

"I haven't worn this for ten years, dear."

"And now you must have read another one of those books that used to intrigue you so. And I thought you had changed your reading taste." She spoke with mock anger but with warmth as she snaked her hand into her father's jacket and removed a gun metal blue pistol which she held at arm's length like a smelly dead mouse.

"I'll give this to Jimmy and have him put it away where he'll know it will be safe," she said with authority.

She brushed past the hulk of the man at the doorway and left as Remo called, "Don't go now."

But she was gone and Remo was alone with Felton, a disarmed Felton to be sure, but one who could count on reinforcements from the wall that moved.

Remo felt the evening air, cold and chill, blowing from the patio onto his back. He smiled politely at Felton who now had Remo in a position where he could kill him, out of Cynthia's sight.

Felton nodded gruffly. He began to speak when, from the back of the apartment, Cynthia's voice rang out: "Uncle Marvin. Uncle Marvin, what are you doing here?"

"Just got to tell your father something, that's all. Got to tell him something and run."

Felton, his big shoulders hunching near his ears, his large hands finding the side of the oaken desk behind him, his backside leaning on the polished desk top, looked at Remo.

"That's Marvin Moesher, not really an uncle, but he works for me. He's close to Cynthia." Felton's tone to Remo was almost conspiratorial.

"What sort of work are you in?" Remo asked.

"I have many interests. I guess you must too." Felton did not remove his eyes from Remo as a fat, thick-featured, balding man waddled into the room.

"A new employee?" Moesher asked.

Felton shook his head, but the eyes remained fixed.

"I got something private I should tell."

"Oh, I think we can talk fairly freely in front of this young man. He's very interested in our business. He might like to see our Jersey City operation." Felton brushed back an imaginary cowlick.

That was the indicator, Remo thought.

"Would you like to see it?" Felton asked.

"Not really now," Remo said, "We were all going to have dinner soon. That's what Cynthia was planning."

"You could be back in a half hour."

Moesher agreed. "A half hour, what's a half hour?" he said, with a shrug of his shoulders and a tone of voice indicating that a half hour was the most worthless unit of time imaginable. "A half hour," he repeated.

"I'd rather have dinner first," Remo said.

Felton's steely eyes fixed Remo's again. "Mr. Moesher has been on vacation. He's just come back from Folcroft Sanatorium in Rye, New York."

Don't move. Control breath. Blank mind. No show of emotion. Remo made a great display of concern for a place to sit.

He chose one of the chairs near where Felton leaned on the desk.

"He found it interesting, right, Marvin?"

"Oh," Remo said, "Is it a rest home or something?"

"No," Moesher said.

"What is it?" Remo asked.

"I think it may be what I thought it was," Moesher said and Felton nodded.

"What did you think it was?" Remo said.

"A sanatorium," Moesher said. "And I got some very interesting things to say about it."

Remo rose from the chair. "Good," he said. "Maybe I will take that trip to your Jersey City operation, Mr. Felton. Cynthia will probably be all night, anyway. And we can talk about this sanatorium."

Felton said to Moesher. "I can't go just now, Marvin. You take him. I'll hear from you later about your wonderful rest at Folcroft."

Felton's right hand raced along underneath the ledge of the desk and pressed a hidden button. The secret elevator door silently lowered. Felton yelled quickly: "Good to see you here, James. We wondered when you would get back from the store." It was an obvious signal to the man dressed in butler's uniform who stepped from the secret elevator. He had been listening to Felton and Remo and Moesher, just waiting to be called on. The butler said "Very good, sir," and walked to the other end of the room, trying to look busy.

"Marv. Take Mr. Cabell down on this elevator. It goes right to the underground garage."

As Remo moved toward the elevator with Moesher, he sized up the raw-boned butler who had passed him. He was tall and rangy and also wore a concealed pistol. His was under the armpit of the waistcoat.