Warren Murphy: The Ultimate Death

"Soup's on!" he called cheerfully. Chiun was going to melt like a midsummer's ice cream cone when he saw the spread. It was all Remo could do to hold back a grin of culinary triumph.

Chiun continued to be absorbed in the day-to-day travails of the British gentry. Slowly, he gathered the silvery folds of his evening kimono about his spindly legs.

"It's getting cold," Remo warned. "The rice will lose that rare nutty flavor if you keep it waiting."

Still no response.

Remo was hovering in the half-open door. He eased it open farther and started fanning the succulent scent of roast duckling into the parlor.

It would spoil the surprise, surprise, but it might produce a reaction.

It did. The Master of Sinanju's severe profile lifted, like a cat reacting to the scent of prey. His tiny nose sniffed the air, at first delicately, then curiously.

A strange expression came over his features.

Like a gaudy Oriental tent being thrown up on short poles, the kimono-clad form of the Master of Sinanju rose to its full magnificent five-foot height. The bald head, decorated with shimmery fogwisps over each precious ear, swiveled in Remo's direction.

Remo took that as his cue. He threw the door open wide, stepping aside so that Chiun could pass.

Tucking his tiny hands into the closing sleeves of his kimono, Chiun did just that.

Soundless, but with a force like that of a steamship plowing along, Chiun pushed past Remo and entered the kitchen, his face unreadable, but the quiet power of his presence making the exposed hairs on Remo's forearms lift as if from static electricity.

Remo let the door swing closed and followed his mentor in.

Chiun stood dead-still before the spread table. He sniffed here and there. Remo maneuvered to get a good look at his face in profile. The hazel eyes, clear as agates, gleamed with an odd light.

Remo waited for the webbing of wrinkles covering his face to smooth with surprise and appreciation.

Instead, they contracted like a wind-troubled orb web. His tiny nostrils stopped drawing in duck aroma, and the Master of Sinanju straightened like the main sail on a junk.

Just before Remo could get out the words "Not bad, huh?", Chiun asked a question in a level but vaguely indignant voice.

"Why are you trying to poison me?"

"Poison?"

"This duck is poisoned," Chiun said flatly.

"Is not!" Remo flared.

"It is deadly. Do you covet my Masterhood so much that you would stoop to mere poison?"

"I did not-"

A single hand rose.

"It is one thing for you to covet my throne," intoned Chiun. "It is another to employ poison to achieve it. The House has not used poison since before the Great Wang. A simple blow while I sleep would have been sufficient-not that you would have landed such a blow or survived the attempt, but it would have been acceptable."

Remo shook his head. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I? You would not be the first who attempted to supplant me as Master. You would do well to remember what befell him."

Chiun was referring to his nephew, Nuihc. His brother's son had been Chiun's first pupil. He had turned against his village and used his deadly skills for evil. Chiun had personally eliminated Nuihc in order to save Remo's life, and had mentioned the matter rarely over the past decade. The fact that he brought it up now only angered Remo more.

"Look," Remo protested, growing hot, "I'm trying to honor you here! Why are you giving me all this BS?"

"Because you are giving me poison duck. I will not eat it, and I suggest you do not."

"But you gotta eat the duck!"

Chiun drew back, his clear eyes hardening. His long-nailed fingers found his wrists and disappeared within the tunnel of his sleeves. He cocked his head to one side.

"I must?"

"It's supposed to be your kohi! Remember? This way you can turn one hundred!"

Chiun became angry. "I am only eighty!" he snapped. "I will always be eighty. I will never age, thanks to your white thick-headedness, and I will never die."

"You won't?" Remo asked, taken aback.

"I cannot afford to," Chiun squeaked. "For I am the last of my line, and my only successor is a pale piece of a pig's ear who covets the treasure of my ancestors."

Remo put his hands on his hips. "You know that isn't true. And I'm sick of apologizing for not realizing you weren't dead that one time. Pulling this 'poisoned duck' scam is a low move. I went to a lot of trouble preparing this bird!"

"Then you eat it," Chiun sniffed.

"I will," said Remo, reaching out to rip loose a shriveled brown wing. He brought it to his mouth.

The Master of Sinanju watched with silent interest. Remo's strong white teeth took hold of a string of meat and pulled it loose.

He had barely tasted the greasy meat when, faster than Remo's Sinanju-trained reflexes could avoid it, a nut-colored hand swept out. Remo thought for an awful moment that his front teeth had been pulled.

One moment he was tasting meat and clutching a duck wing. Then both were gone. Remo tasted the duck on his tongue and swallowed involuntarily.

As soon as the greasy morsel hit his stomach, he knew the duck was poisoned. His dark eyes widened with shock. One hand over his mouth, he made a dive for the bathroom.

After he had emptied the contents of his stomach-mostly stomach acid-into the toilet bowl, and his vision had begun to clear, he heard Chiun's voice, calm but interested.

"You did not know the duck was poisoned."

"Of course I didn't!" Remo snapped, wiping his mouth with the back of his thick wrist.

"Unless this was clever subterfuge to lull my newfound suspicions," Chiun continued thoughtfully, stroking his wispy beard.

"Then why'd you pull the duck from between my teeth?"

Silence. The pause lengthened. Remo got off his knees, which were rubbery from the aftereffects of the shock to his highly attuned nervous system-and Chiun answered.

"Because I did not wish to be burdened with the disposal of your worthless round-eyed carcass."

And the Master of Sinanju swept from the room. Soon, the sounds of broadcast-quality British voices once again filled the apartment.

Remo moved swiftly into the living room and did something that had gotten untold hotel bellhops, apartment house superintendents, telephone repairmen, and other rude persons maimed or killed more effectively than if they'd stumbled across an organized crime summit in progress.

He switched off one of Chiun's soaps and stepped before the dark screen, blocking it.

Chiun's facial hair trembled. His eyes narrowed until they resembled the seams on old walnut shells.

"I bought the duck from the Japanese supermarket at the foot of the hill," Remo said in a dead-level voice.

Chiun looked up, his expression stiff, like that of a death mask.

"Consorting with Japanese," he said in a monotone. He shook his aged head. "It is no wonder you have gone astray."

"I can prove it!" Remo said heatedly. "I have the receipt, and the plastic wrapping off the duck. You know how long it takes to wash the aftertaste of plastic wrapping off fresh duck?"

"About as long as it takes to wash virulent poison and other evidence of foul play," Chiun said pointedly.

"Thank you, Jessica Fletcher," Remo said acidly. "Would you like to see the wrapper?"

"No. It has obviously been tampered with. It is a pink salmon."

Remo blinked. "Say again?"

"One of those mystery things," sniffed Chiun.

Remo, taken aback, gave this some thought. "You mean a red herring?" he asked at last.

"It is possible," Chiun said vaguely. "For although I speak excellent English, my American is not as fluent. No doubt it is the fault of certain officious persons who continually tamper with the tongue."

"I'm more interested in knowing who tampered with that damned duck."