Warren Murphy: Skull Duggery

"But I will not share the reward with you," he warned as he lifted the receiver to his face. Remo noticed with a smile-suppressing tightening of his lips that Chiun placed the earpiece to his prim mouth.

"Don't tell me you actually think you can convince the TV people you know what happened to Amelia Earhart," Remo said.

"I do and I will," said Chiun, stabbing push buttons with a long-nailed forefinger. The nails kept getting in the way-the true reason Chiun did not like using telephones.

"They won't believe you," Remo warned.

"I know where the body is."

"You do?" Remo said, a perplexed frown eradicating his smug expression.

"She was not lost, as many believe," Chiun retorted, one eye on the treacherous, nail-snagging keypad. "No storm claimed her craft-unless the sweet wind that has blown through the centuries is a typhoon."

"Sweet wind? I don't think I like where this is going . . . .

Chiun stabbed the O-for-operator button. He pressed too hard, making three zeros and not two. When he finished dialing, a feminine but mechanical voice said, "The number you have called is not a working number."

"But it was just on the television!" Chiun screamed into the earpiece. "I demand that you connect me!"

The voice repeated the message and the Master of Sinanju hung up huffily.

"These devices are impossible!" he shrieked. He turned to Remo, pointing an accusing finger. "You! I must claim that reward! Name your price!"

"Half," Remo said.

"Too much!"

"Three-quarters!"

"You are going high when you should be going low!" Chiun cried in exasperation. He grabbed his decorative hair puffs as if to yank them out by the roots.

"The more you stall, the higher my price goes," Remo told him, enjoying the rare experience of having leverage over the other man to bring him to this sorry sexless state in life.

"Bandit!" Chiun accused.

"Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will cost you ten percent more," Remo sang out.

Chiun turned his back. "I will not be dragged into this insane negotiation," he said huffily.

"Suits me. You'll never see the reward anyway."

Chiun spun about like a fury. "I will so!"

"Prove it to me," Remo invited, folding his arms. "I'll be the judge."

The Master of Sinanju hesitated. His lifted chin dropped, making the wispy tendril of a beard jump out against his orange-and-black kimono. "How do I know you will not call these people when my back is turned, and claim the reward for yourself?"

"Good point," Remo said. "Why don't we just forget the whole thing?"

Chiun stamped one foot like a petulant child. "I will not! The reward is rightfully mine."

"Why?"

"Because we eliminated the dirty spy of a woman."

Despite the earlier hint, Remo was taken aback by the Master of Sinanju's venomous pronouncement.

"One of your ancestors killed Amelia Earhart?" he blurted out.

"No," said Chiun.

"That's a relief," said Remo. "For a minute I-"

"I did," added Chiun.

"You!"

"It was during a prelude to the Second Idiocy of the Barbarians," Chiun explained. Remo recognized the oft-used euphemism for World War II. "This woman was a spy, working for the Americans."

"Who did you work for?" Remo wondered.

"Why, those she intended to spy upon, of course."

"Not the Japanese?" Remo demanded.

"Possibly," Chiun said in an evasive voice.

"You worked for the Japanese?" Remo said, aghast.

"I said possibly," Chiun admitted in a quieter voice. "It was many years ago."

"The same sneaky, treacherous, unworthy Japanese you revile at every opportunity?"

"Not all Japanese are to be described so harshly," Chiun allowed. "There are a few who are worthy-for Japanese."

"I thought you hated the Japanese."

"I do not hate their money," Chiun retorted, gathering up his autumnal kimono sleeves.

"You don't hate anyone's money," Remo snapped. "You worked for the Japanese. The people who conquered Korea, so-called land of eternal perfection?"

"It was a special case," Chiun said, tight voiced.

"So tell me the story," Remo invited, toeing a tatami mat in front of him. He sat down, folding his legs, and assumed a patient expression.

The Master of Sinanju looked to the telephone. His many wrinkles bunched together in frustration. Then he stalked back to the television and assumed his own mat. He sat down with his back to his pupil.

Remo vented a sigh, got up, and brought his mat around. When he resumed his seat, Chiun wore an inscrutable expression, but his eyes gleamed with his minor victory.

"This was in the starving years," began the Master of Sinanju in a doleful voice. "There was little food. The babies were hungry from sunup to sundown. The Chinese were at war with the Japanese and the Japanese vexed the Chinese. For the House of Sinanju, the finest assassins known to history, there was no work from either of them. I was young then-not that I am not young still-but younger, not yet having seen the majority of the years I have so far enjoyed."

"Get to it," Remo said.

"The emperor of Japan had heard of an American woman who sought to spy in his empire. Word was sent to the village of Sinanju. A man came on foot, and because he was Japanese, he was not allowed to tread our sacred soil."

"Mud, you mean," said Remo, who had been to Chiun's ancestral home, a pitiful mud flat on the West Korea Bay, where the men fished and the fish hid. The women did most of the work of feeding the village. The Masters of Sinanju-a line that stretched back five thousand years-supported them all by working as royal assassins to the great thrones of history.

"I treated with this man and accepted the gold that paid for the flying woman's life," Chiun continued. "That was the difficult part. Accepting Japanese gold. I was forced to wash it. Twice."

"Cut to the chase, will you, Chiun?"

"It was a simple matter then to journey to a place where the aircraft was being refueled and gain passage."

"You were a passenger on Amelia Earhart's last flight?"

"She did not know that-until it was too late."

Remo winced. "So what happened?"

"She experienced what might be called mechanical difficulties and, in the parlance of that time, ditched in the ocean."

"Then?"

"The unfortunate woman drowned, along with her craft."

"And you?"

Chiun's feathery eyebrows shot up. "Need you ask? I did not drown, and therefore I am here to pass on the heritage of the House of Sinanju to you, its latest heir. Ingrate."

"You killed Amelia Earhart," Remo whispered in shock.

Chiun shook his aged head. "No, we killed Amelia Earhart, for it is written in the Book of Sinanju that each Master builds on the work of the Masters who came before him, and each Master's achievements are a gift to later generations. You are Sinanju, Remo. Therefore you have claim to the credit, and the reward. Ten percent and not a penny more!" Chiun said quickly.

"No deal," Remo shot back. "And let's stick to the subject."

"This is the subject."

"No, it isn't. I came in here to talk about my lousy sex life."

"How can something that does not exist be lousy?" Chiun pointed out.

"Exactly."

"I am prepared to talk to you about your lousy sex life, Remo," Chiun offered. "Within the bounds of good taste, of course."

"And for a price," Remo said acidly.

"Five percent of your ten percent. Agreed?"

"No. I don't want to talk about my sex life anymore."

"Your lousy sex life," Chiun corrected.

"My lousy sex life," Remo growled. "I want to talk about you, and what you did before you worked for America."

"I do not work for America. I work for Emperor Smith. Remember this. One does not work for nations, for they shift boundaries with the changing times and speak with no single voice. But an emperor is a different matter."