Warren Murphy: Skull Duggery

"Give me the address," Remo said in exasperation.

Smith rattled off an address from memory, then said, "This is very important."

"It must be, if Chiun didn't nail you for that reward," Remo said sourly.

"I promised to match it if he dropped the matter."

"Let me guess-he made you double it."

"Actually, it was three times the amount. I considered it cheap under the circumstances."

"It would have to be, if you agreed to it," Remo said acidly, walking away. He got behind the wheel of his car and sent it squealing out of the driveway. It was his way of saying good-bye to Harold Smith, the architect of his troubles.

The front yard of the house was cordoned off with yellow barrier tape marked with the letters "FBI."

Remo fumbled through his wallet for an FBI ID, glanced at it to fix his new last name in his mind, and presented himself at the front door.

"Who are you?" A crew-cut agent demanded. He looked like an extra from a 1950's cop show.

"Remo Quiller, special agent."

"Since when?" the agent said, noting Remo's casual attire.

"This is my day off. Had a call to get right over here."

"We've already processed the scene."

"Fine," Remo said, pushing the man aside. "I won't have to keep you long. What happened?"

There was an outline on the floor, in white tape. No blood.

"We had a Chinese student stashed here," the agent told Remo. "Name's Zhang Zingzong. He was snatched last night. Perpetrators unknown. We lost a good man."

"Shot?" Remo asked.

The agent shook his head. "No obvious wounds. Forensics has him now."

Looking around the room, Remo said, "We had a special expert brought in from Washington. I thought I'd find him here."

"You mean the gook?"

Remo turned. "You call him that to his face?"

"Of course not."

"That explains why you're still breathing," Remo said. "Where is he?"

"Don't know. He looked around, then left in a hurry."

"Say where he was going?"

"No, but he was very interested in the agent's body."

"Interested? How?"

The agent unwrapped a stick of Beeman's gum he took from a pocket. "Looked him over quite a while. I tried to stop him, but he nearly took my head off."

"He say anything that would give me a direction to look?"

"Yeah. Whispered something while he was feeling Tom's throat."

"Who's Tom?"

"Chief agent on the detail."

"So what did he say?"

The gum went into his mouth. "Nothing. He was dead."

"I meant Chiun."

"It sounded like 'Sin Achoo.' "

"You wouldn't mean 'Fu Achoo,' would you?" Remo asked slowly.

"I might," the agent said, his words tangling in his gum. "Sounded like 'Sin Achoo' to me."

Remo started. "Not 'Sinanju'?"

"That might've been it. Hard to say. He talked funny."

"I thought you FBI agents were supposed to be trained observers," Remo challenged.

"And I thought you were supposed to be one of us," the agent said, his voice hardening. "Let me see that ID again."

"Here," Remo said, flashing his FBI ID. He lifted it to the agent's face. The FBI man leaned into the card, never seeing Remo's hand reach around to the back of his neck. If he felt the steellike fingers that paralyzed critical spinal nerves, he said nothing about it on the way down to the polished pine floor.

Remo left him snoring out of one nostril. The other was mashed flat against the floor.

Remo drove around the neighborhood aimlessly, wondering what the heck was going on. Chiun had let slip the word "Sinanju" while examining a dead FBI agent. That was not like Chiun. Had it meant he was going back to the village of Sinanju without Remo? It hardly seemed likely. He was upset, but not that upset.

Finally Remo pulled up at a Seven-eleven and plunked quarters into a pay phone. He pressed the one button until he heard ringing. After twenty years of using codes and phone numbers that changed every week, it was a relief to finally have a constant code that Remo couldn't forget. Just press one until a connection was established.

Smith answered. His voice was low and furtive.

"Speak louder," Remo shouted. "The connection must be bad."

"The connection is fine," Smith whispered back. "I'm in the bathroom."

"Sorry to intrude," Remo said dryly.

"It's not that. I am home, so I am using my briefcase phone."

"Oh, right," Remo said, rolling his eyes. "Look," he continued, "I've just been to the so-called safe house. Chiun isn't there. No one knows where he went."

"The missing student must be located," Smith said urgently. A dim voice intruded, calling, "Harold. Who are you talking to in there?"

"No one dear," Smith called guiltily. The sound of a flushing toilet drowned out Smith's next words.

"What did you say?" Remo asked wearily.

"This is an important assignment."

"America is full of Chinese students," Remo retorted. "What's so special about this one?"

"Later," Smith hissed. "Find Chiun or find that student."

"How about I find them both?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"Any ideas where I should look?"

"None."

"I can't drive in circles for hours," Remo pointed out.

"And you will not find them talking to me from a pay phone," Smith rejoined.

Remo hung up. He got no satisfaction from it, the click of Smith's line going dead a split second before his receiver exploded all over the pay-phone station.

Remo got back behind the wheel of his car and pulled out of the parking lot, wondering where the hell Chiun had gotten to.

Chapter 5

It began to snow again.

The snowfall started gently, but soon quickened into a furious windblown storm, freshening the already gray snow of the previous night's fall and then resculpturing its undulant planes into sharp, angular drifts.

Disgusted, Remo abandoned his pointless cruising of the New Rochelle streets and pointed his car toward the safe house.

Maybe Chiun had returned there, Remo thought.

He drove at a seemingly reckless pace, skidding into turns on locked wheels, bringing his car out of numerous skids with controlled elegance. He was one with his Buick, Volkswagen notwithstanding.

Less than twenty minutes later, Remo pulled up before the safe house. He noticed the low-slung black limo parked out front, and immediately a frown gathered in wrinkles on his brow.

Remo had once been a police officer and still had a cop's habit of noting the makes of suspicious vehicles.

He didn't recognize the limo, even though its massive square grille was pointing toward him. There was no front bumper-just two banks of headlights.

Remo stepped from his car, glancing toward the driver's side of the windshield.

The driver quickly lowered the sun visor, cutting off a clear view of his face. Then he honked his horn. Twice, in an obvious signal.

Remo strode up to the driver's side of the car and peered in, noticing the shiny black buttons of a chauffeur's uniform. Then he saw the man's face.

"Hate to break this to you, pal," Remo said dryly, "but Halloween was two months ago."

The driver looked up, displaying a polished black domino. It was molded to his features so that only his lower face showed. He looked like Dracula's chauffeur. Remo almost laughed in his face.

"Go away," the driver said in a thick Asian accent.

"C'mon," Remo said impatiently, knocking on the glass.

"I said, go away!"

Remo's retort froze in his mouth. There was something familiar about the man's voice. He looked closer. The eye holes in his onyx mask were cut in oblique slashes. The dark eyes behind them were almond-shaped. Chinese, Remo thought.

"I don't suppose you're the missing student?" Remo ventured.

Behind Remo, the safe-house door opened. Remo started to turn.

The driver's door opened so quickly Remo had to dance out of its way. He landed on one toe, the other poised to regain his balance on the slippery snow.