Warren Murphy: Killing Time

"It will get us out of this stinking pork hole," Chiun said in Korean. "Say yes. Pretend the emperor knows what he's talking about. Then we can return to civ­ilization."

"I thought you weren't speaking."

"I am not speaking to him. To you, I speak. Take me home."

"To the land of the round eyes?"

"To the television," Chiun snapped. "Miss Ching's news brief will be broadcasting soon."

"Oh," Remo said. "Look, Smitty, I think we ought to discuss this some more."

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Someone was pounding violently on the sides of the dragon and screaming in Chinese. Then a head peered inside, waving a ten-dollar bill and pointing at his watch.

"I think our time's up," Smith said. "I rented this thing for a half-hour."

"For ten bucks," Remo said. "No wonder you brought us here. It was cheaper than a cab."

"Ten dollars is sufficient payment," Smith said ac­idly.

"You know, Smitty, you're really a cheapskate."

"That is no concern of yours."

Chiun bowed and slipped out of the papiermache dragon. In another moment, the Chinese man who was screaming at Smith disappeared. Remo pulled up the cloth covering and saw Chiun in the crowd, speak­ing and gesturing loftily to the Chinese, who bowed and nodded in understanding. Then Chiun returned and bowed once before Smith.

"We will take our leave now, O illustrious Emperor, and leave you to your peace. Do not waste a mo­ment's thought on my humble request for a picture of the beautiful lady. It means nothing to anyone but my­self, and my lowly needs do not concern one so mighty as you. Come, Remo."

As they left, a crowd of Chinese stripped the dragon off Smith and clambered around him, shouting an­grily.

"What's with them?" Remo asked. Smith was look­ing around helplessly in the center of the noisy mob.

"They feel the Emperor has cheated them," Chiun said.

"I wonder who gave them that idea."

Chiun shrugged. "It was not I. I would never be­tray the Emperor who pays the pittance to my village

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for the services of the Master of Sinanju."

"I saw you talking to that guy. What did you say?"

"I told him on!y that the last time i hired the use of one of those cloth and paper beasts, i paid the sum of one hundred dollars. Anything below that would be a grave insult. That is what I told him."

Remo saw Smith finally take out his wallet and hand a small wad of bills to the Chinese man. The Chinese bowed, and Smith awkwardly bowed back, glaring an­grily at Remo and Chiun.

"I think we'd better get out of town for a while," Remo said.

Chapter Three

The Virginia residence of Senator John Spangler was a sprawling, plantation-style mansion surrounded by snow-tipped gardens and white pillars. A fat, middle-aged woman in dungarees and a sweat shirt opened the door before Remo knocked. "If you're from the press, get out of here," she said.

"Is this the Spangler house?"

"You know it is. Scram."

"You're not Mrs. Spangfer, are you?"

"No." She slammed the door. Remo stopped it with his pinky. The door shuddered and loosened on its hinges.

"Is she at home?" Remo asked politely.

"What do you think you're doing?" the woman yelled above the whistling wind as she lunged toward the door, which began to fall into the room.

He entered through the huge black and white tiled anteroom into a grand and spacious sitting room. Above the mantle hung a portrait of the senator, a vig­orous, youngish man in the bloom of life. In the dis­tance he heard a woman's voice shrieking.

"I told you to hang the Bob Mackie dresses, not pack them," the voice raged. "That bag's for cookies.

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Don't drop it. One broken cookie and it's curtains, un­derstand?"

"Yes, mum," a deferential man's voice said.

"The last servant who dropped my cookie bag is doing time in Leavenworth."

"Yes, mum." The man spoke as he descended a curving staircase, carrying six pieces of luggage. The three people behind him were hefting several bags apiece as well. The entourage lumbered through the large entrance.

Behind them, swathed in a long sable coat, was a beautiful brunette stuffing cookies into her mouth. On her head she was wearing a turban covered with violet flowers to match her eyes.

Apparently oblivious to Rerno, she squinted meanly at the sight of the fat lady who was puffing as she tried to right the door into its frame. "What have you broken now?" she snapped.

The fat lady turned around, her expression one of deep hurt. "I didn't do anything," she explained. "It was him." She pointed to Remo. "He barged in here-"

"Well, well," the violet-eyed brunette said, sud­denly flashing a dazzling smile at Remo. "It's been a long time, darling."

"We've never met," Remo said. "Are you Mrs. Spangler?"

She stared at him blankly. "I don't remember," she said. "I'm Mrs. Somebody. ! always am. My hus­band's name is Paul. Or George. Something ordi­nary." She pointed to the portrait of the senator on top of the mantle. "John,-that's it. See, up there above the fireplace? That's my husband. \ think. Unless the divorce came through. Are you my lawyer?"

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"No," Remo said. "I'm a friend of a friend."

"You're lovely. What's your name?" She gobbled down another cookie.

"Remo."

She pondered. "Remo. I've never been married to a Remo before. Unless it was an awfully long time ago. We've never been married, have we, Remo?"

"I don't think so."

"Wonderful. I have a simply divine wedding gown I've been saving. Would next Thursday be all right?"

"I think I'll be too busy to get married," Remo said.

"Pity. Well, 1 have to be off. Toodle-oo."

"I'd like to ask you a few questions before you go. About the party."

"Party? Was it a wedding?"

"I don't think so."

"Good. I was just beginning to get used to what's-his-name."

"The senator?"

"Yes, that's him. i was married to him once."

"I thought you were married to him now."

"Am I? How marvelous. George is such a dear."

"John," the fat lady corrected.

"John? Did I actually marry John?"

"Jonn Spangler," Remo said. "The senator."

She burst into peals of laughter. "But that's too di­vine! i married the senator. Wait until my friends hear about it. Here, have a cookie." She offered the bag to Remo. "Not a big one. The big ones are for me. Just wet your finger and stick it to a few crumbs."

"I'll pass," Remo said. "Mrs. Spangler, I'd really like to talk to you about Thornton Ives, the Secretary of the Navy. He was a guest at your party last night."

"Now you're wasting your time," she said firmly.

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"Whoever this Thornton Ives is, he's no husband of mine. I would never marry a secretary. What kind of di­amonds can a secretary afford?"

"He was the Secretary of the Navy. An admiral or something."

"Oh," she said. "That's different, I do love ship­board romances. Has he sent you to ask for my hand?"

"He's dead, ma'am. Somebody murdered him last night outside this house. With a bayonet."

"What a shame," Mrs. Spangler sighed. "A honey­moon on board a yacht would have been divine. Charles and Di adored theirs. Now do be off, my dear. There's a good boy," she said, shuffling Remo out the door. "If I miss my plane, I'll be absolutely broken­hearted. Such a bother, traveling to airports like this. My third husband-or maybe it was the sixth-had his own plane. I should have stayed with him. Ralph was so sweet. I mean Richard. I'm sure it was Richard. He gave me a lovely diamond for our one-week wedding anniversary. Well, no matter." She patted Remo on the shoulder. "Do stay in touch, darling. It was divine while it lasted. I'll never love another man like you again." She kissed him briefly on his cheek and brushed past the fat lady without a word on her way to the waiting limo. A moment later the car was whooshing down the curving drive.