Warren Murphy: Midnight Man

The office was on the ninth floor of the building, and giant, silver letters on the wall next to their door blared out the magazine's name.

But inside, the office was small and shabby. There was a man sitting behind the reception desk who looked as if his only purpose in life was to bite the legs off visitors.

"Yeah?" he growled as Remo entered.

"Is that any way to greet a man who's going to save your life?"

"Yeah? How you going to save my life?"

"Maybe by changing my mind," Remo said, "and not doing to you what you obviously deserve."

"Yeah?"

Remo was beginning to wonder if that was about

"I want to look through your records." "What for?"

finish my story for them." 1 «j w£mt to know the names of your advertisers

What s your story going to be about?" I mdwhich ads have been answered recently."

104 1 105

"Take a hike. Our records are private," the man said.

"How many other people work here?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because if there's anybody else here, I don't need you and I can shove you into your desk drawer," Remo said.

"Yeah?"

"Don't start that again," Remo said.

The man stood up behind the desk. He was six-foot-six and outweighed Remo by half a ton.

"There ain't nobody else here right now," he said with a sneer. "So it's just me and you, pal."

He extended a hand toward Remo like a wrestler offering a handlock test of strength.

Remo shrugged. It was better than killing him. Even with a busted hand he could still talk.

Remo joined his right hand to the giant's left. He exerted no pressure.

"If that's all you got, pal, you're in big trouble," the big man said. Slowly, he began to put pressure on Remo's hand. Remo neither flinched nor moved.

The giant frowned. "Playtime's over, buddy," he said. He exerted what he thought was enough pressure to crush Remo's hand and drive him to his knees.

Remo didn't move.

The big man blinked and his forehead was now a map of lines and creases.

"I'm right handed," he complained.

Remo nodded. They unlocked hands, then locked again, this time with Remo's left against the giant's

right.

The big man instantly turned on maximum pres-

106

sure, every bit of energy and strength he could mus-

ter.

Remo didn't move.

Just as Remo decided he would have to crush the man's handbones into paste, the giant disengaged his fingers from Remo's.

"All right," he said. "You win. How'd you do that?"

"Training and clean living."

"Look, no offense, but you don't look like you train much."

"It's not that kind of training. It's all done in your head. What's your name?"

"Hal Barden."

"You the editor?"

"No. I'm everything but. This is just a two-man sheet. Mark Simons is the editor. He's inside."

"You were fibbing me," Remo said. "Naughty, naughty."

"I'm still here, so maybe it didn't work out so bad," Barden said. "Come on, I'll take you to the editor."

Inside the front office was another small cluttered office with another man sitting behind a small cluttered desk, wielding scissors and paste on some yellowed newspaper clippings.

"Mark, this is a friend of mine." Remo stepped forward.

"Remo Williams," he said, extending his hand.

"Yeah, yeah," said Mark Simons, ignoring the extended hand.

Remo looked at Barden who shrugged.

"Remo's interested in the magazine, Mark. I told him I'd show him around."

107

„_,,„„. . j I Here they are." He turned and handed Remo a slim

"Go ahead," Simons said. . I manj]a ¿lder

"You ever buy manuscripts?" Remo asked Si- | ? contain,d the copy fof thfee advertisements

mons.

"Sometimes. If they're really good. You a . writer?" ¦ tiser-

"No. But a friend of mine is," said Remo.

"He know anything about assassinations and contract killings?"

"A little," Remo said.

"Good. Send in anything he's got. Most of the people who send us stuff have been pulling their pudding for too long. They're like writing Alice in Wonderland."

"Thanks. I will."

Barden led Remo away. "C'mon. Another room back here."

He led him into another small room that appeared to hold all of Contract's files.

Barden waved toward a file cabinet. "That's our ad files. What do you need?"

"I need your ads on killing the Emir of Bislami," Remo said.

Barden nodded. "Yeah. He was hot in last month's issue. We had a couple on him."

"Three," Remo said. "Can you find them?"

"Sure." The big man opened the top drawer of the file cabinet and began riffling through envelopes.

"Do you keep a record of who answers?" Remo asked.

"No," Barden said over his shoulder. "We just forward them to the advertiser. We don't even open

my trainer with me." 108

them. That way, we stay out of trouble with the law.

109

*- ---------------

eachhad ^e nameand address of the adver-

The first ad, "Ice an Emir," was inserted by a John Brown with a post office box in Rye, New York. That would be Smith, Remo realized.

The second ad was "Send a Monarch to the Mortuary." The ad form announced that it had been placed by Mrs. Jane Smith, with a New York post office box.

Remo handed it to Barden. "You remember anything about this ad?"

Barden looked at it. "Mrs. Jane Smith," he said. "Boy, do I. Tall, good-looking woman with great red hair. Spoke very elegantly. Like a queen she

was.

That would be Princess Sarra, Remo realized. He looked at Barden with heightened respect. The man had sensed the innate royalty in the Princess, even when she was parading around as Mrs. Jane Smith.

The third advertisement was "Ever Kill an Emir? Check Out the Price." The record showed it had been placed, and paid for in cash, by a Mr. Riggs who lived in the East Seventies.

Remo jotted the name and address down on a piece of paper.

"I appreciate your help, Hal," he said.

"Any time. Maybe if you come back, you can tell me about your training."

"Even better," Remo said. "I might bring back

"That'd be great," Barden said.

"Wait until you meet him," Remo said.

As he went to the door, Barden handed him the latest copy of Contract. "Here. A freebie."

"Thanks a lot," Remo said. Chiun would be glad to get it.

After Remo left, Mark Simons came out of his office and hit Barden's desk with his fist.

"Who the hell was that?"

"Hey, he was cool, Mark. You wouldn't believe how strong that skinny guy is. Some special training and . . ."

"Who the hell was he and what did he want?"

"Take it easy," Barden said. "He just wanted to look at some of our ads."

"What ads?"

"The ones about killing the Emir."

"And you showed them to him?"

"I wasn't about to tell him no," Barden said.

"You're a moron, Hal," Simons said and went back to his office. He locked the door behind him.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The name on the doorbell was James Riggs. Remo pushed his way through the locked downstairs door and walked up the steps to apartment 3-

A.

When he opened the door, Remo said, "Mr. Riggs, I'm here in answer to your ad."

"How'd you get my name?" Riggs asked. The man was tall, white haired, with tired, reddened eyes.

"Does it matter?" Remo said.

"The job has been filled," Riggs said.

"I can fill it better," Remo told him.

"I doubt it," the man said, looking sharply at Remo.

"Don't doubt it," Remo said.

"Look. I'm sorry, but the ad has been filled to my satisfaction. Good-bye."

He slammed the door shut.

Remo took the doorknob in his hand and bent it down until it snapped off on his side. Inside, he could hear the other half of the doorknob fall onto the floor of the hallway. Remo hit the door with the heel of his hand and it flew open.