Warren Murphy: Bottom Line

"What does that mean?" Remo asked.

"Just that I think she's got a partner in the family."

"That old man," Remo said. "I didn't like that old man from the minute I met him."

"That's ageist," said Chiun. "That's the worst kind of ageist statement I've ever heard. Admit it, you didn't like him just because he was old."

"That's probably true," Remo said. "Old people are a pain in the ass. They kvetch and bicker and carp, day and night, night and day. If it's not elevators, it's notes under the door. There's always something for them to bitch about."

"Ageist. But what would you expect from somebody who's racist and sexist and imperialist?" Chiun said.

"Right on, Little Daddy," said Ruby.

Remo grunted and stepped harder on the gas pedal as the car thundered forward onto the New York Thruway, heading north toward the Lippincott estate.

Elmer Lippincott Sr. was feeling better. His young wife always knew the way to cheer him up. Last night, he had felt guilt-ridden at the death of two sons, but today, he was able to see it in perspective. First of all, they weren't his sons. He hadn't any sons. Dr. Gladstone at the Lifeline Laboratory had

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proved that conclusively, not only with blood tests conducted without the Lippincott sons' knowledge, but also by proving indisputably to the senior Lippincott that he had been sterile all his life. He had been unable to father children. Those three—Lem and Randall and Douglas—nothing but the offspring of a cheating wife, now blessedly dead, thank you.

So Gloria had explained to him, there really wasn't much to feel guilty about. But they were dead, and he hadn't really wanted them dead.

Gloria had held him in her arms and explained that away too.

"They were unavoidable accidents," she said. "You didn't plan it that way and you can't blame yourself for their deaths. Just accidents."

And he had thought about it and felt better and soon he would have a son of his own thanks to Dr. Gladstone's fertility drugs, which made him a man again and helped him to fill Gloria with his own son.

And what of Douglas, the surviving Lippincott son? Well, it wasn't his fault that his mother had been a cheat, cuckolding her husband. Elmer Lippincott would treat him just like a son for the rest of his

life.

He had decided that and he was in the middle of a good early-morning meeting with his son when the telephone rang.

"Yes, dear," he said. "Of course. I'll be right up. Shall I bring Douglas? Oh, I see." He hung up the phone and told his son: "Doug, wait for me, will you? Gloria has to talk to me about something. I'll be right down."

"Sure thing, Pop," said Douglas Lippincott. He was the youngest of the three sons and the most like

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the senior Lippincott. He moved with a muscular kind of energy that years of sitting in boardrooms and bankers' offices hadn't been able to destroy. Elmer Lippincott had often thought that of the three boys, Douglas was the only one he'd like to have on his side in a saloon fight.

As the old man left the office on the first floor of the mansion, Douglas Lippincott smiled. Young Gloria certainly had the old man's nose. When she said bark, he barked, and when she said come, he came. He wondered how she was taking the double tragedies that had hit the Lippincott family, but he suspected she'd be able to bear up under the anguish. He had watched her house-counting eyes too many times to be fooled into thinking that she loved the old man for the old man's sake. It was the Lippincott billions that she really loved.

Douglas walked to the corner of the room where there was a desk ashtray with a telescoping collapsible golf putter built into the side of it. He had given it to his father years before to try to convince him to relax. But the old man would have none of it. He had never used the putter.

There was a round rubber eraser on the old man's desk and Douglas put a paper cup on the floor, opened the putter to its full length, then from six feet away tried to roll the eraser into the cup. It bounced along the carpet unevenly and at the last moment, swung away and missed the cup completely.

Douglas fished it back with the putter and was lining up the shot again when the door opened behind him. He turned around expecting to see his father.

Instead, he saw Dr. Jesse Beers, who was walking hice Napoleon, both hands clasped behind him.

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Douglas Lippincott didn't like Jesse Beers either. The man always seemed to be scheming something. He turned back to his putt.

"Hello, Doctor," he said

"Good morning, Mister Lippincott."

As he lined up the putt, Douglas realized it was strange for Beers to walk into Elmer Lippincott's office without knocking. And now that he was here, what did he want? He turned to ask and as he turned he saw Beers moving toward him. The man had a hypodermic in his hand.

Douglas tried to swing at Beers with the putter but he was too close and Beers was able to grab it and yanked it from Douglas's hands.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"Tidying up loose ends," Beers said. "Now take your medicine like a good little boy."

He advanced toward Douglas with the syringe in one hand, the golf club in the other.

"I promise it won't hurt," he said.

"Up yours," said Douglas. He reached his hand up to the bookcase behind him, grabbed an armful of books and tossed them at Beers. One hit the syringe and knocked it to the gold colored carpeting on the floor.

Beers dove for the needle and Lippincott came after him to grapple for it. But Beers grabbed the handle of the putter and swung it at Lippincott. It caught him on the side of the jaw, laying open his skin and knocking him to the floor.

He lay there groggily while Beers picked up the syringe and came toward him again.

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He reached down for Lippincott's arm. Then he heard a voice.

"You lose."

Lippincott looked up dazedly. In the doorway stood a lean, dark-haired man. Behind him was a black woman and an old Oriental in a yellow robe.

"Who the hell are you?" snarled Beers. "Get out of here."

"Game's over," Remo said.

Beers growled and waving the hypodermic over his head like a miniature spear, raced at Remo, his face contorted with rage and furey.

Lippincott shook his head to clear it. He wanted to shout to the thin man in the doorway that Beers was dangerous. He blinked. When he opened his eyes again, the thin man was inside the room, behind Beers. Beers was upon the old Oriental. The old man, without even seeming to move, spun Beers about until he was facing back into the room, then propelled him toward the thin man.

As Beers came within reach, Remo moved in, removed the syringe from his hand, and tapped him in the thick part of his left leg, halfway between knee and hip. The doctor's leg gave way and Beers fell to the carpeted floor.

Remo tossed the syringe on the desk, and turned his back on Beers. He asked Lippincott:

"You Douglas?"

Lippmcott nodded.

"You okay?"

"I'll live," Douglas said.

"You'll be the first one this week," Remo said. He turned back to Beers. As he did, Ruby moved in and stood by the desk.

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"All right, sweetheart," Remo said. "Hard or easy?"

"I want a lawyer," Beers said. "I'll have your ass."

"Hard," Remo said. "Have it your way." Remo's hand spun out and he grabbed the lobe of Beers's left ear. He twisted it. It felt to Beers as if it were coming off.

"Easy," he yelled. "Easy, easy."

Remo relaxed his grip and Jesse Beers talked. He told everything. The plot; how it worked; who was behind it; how the conspirators had conned Elmer Lippincott Sr. As he spoke, Douglas Lippincott raised himself to a sitting position. The blood flow down his cheek had slowed to a trickle and his eyes lit up with anger. He got slowly to his feet, and walked alongside Remo, glaring down at Beers.