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Warren Murphy: Murder Ward

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Warren Murphy Murder Ward

Murder Ward: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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The Robler Clinic is getting a reputation for too many deaths during routine operations. A gorgeous female administrator, Ms. Kathy Hahl, is discovering a profitable little racket, and her tame anaesthetist, Dan Demmet, is playing along nicely. When timid mother-dominated Nathan David Wilberforce - a subject of special interest to CURE - comes to a premature death at the clinic, Remo and Chiun decide it is time to infiltrate... And it is Remo who books in as the 'patient' - exposing him to the rare and deadly ageing drug.

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The new employee had a special function. He was a time-study man. It was his job to find out why Mr. Wilberforce's unit worked so well and then make this information available to others. He would have to stay fairly close to Mr. Wilberforce to see how he allocated his time and rest, even to the hours he slept.

Wilberforce asked about Mr. Remo's background in time study, but got vague answers. He asked about Mr. Remo's training but got vague answers. He wanted to phone his director and register a complaint about insolence on the job, but he never seemed to be free of this man long enough to make a private phone call.

As usual, Wilberforce worked late, so that when he left, the outside office was dark. The hallway on the eighth floor of the federal building was dark. Black. The hallway smelled of fresh disinfectant from a recent evening mopping.

"The elevator is down there to the left," said Wilberforce.

"There are usually lights in the hallway, aren't there?" asked the time-study man.

"Yes. Don't be nervous. Just hold on to my han… uh, stay close to the wall and follow my voice."

"Why don't you follow me?" said Remo.

"But you can't see the elevator."

"Don't worry. I see more than you."

It was then that Wilberforce realized he could not hear the new employee's breathing. He knew this was strange because he could hear his own so well. He did not even hear the employee's steps on the marble floor, yet his own sounded like rifle shots in the silent hallway. It was as if the employee had disappeared in the darkness.

Wilberforce moved toward the elevator and when he went to the other side of the hall to feel for the elevator button, he heard feet moving rapidly. Perhaps two or three men close by, and then he heard what sounded like the puncturing of paper bags, a throat gurgle and one fast flight of birds. Right by his head.

Then the hall lights came on. Wilberforce gasped and felt his head become light. His new employee was standing beside him holding his arm so he would not faint. Wilberforce had seen it.

The elevator door had been open. And there was no elevator. He was standing before an open shaft. There were eight floors of nothing before him.

"My god. Someone could have fallen in. What carelessness. What carelessness," gasped Wilberforce.

"Someone did," said his new employee and held him while he leaned over the edge for a look.

Down below in the darkness, Wilberforce made out a broken body impaled on the springs and perhaps two others. He could see only arms and legs way down there, and then he saw something floating down toward the bodies. It was his late afternoon snack.

Remo helped Wilberforce to the stairs, and they walked down the eight flights. At each landing, Wilberforce gathered a bit more of his horrified senses. By the ground floor, he was complaining about the lack of proper maintenance in federal buildings. His mind had done what Remo had heard Chiun say untrained minds did. When confronted by an unacceptable fact, it would rearrange it to make it acceptable or it would ignore it.

Standing in the Scranton street with Pennsylvania snow falling, turning from white to gray in the last twenty feet of its descent, Remo saw that Wilberforce had adjusted the attempted assassination into a janitorial problem.

"I'll have to send a memo to the building superintendent in the morning," said Wilberforce, buttoning his gray and orange winter overcoat, the kind of coat Remo knew was destined second-hand for Skid Row, but which he had never seen worn new before.

Remo wore gray slacks, a light blue shirt, and a gray-blue blazer that flapped in the wind.

"Where's your coat?" asked Wilberforce.

"I don't have one," said Remo.

"You can afford one, can't you?"

"Yeah. I don't need one."

"That's impossible. It's cold out."

"How do you know it's cold?"

"The temperature tells me," said Wilberforce.

"Well, talk back to it. Tell it it's wrong."

"You can't do that to temperature. It's part of nature."

"What do you think you are? You're part of nature."

"I am Nathan David Wilberforce and I keep buttoned up," said Wilberforce. "I see that your mother hasn't properly trained you."

"I never knew my mother. I was raised in an orphanage," said Remo.

"I'm sorry," said Wilberforce. "I can't imagine what life would be like without a mother."

"Pretty good," said Remo.

"That's a horrible thing to say," said Wilberforce. "I don't know what I'd do without my mother."

"You might do pretty well, Wilberforce."

"You're a horrid human being," said Wilberforce.

"If you work at it, you might become one, too," said Remo. "A human being, that is."

"Is your work over for the day or are you going to report on my homelife tonight?"

"Tonight isn't so important, but I might as well take a look-see."

"You don't take notes."

"In my head," said Remo. "I take notes in my head."

That night would not be dangerous for Wilberforce, Remo knew. It would be probably one of the safer nights for him. In the Western world, as Chiun had taught him, there were only single attacks, never multiple level on a linear time basis. Chiun had explained it in the earliest training using lacquered wooden balls the size of grapes and a large wooden ball about the size and color of a grapefruit.

"In the West, an assassination is one ball," said Chiun, holding up a single, small black ball in his bony hands. The ball seemed to rise to the tips of his fingernails as if on a string.

"The philosophy behind this must come from the mind of a businessman for it is not really designed for effectiveness. It is designed to use as little energy as possible. Watch."

Chiun pointed to the large yellow ball on the table. "That is the target. When it is on the floor, the task is done. For that is what assassination is: a task."

"Call it what it really is," Remo had said. "Killing. Murder. Say it if you're going to say it. Don't give me this funny talk about a task."

Chiun had nodded patiently. It was only years later, after Remo achieved proficiency and wisdom that had made him into another being, that Chiun would criticize and call him a pale piece of a pig's ear. In the early training, Chiun appeared to be patient.

"Pay attention," Chiun said. "This is the Western technique."

Chiun flipped the small black ball at the larger yellow ball. It struck slightly off-center and the larger ball moved slightly toward the edge of the table. Chiun's hands came to rest on the lap of his golden kimono and exaggeratedly he watched the large ball. Then, with just as much exaggeration, he appeared to ponder, and then flipped another black ball. It missed. He stared at the large yellow ball, appeared to think long and hard, then threw another small black ball. This one hit the larger ball dead center, and slapped it over the edge of the table onto the floor. The smaller ball, spinning wildly with English, rolled almost crazily around the table, but then wound up stopping just before Chiun's hand.

"Western technique," Chiun said. "Now the technique of Sinanju. Get me the yellow ball."

Remo picked up the large ball, bending with pain to reach it—for he was in the early phase of his physical training—and put it back on the table.

Chiun bowed, smiled, reached into his pocket and brought forth a handful of small black balls. He took a few in each hand, and then snaked his two hands in different directions in front of the table, and then, bing, bing, bing, bing, balls shot out from his fingertips as it from two rocket launchers, and one after another, hit the large yellow ball dead center, without pause, and spun it immediately off the edge of the table.

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