Warren Murphy: Kill Or Cure

In the wings Remo winced.

‘This is terrible,’ he hissed to Chiun. ‘Where’s Teri?’

‘Her whereabouts are not my campaign assignment,’ Chiun said. ‘Besides, I think he plays his strange instrument extremely well. It is an art alien to my homeland.’

‘And to mine,’ Remo said. ‘We must be losing hundreds of votes a minute.’

‘One can never tell,’ Chiun said. ‘Perhaps Miami Beach is ready for a saw virtuoso in City Hall. He may be an idea whose time has come.’

‘Thank you, Chiun, for consoling me.’

Remo and Chiun watched in silence as Mac Polaney hammed it up for the television camera. But where was Teri Walker? She was supposed to have been there.

Perhaps, she could have gotten Mac Polaney to talk about the campaign a little. Particularly with what this three-hour extravaganza was costing Remo. And she certainly would have known how to handle that out-of-town television crew. They had told studio people and Remo that they were from a New York-based network and were filming a special on election techniques. After some haggling, they were allowed to set up their camera in the opposite wing of the stage, and now the two men manning it kept it fixed on Polaney running off miles of film. They made Remo uneasy, but he chalked it off to his longstanding feeling that disasters would be kept in the family and not filmed for posterity.

Chiun was saying something to him.

‘Shhhh,’ said Remo. ‘I want to see if he reaches the high note.’

Polaney almost reached it. Chiun insisted, ‘There are other vibrations you might consider.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as those two gentlemen of television over there. They are not authentic.’

‘Why?’

‘Because for the last five minutes, their picture machine has been aimed at that stain on the ceiling.’

Remo looked. Sure enough, the camera was pointing away from Polaney, its film grinding rapidly away. The two cameramen were kneeling down next to their equipment box. As Remo and Chiun watched, they came up standing, guns in their hands, focused on Polaney.

All the people out there in what Mac Polaney had called ‘television land’ missed the most exciting part of his campaign special. Remo moved for the gunmen, but Chiun was already there. Viewers had seen only a green swish as the robed Chiun moved across the stage, past Polaney, and then, as Polaney finished his number with one last dying note, they heard shots, then sharp thwacks, then screams.

The cameraman surrendered to his instinct and turned the camera off Polaney and swung it to the side. Chiun hopped nimbly back behind the drapes and the camera saw only the bodies of the two bogus cameramen, lying there on the bare wooden floor, unmoving, dead.

The camera froze there a moment, then began moving back to Polaney. With horror, Remo realized he was standing directly between Polaney and the camera, ready to present his face to the audience for posterity and all he could think of was how Dr. Smith would resent it. Remo turned his back to the camera and said into the overhead microphone:

‘Do not be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. An attempt has just been made on Mr. Polaney’s life, but our security guards have the situation well in hand.’

Then, still without turning, without showing his face to the camera, Remo sidled off the stage, leaving framed in the center of the camera lens Mac Polaney, holding his saw by the handle, looking off toward the side of the stage where the dead men lay.

Finally Polaney turned back toward the camera.

Slowly he said:

‘They were trying to silence me. But people have tried to silence me before, and they all have failed. Because only death would silence me.’

He stopped. A cameraman cheered. In the control booth, an engineer applauded.

Polaney waited a moment, then said: ‘I hope you will all vote for me tomorrow. Good night.’

And with his saw under his arm, he moved away, off camera, into the wings where Remo stood, now joined by Chiun. The music of ‘Sunshine is Nicer’ came up and over.

‘That was quick thinking,’ Remo said.

‘Quick thinking? About what?’ Polaney asked.

‘That bit about people trying to silence you. Real good politics.’

‘But it’s true,’ Polaney said. ‘Every time I play the saw, someone’s trying to keep me quiet.’

‘You were talking about the saw?’

‘Well, of course. What else?’

‘Where’s Teri?’ Remo bawled.

Teri Walker was not in the small apartment she kept in the hotel which housed Polaney’s campaign headquarters, but something else was.

On her desk Remo found a note. It read: ‘Teri. Under no circumstances, go to the studio tonight. This is important. Mother.’ The note was fresh and fragrant and Remo lifted it to his face. It even smelled like Dorothy Walker. It had that clean… and then he realized it. It had the smell of lilacs. The same smell that had been on the ice picks he had found in Willard Farger and City Manager Clyde Moskowitz.

Dorothy Walker. She had been the leak from the Polaney campaign, taking Remo’s money and playing both sides against the middle. And the night before, she had tried to use him.

Remo walked to Dorothy Walker’s nearby penthouse apartment, forced the door, and sat on the soft brown arm chair in the living room and waited. He waited through the night and until the sun was high. No Dorothy Walker. And finally the phone rang.

Remo picked it up.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, who’s this? Remo?’ said Teri Walker.

‘Right.’

She giggled. ‘So my mother finally trapped you. I knew she would.’

‘Afraid not, Teri. Your mom’s not here. She hasn’t been here all night.’

‘Oh. She must be out on Grandpa’s boat. Probably talking about the campaign. He’s very interested.’

‘What boat?’ Remo said.

‘The Encolpius,’ she said. ‘It’s tied up in the bay.’

‘Thanks,’ Remo said. ‘By the way, why didn’t you show up at the studio last night?’

‘Momma left me a note and told me not to. When I talked to her on the phone, she said there was a chance of violence, and that you said it was best I stayed away. So I stayed at my friend’s house again. But I watched. I thought it was wonderful.’

‘If you think that was good, watch what comes next,’ Remo said.

He hung up and left the apartment building, walking toward the water.

‘You’ve lost, poppa,’ Dorothy Walker was wearing a green cocktail dress in the main sitting room of the yacht, talking to Marshal Dworshansky.

‘I know, my dear. I know. But who would have thought our men would miss? And such good men. Sasha and Dmitri. They would have done anything for us.’

‘Yes, but miss they did. And now there is no way that Mr. Polaney is not going to win the election. You failed to consider the public reaction if your men missed.’

‘That is true.’ Dworshansky smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps I am just growing old. Too old to have my own city. Well. There are other fish in the sea.’

‘Maybe now, papa, you’ll retire as you should have years ago. Losing, you always told me, is the only sin.’

‘Do I detect a note of exultation? You may have lost something too,’ he said.

‘No, papa, I’ve won. Polaney will be the mayor. Teri and I will be his closest advisors. Inside of six months, I will own the city. And then I will give it to you. I owe you that gift.’

As Dworshansky listened, he understood that Dorothy Walker’s offer of a gift was not made in love, but as full payment of an annoying debt. He looked at her and said, ‘Perhaps we both have lost something.’

‘That’s right,’ came a voice. Remo stood in the doorway. ‘You’ve both lost.’

‘Who are you?’ Dworshansky demanded. ‘Who is this man?’