Warren Murphy: Kill Or Cure

‘Where is the mayor now?’ one reporter asked.

Mac Polaney wiped his brow in the heat of the overhead TV lights. ‘You’re looking at him, bub.’

‘To what do you attribute your landslide victory?’

‘To clean living and eight hundred international units of Vitamin E each and every day.’

Remo turned from the television set. ‘All right, let’s go,’ he said. He pushed Cartwright out of the dingy waterfront bar and led him to the end of the dock where they boarded a small outboard motor boat. In two minutes, Remo was at the Encolpius, following Cartwright up the gangplank to the main deck. Cartwright still clutched his money-filled attaché case.

‘Where is the marshal?’ Cartwright asked.

‘Right in here,’ Remo said, pushing open the door to the main sitting room. Cartwright walked past Remo, saw on the floor the bodies of Dworshansky and his daughter, and turned back to Remo. ‘You promised,’ he said.

‘Never trust a politician’s promise,’ Remo said, just before his hard, iron-wedge hand crashed against Cartwright’s skull. As Cartwright dropped, Remo said: ‘You peaked too early.’

Remo moved to the bow of the boat, started the yacht’s engines, and set the automatic pilot on a low-speed course heading due east. Then he went down below into the engine room, emptied out one of the diesel tanks, and spilled its contents all over the engine room. On top of that, for good measure, he emptied another twenty gallon drum of regular gasoline, setting a small trail of saturated rags and papers out into the passage-way.

He dropped a match into the rags which lit with a puff, as Remo ran up the stairway to the main deck and slid down the steps into his motor boat which was being pulled along by the powerful yacht. He untied the ropes lashing him to the yacht, let his boat drift away for a hundred yards, then started his own motor and aimed the small outboard back to shore.

Halfway to the shore, he heard a loud thump behind him. He turned around and saw a flash of fire. He cut his motor and watched. The flames burned brightly, slowly reduced themselves to a glow, and then exploded with a crashing thump that resounded in Remo’s ears. Seconds later, the sea was again still.

Remo stared at the spot for awhile, then turned his attention and his boat back to shore.

Later that night, Remo watched the television news.

It was a tapestry of complicated story after complicated story. Reporters hinted that Mayor Cartwright had fled after submitting his confession to Polaney. They speculated that Cartwright himself had killed Bullingsworth and Moskowitz because they had unmasked his thefts, and then had killed Sheriff Clyde McAdow, whose body was found in the city hall parking lot, because McAdow had tried to prevent his escape.

And then of course there was Mac Polaney’s overwhelming election victory, and the television film of his press conference, at which he announced his first appointment, Mrs. Ethel Hirshberg, as city treasurer.

Mrs. Hirshberg grabbed the microphone from him and said, ‘I vow to watch city money like it was mine and to keep an eye on the mayor and to treat him like my own son, for which I have plenty of time since my son never even calls me.’

Remo could take no more. He flipped off the television and dialed the 800 area-code number.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. And then it was picked up.

‘Yes?’ said the lemony voice.

‘Remo here.’

‘Yes,’ said Dr. Smith. ‘I recognize the voice. Even if it has been a long while.’

‘I’ve pulled your irons out of the fire,’ Remo said.

‘Oh? I was not aware I had any irons in the fire.’

‘Have you seen the news? Polaney’s election. Cartwright’s confession that the League papers were all a fake.’

‘Yes, I’ve seen the news, I wonder where Mayor Cartwright has gone, by the way?’

‘He’s gone to sea,’ Remo said.

‘I see,’ Smith said. ‘I will carry your report to Number One. He returns tonight, you know.’

‘I know,’ Remo said. ‘We political types keep on top of the news.’

‘Is that all?’ Smith asked.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Good-bye.’

Smith hung up and Remo replaced the telephone, feeling disgusted. He looked at Chiun.

‘Does one expect thanks from an emperor?’ Chiun said.

‘I wasn’t expecting to have my feet kissed if that’s what you mean. But maybe, just a thank you. Just saying it wouldn’t have been hard.’

‘Emperor’s do not thank,’ Chiun said. ‘They pay for and expect the best. Just consider yourself blessed that you were almost the city treasurer of Miami Beach.’