Warren Murphy: Murder's Shield

"Right. Okay. See you." They mumbled agreement and Remo hopped down off the stage and walked to the back where Janet O'Toole waited in the doorway.

"You called, madam?" he said.

"I called. And when I call, you come."

Remo looked down. "Many are called but not all come."

"That's because they haven't met me. Bill wants to talk to you," she said. "And when he's done, I think you and I ought to talk."

"Is the closet ready?"

Remo smiled at her, trying not to show his pleasure too openly. He had really brought the girl on. A week ago she was an emotional basket case. Now she was a tart. Was that plus one or minus one? Maybe it's what the political scientists called zero gain.

"What are you smiling about?" she demanded.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," she said, and her tone was not inviting; it was cold and imperative.

"After I see McGurk," Remo said and walked past her, through her office, into McGurk's office in back. He was on the telephone and he motioned to Remo to shut the door and raised a finger to his mouth, cautioning Remo to be quiet.

Remo closed the door and stood inside, listening.

"No, sir," McGurk said.

"No," he said a moment later. "I've looked very carefully into the killing of Big Pearl. I can't find a thing that would support Congressman Duffy's killer cop theory."

And then, "No, sir, I wish I could. I'd like a crack at those bastards myself, but they just don't exist.

"Yessir, I'll keep looking. If there is such a thing, I'll find it. Yessir. After all, Duffy was my friend too.

"Bye."

He hung up the phone and smiled at Remo. "The Attorney General," he said. "Wondering if I've been able to find out anything about some kind of super-secret police killer organization. But of course I can't. There ain't any such animal."

"Naturally."

"Naturally."

McGurk smiled. "How's it going?"

"Great," Remo said. "As thrilling as watching ice melt. When's payday?"

"Tomorrow," McGurk said. "You'll get paid in full. Tomorrow."

He stood up behind his desk, after glancing at his watch. "Lunchtime," he said. "Join me?"

"No thanks," Remo said.

"Dieting?"

"Fasting."

"Keep your strength up. You'll need it," McGurk said.

Remo walked out with him and stood alongside as McGurk stopped at Janet's desk.

"Are you going to lunch or should I bring something back?" he asked.

She glanced at Remo, realized he was staying and asked McGurk to bring her back an egg salad sandwich and a chocolate milk shake.

The door had barely closed behind McGurk when Janet was on her feet, moving to the door and locking it.

She turned on Remo, her eyes glistening.

"I motioned to you this morning," she said.

"Yes?"

"And you ignored me. Why?"

"I didn't know you were calling. I thought you were just waving hello," Remo said.

"You're not supposed to think," she said. "You're supposed to be there when I call. Maybe some of those other women expect you to think, but I don't."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You'll be sorrier," she said. "Take off your clothes."

Remo acted flustered. "Here? Now?"

"Here and now. Now! Hurry."

Remo obeyed, averting his eyes. All right, so he felt sorry for her but enough was about enough. Mental health wasn't really worth it. Just this one last time and then no more games.

Remo removed his slacks and shirt.

"I said all your clothes," she commanded.

He obeyed, Janet watching him, still standing with her back to the door.

When he was naked, standing amid his pile of clothing in the middle of the floor, she walked forward to him. She put her hands on his hips and looked into his eyes. He turned his face away.

"Now, take off my clothes," she said.

Remo reached behind her to begin pulling her sweater up over her head.

"Gently," she cautioned him. "Gently. If you know what's good for you."

Remo was not at home when the special telephone rang in the Folcroft office of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

With a sigh, Smith picked up the receiver.

"Yessir," he said.

"Has that person accomplished anything yet?" the familiar voice asked.

"He is occupied with it, sir."

"He has been occupied with it for one week," the voice said. "How long will this take?"

"It is difficult," Smith said.

"The Attorney General advises me that his efforts to find out anything about these assassination teams have been unsuccessful."

"As well they might be, sir," Smith said. "I would urge you to leave it to us."

"I am trying to do just that. But you realize, of course, that it is only a matter of time before the regular agencies of government become involved. And when they do, I will not be able simply to withdraw them. That could result in your organization being compromised."

"That is a risk we live with, sir."

"Please try to expedite things."

"Yessir."

And Remo was still not at home later that night when Smith called for the second time. He spoke instead to Chiun, probing, trying to find out if Remo mght be dragging his feet on this assignment, still reluctant to go after policemen.

But Chiun was, as always, unfathomable on the telephone, answering only "yes" or "no" and finally, in exasperation, Smith said:

"Please give our friend a message."

"Yes," Chiun said.

"Tell him America is worth a life."

"Yes," Chiun said and hung up. He knew that years before, Conn MacCleary, the man who had recruited Remo, had told Remo that before asking Remo to kill him to preserve CURE'S security.

Foolish white men. Nothing was worth a life.

There was only the purity of the art. All else was temporal and would too pass away. How foolish to worry about it.

And when Remo finally returned home, hours later, Chiun had decided not to tell him Smith had called.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Tonight's the night, Remo," McGurk said.

Remo lounged in the chair across from McGurk's desk.

"Tonight's what night?"

"The night we start making this a crime-free country.'' McGurk began to peel the paper from a small filter-tipped cigar. "When we start putting the policeman back on top where he belongs."

In the outer office, a mimeograph machine kerchugged as Janet O'Toole ran off press releases. Remo tested his ability to hear the cigar cellophane crinkle despite the overwhelming racket of the mimeography. He looked away so his ears would not be aided by his eyes watching the cellophane.

"Tonight, our forty-man core group is going to meet here at eight o'clock. I'll introduce you as our new training director. That'll only take a few minutes, and then we have a news conference slated for 9:30. All the press will be there, and we'll announce the formation of the Men of the Shield."

"You're not going to introduce me to the press?" Remo said.

He heard McGurk begin to roll the cellophane between his fingers, turning it into a hard little tube. "No," he said, "that's about all we don't need. No. Your involvement's going to be our own secret."

"Good, that's the way I like it," Remo said. He slid his chair back slightly, ready to stand.

"There's just one thing," McGurk said.

Remo sighed. "All my life, there's been just one thing."

"Yeah. Mine too. This one thing is important." McGurk stood and walked to the door. He opened it, assured himself that Janet was still working at the mimeograph machine, her ears outgunned by the noise. He closed the door tightly and returned to sit on the edge of the desk near Remo's feet.

"It's O'Toole," he said.

"What's with him?" Remo asked.

"He's ready to blow the whistle."

"Him? What the hell can he blow the whistle about?"

"I guess it's time to level with you, Remo," McGurk said. "This whole thing… the special teams… the Men of the Shield… the whole thing, it was all O'Toole's idea."