Warren Murphy: Mafia Fix

Well, Myron Horowitz tried to be polite, and he knew that he would have acted the same, even if he had not had a pill, but it was his time of the day to relax a little and to feel good, so he grinned and said, "Hi, boys. Have a pill?"

He never did know what he said that was wrong because he didn't have a chance to ask before the Oriental pulled out a pistol and put a bullet in his head, as he said to his two companions, "Is preasing you?"

The shot was the first sound Remo Williams heard as he came through the door that, from the inside, did not look like a door and into the room where the pills were made by automated machines. Even now, with Horowitz dead, the machines kept pumping out their deadly medicine in hard little tablets with a steady tapocketa pocketa.

Remo Williams was unseen by the three men and he walked up quietly behind the Oriental and snatched the gun from his hand.

Remo skidded the gun across the floor of the drug factory and the three men wheeled and Remo demanded, "Who the hell are you? The Marx Brothers?"

The man who looked like Hoagy Carmichael answered. In a clipped British accent, he said, "Official business, old man. Just stay out of the way. We're licensed to kill."

"Not around here, you're not, you silly shit," Remo said.

The Englishman lifted his brief case up onto the counter knocking bottles of pills to the floor to make room for it. He began to fumble at the latches.

The Oriental, mistaking Remo's anger for anger, grabbed Remo's bad arm and pivoted under his bad shoulder. He bent forward in the classic ju-jitsu move to throw Remo over his back. Everything was done just right, except he had never done it before to a man whose shoulder was dislocated. All it did to Remo was hurt him, so Remo took his right fist and curled it up into the karate hand mace, bringing it down on top of the Oriental's head with a fearsome crunch.

The Oriental dropped like a wet sock.

"Just a minute, old chap," the Englishman said. "Just let me get this case open," he said, as he fumbled again with the latches.

The little man with the head like an egg and the pointed moustache clutched his umbrella to his side, then pulled his right hand away, peeling out an evil looking foil almost three feet long. He ducked into a fencing pose, shouted en garde and lunged forward with the point of the epee at Remo's stomach. Remo side-stepped and the sword slid harmlessly by his waist.

"Keep him occupied, Hercule," the Englishman called. "Til be right with you. I've almost got it."

Hercule pulled back his sword and prepared for another lunge. He thrust forward and this time Remo let the blade slip by him, then yanked it out of the Frenchman's hand. Holding it by its uncutting dulled edge, he thumped the Frenchman on the head with the umbrella handle and the Frenchman went into a deep swoon.

Remo dropped the sword and turned to the Englishman. He saw Remo staring at him, and tilted his head to the side slightly so he could smile sardonically at him. "Must say you Yanks are always in such a bloody hurry. Now just hold still a moment, while I get this open. M will hear about this defective equipment."

As Remo watched, he fumbled with the latches and then cried out in triumph, "That's it. I've got it now, I've got it," and he pulled up on the handle and it separated from the briefcase.

He aimed the twin points of the handle at Remo's chest, tilted his head and again smiled sardonically. I've had experience with your sort before. The Speckled Polka Dot Gang, don't you know. And let me tell you, you Mafia types can't hold a candle to some of the people I've run into. Well, old boy. Are you ready? Anything you'd like to say? I'll give you a couple of lines in my report. Any last words?"

"Yeah," Remo said. "Up yours, you dizzy bastard." He turned his back and walked away toward the telephone he saw on the desk in the office. The smiling Englishman took careful aim with the attaché case handle, pressed down on the second-bolt-from-the-end and shot himself in the foot.

Remo ignored the noise behind him and went inside to call Dr. Harold W. Smith.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Dr. Harold W. Smith knew what to do. The Treasury Department was called immediately and within minutes men in snap-brimmed hats began arriving at the drug factory.

Remo had gone. Inside they found a dead Horowitz, an unconscious Oriental and an unconscious Frenchman. A bloated Englishman, bleeding slightly from a wound in the foot, sat on Horowitz's desk drinking from a bottle of Chivas Regal when they entered. He was on the telephone and he covered the mouthpiece when they came in the door and called out: "Hello, boys. Glad you could join the party. You'll find everything you need. Just handle the paperwork and things'll go a lot smoother."

Then he was back talking into the telephone. "Cedric? That you? You-know-who here. Yes. Biggest one yet. Can we make the next edition? Okay. Grab your pencil and your socks. Here we go. The biggest drug ring in the history of international smuggling was broken up today and the real story is the unsung role played in the case by. . .heh, heh, you know who, on Her Majesty's Secret Service."

At the same time, Dr. Harold W. Smith was on the telephone with the White House. The President sat in his bedroom, his shoes off, listening to the parched voice.

"That matter has been cleared up, Mr, President."

"Thank you," the President said. "And that person?"

"I believe he is well. I will convey your concern."

"And our gratitude."

"And your gratitude," Dr. Smith said before placing his phone back on its red base.

It was noon when the first bulletin came out of Washington across the United Press International ticker. James Morgan, editor of the Hudson Tribune, heard the clanking of the bells on the teletype machine and stuck his head out of his office.

His staff studiously ignored the ringing of the bells which generally signalled a major news item. Horgan swore softly and walked to the back of the room where he leaned over the teletype machine, then ripped the yellow sheet of paper from the machine.

He read: ". . . Enough heroin to fuel America's underworld narcotics trade for six years was seized today in a daring daylight raid in Hudson, New Jersey, United States Treasury officials announced." more to come. EGF1202WDC

Horgan glanced at the copy, then at the clock. It was 12:03. Three minutes after all the copy should have been gone from the editorial room and out into the composing room on its way into the pages.

He walked back to the city desk where the city editor was trying to do the word game. Can you get twenty-one words in fifteen minutes from effluvium. Average mark, seventeen words. Time limit, twenty minutes.

Horgan tossed the yellow bulletin on the desk in front of the city editor. "In case you were wondering," he said, "all those bells ringing were not a fire alarm. So there's nothing to worry about. Do you think you might finish that puzzle in time to try to get some news in today's paper?"

The city editor looked at the bulletin, then up at Horgan. "What should I do?" he asked.

Horgan thought for a moment, then picked up the bulletin. "Hold Page One. Then go back to your frigging puzzle and stay out of the way."

Horgan vanished into his office carrying the scrap of paper from the UPI machine. A few moments later, he bellowed "copy" and a copyboy ran in and carried a sheet of white paper out to the city editor.

"Mr. Horgan says start working on this." The copy-boy ran to the back of the room to take the latest bulletin off the UPI machine.

Every few minutes, he brought a new bulletin into Horgan's office and seconds later white sheets came out, carefully blending UPI's dry factual reports with the stories of the dead narcotics policemen, the mysterious Remo Barry who had been in town, Verillio's death and the political protection that had been given the narcotics gang.