Warren Murphy: Death Check

"He would make a fantastic lay," said the daughter.

"My dear, for you anything is a fantastic lay," he said wearily.

"Not anything."

"What is excluded? Please let me know. I will buy one."

"I wouldn't screw a black."

"A black man, that is? A black dog or black horse is different?"

"It's not the same."

"No, it is not the same. What makes you this way?"

"Watching people herded into ovens and having one's home lit with lampshades of human skin might be contributed to some deviation in a little girl."

"Yes. That. Well, it was the times."

"And I have my times, father."

"Yes, I suppose you do."

"I want that man. I must have him."

"Not yet."

"It's always not yet. Every day is not yet. Yesterday was not yet. Tomorrow will be not yet. I am tired of being deprived. Always deprived. Changing names, changing homes. All the time. Running. From Americans and British and French and Russians. Now even from our own people in Germany and God help us, from the Jews. It disgusts me to run from Jews. I want to tell the whole world who we are, what we are. We should be proud. We are Nazis."

"Quiet."

"Nazis. Nazis. Nazis, Seig heil."

"Quiet."

"Do I get him?"

"Yes. But not yet."

"Nazi, Nazi, Nazi.. Dr. Hans Frichtmann, of Treblinka, Buchenwald and various other resorts of final solution. Dr. Hans...."

"All right. All right. You can have him."

"When?"

"Soon."

"With the pictures too?"

"I don't know."

"I like being a star, daddy. I like to see your face when you photograph me. That is the best part."

"All right. Go home now, dear. I must see Dr. Ratchett," he said wearily.

"I will go. It makes you sick to see me do those things?"

"Yes."

"That is the best part."

He watched his daughter stride happily away, putting another victory in her pocket, then entered the home of Dr. James Ratchett. Ratchett had not yet entered his special place, but was cutting at a dark wedge which looked like dried chewing tobacco, but was really hashish. The wedge was the size of a domino and he watched Ratchett's pudgy fingers work the razor at an edge, cutting slivers into the small bronze bowl of a pipe. Every other sliver missed.

"The beast," Ratchett said, "I can't even fill my pipe."

"Poor man. How could they let this happen to you? Here, I will prepare your pipe." They sat in Ratchett's living room, a dramatic affair of black and white. Behind the fireplace, bordered by two curved elephant tusks, was the place he knew Ratchett would enter.

The back of the fireplace was the lone slit of dark red. The white tusks surrounded it and were surrounded themselves by a circle of black. Ratchett was the only person at Brewster Forum who did not grasp the symbol of his design. But then a man's sickness is invariably hidden from his soul.

"That policeman made a very good move," he said, packing the pipe for Ratchett.

"If I knew that cop knew what he knew, I never would

have played that way against Boyle. You know I'm a better

player than that."

"I know."

"It won't count in the tournament, will it?"

"I'm afraid it must."

"It shouldn't. Boyle had help."

"You offered to allow it."

"That Boyle. I could beat him any day of the week. Any day."

"Yes, you can."

"I could kill him."

"What for?"

"For doing that to me."

"He didn't do anything to you."

"He took that cop's advice, that night watchman who is all of a sudden allowed to play in our tournaments."

"Yes, he took the advice. But who gave it? Did you see him laugh at you?"

"He didn't laugh."

"He smirked and started the laughing. All the time he knew you were only toying with Boyle and he knew you could beat him in a fair game. But he saw he could beat you, the only way he could, by taking your generosity toward Boyle and turning it on you."

"Yes. The only way he could beat me. Humiliate me."

"Of course, and everybody laughed along with him."

"The bastards."

"They can't help it. As long as that man is here, they will laugh at you."

"Nonsense. They know he's only a policeman."

"They will laugh the more."

"No."

"Yes. When they see you. They will laugh inside."

"You're a beast for telling me this."

"I am your friend. A friend tells the truth."

"You're still a beast."

He handed Ratchett the pipe and answered: "Perhaps I should not have told you. After all, there is only one way you can humiliate him and you would not stoop to that."

"What way?"

"Your friends on the motorcycles. Your, what do you call them, rough trade. Imagine a policeman who cannot stop hoodlums."

"You're right. I wouldn't do that. Nils would be in a snit. An absolute snit."

"How would he know it's you?"

"I would never stoop that low. Never." Dr. James Ratchett smiled. "I'm in the right mood now. Would you like to join me in my place? Share the peace pipe?"

"Thank you no, I must get home."

"Besides," said Doctor Ratchett, "even if Nils did find out, how could he replace Dr. James Ratchett?"

"How could he, indeed?"

"Of course, I would never stoop so low."

"Of course."

"Be at the offices tomorrow at noon," Ratchett said with a giggle, and ducked between the elephant tusks into the next room.

The man once known as Dr. Hans Frichtmann smiled at Ratchett's back, then left the egg-shaped house. He would see what he would see. Some chess moves, he knew very well, could be very destructive. Especially the ones that appeared brilliant at first.

This Remo Pelham person had made a serious mistake. With luck, it would be a fatal mistake. And by the time they sent yet another to replace him, the people who had drafted the plan to conquer the world would be in the control of another power, who would know how to use that plan. And Dr. Hans Frichtmann would be gone.

CHAPTER TEN

Nils Brewster would have to get it over with. He didn't let garbage collect in the kitchen. Paid his bills on time. Saw the dentist when his teeth acted up. There was no reason to put it off any longer. He would do it. Get it over with.

"Send in Remo what's-his-name," said Nils Brewster into his intercom and promptly felt quite satisfied with his integrity.

His office faced out onto a circle, a mass of green ringed by black gravel. Rimming the circle were the white cottages of the forum, which served as both offices and living quarters for the forum's top brass. Farther back, beyond the ring of cottages, one could see more traditional lab and office buildings where the hirelings worked. The view of the circle was piecemealed through small, cozy, wood-encased windows in Brewster's office, which made the world look like a chess game. The trees were mid-board and the sky was enemy territory.

A white couch graced the far wall of Brewster's office, and original paintings, mostly geometric forms in day-glo colours, hung from the walls. On the floor was a Polar Bear Rug, "a little whimsy of mine, Lord knows I get so few indulgences." That little indulgence had cost more than $12,000. It was paid for by one of the funding foundations which annually produced a report showing how it made life better for mankind, particularly black mankind. For some reason, the $12,000 was linked to understanding black rage.

The office was pleasant and warm. That was the way Nils Brewster had intended it to be, a setting mirroring the warmth and wisdom and understanding of the tweed draped hulk who occupied it.

When Remo entered, he saw the hulk. He saw it puffing away at a pipe, engrossed in being Nils Brewster, Ph.D, Chicago U., director of Brewster Forum, author of several books which a few thousand owned, a few hundred read, and seven or eight understood. He saw the hulk was about to tolerate him.