Warren Murphy: Death Check

Remo thanked Dr. Brewster who fumbled a dime into the telephone and dialled the emergency number listed on the board above the coin slots. He winked at Remo, made an okay sign with his right hand, and began to babble incoherently into the receiver.

Remo waved at Brewster, who was gesticulating wildly with his free hand, as he shouted into the phone: "Dead. Aaah. Dead. Ooooh. Help. Dead. Brewster Forum. Blood."

And Remo sauntered off, flatfooted, off balance and laughing at himself. The flush of relaxation might have explained why he was about to enter the first black-out period of his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The man once known as Dr. Hans Frichtmann examined the new negatives. The lighting was not as good as on the others, but it would do. And the set was complete. He would take pains that no illiterate cop would steal these as McCarthy must have done with the first set. An insignificant Irish life for a brilliant plan. Funny how a flea could clog a great engine.

"Well, no matter. The Jewess had been the last. One could almost develop a fondness for the animals if they were not so annoying.

The average German had not understood. They had reaped the benefits, but they did not want to know about the dirty work. They had almost made the world Jew-free, and did the world appreciate it? How did they expect them to get rid of Jews if not by gassing them and burning them?

Oh, certainly everyone at home cheered when you were on top and they did not have to get their sweet little hands dirty. But when you lost, the shock. No one was political. Not when you lost. But they had cheered you when you were winning. Did they expect the Jews to disappear without mass killing? Just by wishing? Of course, it was unpleasant. That was the price one must pay. There were even some Jews he would have saved if he could. Some he respected more than Germans. But if you started making an exception here and an exception there, then where were you? Jews. All over.

He didn't ask for the Jews to be in the world. He hadn't put them there. Hadn't made them like they were. He was building a better world. And if it took some unpleasantness, then certain brave people would do it. Nobody had seen the Germany he had seen or lived in the Germany he had lived in. Chaos. Disorder. Der Fuhrer had ended it and given Germany back its soul.

But the Germans had failed the party and the nation. Because they were not worthy of their heritage. A little trouble and they collapsed, and then every one of the little hypocrites ran around saying he didn't know, he was sorry. Well, they were not strong enough to know, only to reap the benefits. They could have known. The evidence was there.

Where did they think all the Jews went that disappeared in box cars? To Grossinger's?

He had to laugh at that. Even the generals in their cars and with their fancy servants. Turning their heads, going through convulsions not to see the blood that he had to live through daily. And he was a doctor. But he was a German and a Nazi.

Their clean hands. The swine. Looking down on him. How dare they, those generals? He remembered a night at Horcher's in Berlin. It had been furlough from the camp in Poland. He had sent a drink to the young staff officer, sitting with his lady friend at the next table. The drink had come back untouched.

"What? An officer from the Afrika Corps refusing a drink? I've never heard of such a thing."

He said this with as much warmth as possible. They were all Germans after all, especially under the new order. He had gone through medical school, the son of a carpenter. So the officer obviously was aristocracy. But what did that mean now? In the new Germany, they were all one. One race. The master race.

"Will you not share a drink with a fellow officer?" he had asked. And the arrogant swine had answered:

"With a fellow officer I would."

That had done it. "You think you are so fine in here, eating the best of foods, drinking the best of wines. Why do you live so well? Because of me."

The officer had tried to ignore him. But one could not ignore a man who refused to be ignored.

"I see your lady friend eats delicately. In our camps we do not have the luxury of delicacy. We must have the gold teeth pulled out of the heads of Jews because Germany needs the money. To pay you and put wine on your table. The fatherland needs the hair of Jew children and the clothes of the processed people.

"Who do you think is putting the food on that table? I am. By killing the inferior races so that you can live in your delicate comfort. Do you know what it is like to rip out someone's testicles? But I must, so we will know more about reproduction for your comfort.

"Hey, high-class lady! Have you ever seen so many people in a ditch, that the blood seeps up through the earth that covers it? Does that go well with your chocolate mousse? Eh? How does that go?"

They had left, of course. Run away, leaving the dirty work for men strong enough to do it. Naturally, he had been arrested that night for disorderly conduct and given a stern rebuke for his loose tongue. But doctors were scarce. And the SS understood, despite what was said of them after the war.

He put the negatives back in the envelope. With these, he had just the wedge to give his new employers who, as coincidence would have it, were also building a great new world. With these, one could easily begin to work effectively. Oh, not to get anything major all at once, but to force a scientist to take a visit to a city in another country and just talk about things. These photos could enslave America's greatest brains for their entire lifetimes.

A perfect plan. Almost ruined by that Irish cop, but salvaged. The new policeman? Well, he was something more. Luckier than McCarthy and better. But still only a policeman and it was too late for him to do anything anyway. Dr. Hans Frichtmann allowed himself a touch of regret that he would not be around long enough to teach a final permanent lesson to Remo Pelham.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

First there was the note.

Deborah was not home. The door was unlocked, her cottage empty of her, and a note on the desk, sealed in an envelope with Remo's name on it. The bitch. The little Jew bitch. That little whore Remo had been willing to die for, just to screw. She probably gave it away for shekels.

Smith had been right. He had been descending so fast that he was incapable of correct judgment. She had given him a feel and sidestepped him. Quick and neat.

Well, he would find her. He would find Miss Quick and Neat and break her arm. Just to let you know, baby, you ain't that good. No. Never mind. He would read the note and leave. And if he ever saw her again, he would kill her, because she would recognize him.

He ripped open the envelope, not bothering to turn on the light but reading from the late afternoon sun coming vaguely through the windows.

"Darling Remo."

Oh, what a little bull-shitter she was. Cunt.

"I never told you why I especially loved Conn MacCleary."

Because he screwed you when you were three. "I was an ugly child, with many freckles. Youngsters as you know can be cruel." As opposed to women.

"The other children tormented me because of my freckles. My nickname was the Hebrew children's equivalent of shit-face."

Even then they knew.

"One day, Conn heard the remark. And he looked surprised. 'Do you know,' he said, 'that a woman without freckles is like a night without stars?' And of course the other children said, but what about a girl? And he told them that a girl with freckles is like the dawn of life, the beauty of a new day, and she is so beautiful that like the shining sun, some people could not see the beauty right away. I guess that started it. I just always believed I would be beautiful and there is nothing like that to end the reality of it. That started my swelled head, of course. Conn probably had a bag on, I don't remember. But that sort of talk is easy to take. In any case, Remo, I grew up in a house where every so often my father would leave. And although they did not want that life for me, I followed it. I guess I had to follow it. Maybe I wanted to follow it. You see enough numbers tattooed on people's arms and hear enough stories and you know what you must do.