Murder's Shield

by Warren Murphy

  “The noble elderly gentleman with the wise eyes,” added Chiun, lest the circus owner be confused by Remo’s description.

  “I ain’t botherin’ no one.”

  “You are bothering me,” said Chiun.

  “Well, Pops, that’s the way it goes. I’m sitting down right here.”

  Suddenly there was a piercing scream at the floor of the tent. Remo saw a large balloon of a figure pitch forward and land on its face. It did not move.

  “Chiun. That guy just wanted to sit down. You better not have done anything serious.”

  “When one removes garbage, one does not do anything serious.”

  “He’d better be alive.”

  “He never was alive. I could smell hamburger meat on his foul breath. You could smell the meat miles away. He was not alive.”

  “Well, his heart better be beating.”

  “It’s beating,” came the response from below. “And I am aging, waiting to see the simplest of skills, the meager accomplishments of my great and intense years of training, some small proof that the best years of my life have not been wasted on a dullard.”

  “I mean beating so that he will wake up, not just the twitching of a stiff.”

  “Do you wish to come down here and kiss him?”

  “All right, all right.”

  “And let us attempt decent form this time, please.”

  Remo threw the bar out. He knew that Chiun could see him as if stage lights flooded the darkness at the top of the tent. The eye was a muscle and to see in darkness was only an adjustment of that muscle, which could be trained as any other muscle could. It was almost a decade before that Chiun had first told him this, told him that most men go to the grave using less than ten per cent of their skills, muscles, coordination and nerves. “One must only look at the grasshopper,” Chiun had said, “or the ant, to see energy properly used. Man has forgotten this use. I will remind you.”

  Remind him he had, in years of training that had more than once brought Remo to the threshold of mind-shattering pain, past the limits of what he had thought a human body could do. And always there were new limits.

  “Get on with it,” came Chiun’s voice.

  Remo caught the bar and threw it again. He felt its presence swing out across the tent. Then his body took over. The toes flipped and the hands were forward and he was in space, rising to the apex before the fall, and at the apex, the bar which his senses perceived in the darkness was there in his hands. Up he swung, flipping his body in somersaults just above the swinging bar within the frame of the two wires holding the bar. One. Two.

  Three. Four. Then catch the bar with the knees and balance. Hands at sides, knees on bar swinging backward, again to the apex and then, like a chess piece, topple backward, free of the bar, free of any support, falling, down to the sawdust, a lead force dropping to earth, and no movement, head first, not a muscle moving, not even a vagrant thought in the mind. Bang. The cat-fast center of the body forward, feet out, catch the ground, go down to it, perfect even decompression.

  On the feet, stand up straight, weight perfectly balanced.

  “Perfect,” thought Remo. “I was perfect this time. Even Chiun must admit it. As good as any Korean ever. As good as good Chiun, because his was perfection.”

  Remo strolled over to the aged Korean in the flowing white, golden-bordered robe.

  “I think it came off fairly well,” Remo said with feigned casualness.

  “What?” said Chiun.

  “The World Series. What do you think I was talking about?” said Remo.

  “Oh, that,” said Chiun.

  “That,” said Remo.

  “That was proof that if you have someone of the quality of the Master of Sinanju, you can get a reasonable performance occasionally. Even from a white man.”

  “Reasonable?” Remo yelled. “Reasonable? That was perfect. That was perfection and I did it. If it wasn’t perfect, what was wrong? Tell me, what was wrong?”

  “It’s chilly in here. Let us go.”

  “Name one thing any Master of Sinanju could have done better.”

  “Show less pride because pride is flaw.”

  “I mean, up on the bar,” Remo persisted.

  “I see our friend is moving. See how well I kept my promise on his staying alive?”

  “Chiun, admit it. Perfection.”

  “Does my saying perfection make it perfection? If that is required, then the act itself was less than perfection. Therefore,” said Chiun with a high happy note in his voice,“I must say that it was less than perfect.”

  The circus owner groaned and rose to his feet.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “I decided not to try any tricks in the dark and climbed down,” Remo said.

  “You ain’t getting your money back. You rented the place. If you didn’t do your tricks, it ain’t my fault. Anyway, you’re lucky. Nobody ever did a four-somersault. Nobody.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Remo said.

  The circus owner shook his head. “What happened to me?”

  “One of your seats collapsed,” said Remo.

  “Where? Which one? They look good to me.”

  “This one over here,” said Remo, touching the metal bottom of the seat nearest to Chiun.

  When the circus owner saw the crack appear before his eyes, he attributed it to the fall he had taken. Otherwise he would have had to believe that this nut who’d chickened out on the high-wire tricks, had actually cracked the bottom of a metal seat with his hand. And he wasn’t about to believe that of anyone.

  Remo put on his street clothes over his dark tights, a pair of flared blue flannel pants and a clean blue shirt with just enough collar not to appear stodgy. His dark hair was trimmed short and his angular features were handsome enough to belong to a movie star. But the dark eyes said that this was not a movie star. The eyes did not communicate; they absorbed, and looking into them gave some people the uneasy feeling of staring into a cave. He was of average build and only his thick wrists belied any superior strength.

  “Didja forget your wristwatch?” asked the circus owner.

  “No,” said Remo. “I don’t wear one any more.”

  “Too bad,” said the owner. “Mine’s broken and I’ve got an appointment.”

  “It’s three forty-seven and thirty seconds,” said Remo and Chiun in unison. The owner looked puzzled.

  “You guys are kidding, right?”

  “Right,” said Remo.

  Seconds later, outside the tent, the owner was surprised to find that the time was three forty-eight. But the two men were not around to be asked how they could tell time without wristwatches. They were in a car on their way to a motel room on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas, zipping along a highway strewn with beer cans and the bodies of dogs—the victims of Texas drivers who believe head-on collisions are just another form of brakes.

  “Something is bothering you, my son,” said Chiun.

  Remo nodded. “I think I’m going to be on the wrong side.”

  Chiun’s frail parchment face became puzzled.

  “Wrong side?”

  “Yes, I think I’m going in on the wrong side this time.” His voice was glum.

  “What is a wrong side? Will you cease to work for Doctor Smith?”

  “Look, you know I can’t explain to you who we work for.”

  “I’ve never cared,” said Chiun.”What difference would it make?”

  “It does make a difference, dammit. Why do you think I do what I do?”

  “Because you are a pupil of the Master of Sinanju and you perform your assassin’s art because that is what you are. The flower gives to the bee and the bee makes honey. The river flows and mountains sit content and sometimes rumble. Each is what he is. And you, Remo, are a student in the House of Sinanju despite the fact that you are white.”

  “Dammit, Chiun, I’m an American, and I do what I do for other reasons. And now, they’ve told me to get up to a peak right
away, and then I find out I’m going in against the good guys.”

  “Good guys? Bad guys? Are you living in a fairy tale, my son? You sound like the little children yelling things in the street or your president on the picture box. Have you not learned of our teaching? Good guys, bad guys! There are killing points, nerve points, hearts and lungs and eyes and feet and hands and balance. There are no good guys and bad guys. If there were, would armies have to wear uniforms to identify themselves?”

  “You wouldn’t understand, Chiun.”

  “I understand that the poor of the village of Sinanju eat, because the Master of Sinanju serves a master who pays. The food of one tastes just as sweet as the food of another. It is food. You have not learned fully, but you will.” Chiun shook his head sadly. “I have given you perfection, as you demonstrated this afternoon, and now you act like a white man.”

  “So you admit it was perfect?”

  “What good is perfection in the hands of a fool? It is a precious emerald buried in a dung heap.”

  And with that, Chiun was silent, but Remo paid no attention to his silence. He was angry, almost as angry as he had been that day a decade before when he had recovered from his public execution, waking up in Folcroft Sanitarium on Long Island Sound.

  Remo Williams had been framed for a murder he did not commit, and then publicly executed in an electric chair that did not work. When he recovered, they told him that they had needed a man who did not exist to act as the killer arm for an agency set up outside the U.S. Constitution to preserve that Constitution from organized crime, revolutionaries, and from all who would overthrow the nation. The crime-fighting organization was CURE, and only four men knew of it: The President of the United States, Dr. Harold Smith, head of CURE, the recruiter, and now Remo. And the recruiter had killed himself to prevent himself from talking, telling Remo that “America is worth a life.” Then there were only three who knew.

  That was the moment when Remo decided to take the job. And for a decade, he thought he had long since buried the Remo Williams he used to be—a simple, foot-slogging patrolman on the Newark Police Force. It was so long ago that he had been a cop; and that cop had died in the electric chair.

  So Remo had thought… Until now. But now he realized that the policeman had not died in the electric chair. Patrolman Remo Williams still lived. His stomach told him. It was churning at the thought of his new assignment; having to kill fellow cops.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THERE WAS SOME QUESTION WHETHER Representative Francis X. Duffy, D-13th C.D., N.Y., could be buried in Church-sanctified ground. Suicides were not welcomed in holy ground, for to take one’s own life was a grave offense against God who had given that life.

  Yet, in the strictness of the Church was a humble demand for accuracy, a realistic knowledge of the limitations of man’s perceptions. What served as proof to the police department of Seneca Falls, N.Y., and the national news media, was hardly sufficient for the Church.

  There were powder burns on Francis Duffy’s temple. The paraffin test showed that his finger had pulled the trigger. The police said the bruises occurred when he fell. He had been despondent and drinking heavily. His closest friend, Inspector William McGurk of the New York City police department, told the Church in confidence that his friend had been drinking secretly for over a year, very heavily. He had become more paranoid as alcoholism progressed. McGurk also told this to the U.S. Attorney General who had asked that he keep their meeting quiet

  “Did he tell you about a suspected conspiracy?” asked the U.S. Attorney General.

  “Conspiracy?” asked McGurk, lifting an eyebrow in his round moon face.

  “Yes, conspiracy.”

  “Which one?”

  “You tell me, Inspector.”

  “Okay, he said the police were banding together to execute criminals and they were going to get him next because he knew about it. Farmers planned to burn him alive in his home because he was going to prove farm parity was a plot by Protestants to hurt Catholics. The Knights of Columbus had been taken over by the Mafia. The United Jewish Appeal had gained secret control over Alcoholics Anonymous in order to ruin the liquor industry or something, and that was why he couldn’t go to A.A. There was the doorman in his New York apartment building who reported on his empty bottles and was working for his political opponent. Sir, this is very unpleasant. Frank Duffy was my closest friend.”

  “Let’s talk about the police conspiracy, Inspector. What do you know about it?”

  “That he had launched an investigation.”

  “Did he give you any details?”

  “Yes. He had details for everything. It frightened me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he almost had me believing it.”

  “Tell me why you almost believed it, Inspector.”

  “Well, he listed a lot of deaths of underworld figures. And I knew one of them, Big Pearl Wilson. A ni… black pimp. Very cool. Very smart. I mean, there are a lot of intelligent black people.”

  “Yes, of course, go on.”

  “Well, Big Pearl took care of people if you know what I mean. Heavy vig. That means… ”

  “I know the terms of New York corruption,” the Attorney General said in a dry Arizona voice. “Go on.”

  “Well, who would want to kill Big Pearl? He was careful, smart. The cop theory really made sense.”

  “Excuse me, Inspector, Congressman Duffy told me he shared this information with no one. How did you get it?”

  McGurk smiled. “I’m his closest friend. He didn’t consider me someone.”

  The Attorney General nodded. His face was pitted like the drying desert after a hail storm.

  “About Big Pearl Wilson. Why you think he was killed?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I say the conspiracy theory almost seemed to make sense. Look. I don’t know if you’re allowed to do things like this but if you want, I’ll take a look into Big Pearl myself. To see if Frankie might have had something.”

  The Attorney General pondered the offer. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe Congressman Duffy was paranoid when he took his own life. Maybe he didn’t take his own life. I don’t know. But his story had that ring of truth to it. Do you know what I mean?”

  McGurk nodded. “I almost believed it too, and this was after the doorman, the farmers, the UJA and the Knights of Columbus.”

  “If Duffy was right, of all the police officers in the United States, you’re the only one I can be sure is not involved.”

  McGurk cocked an eyebrow. “How can you be sure? You just don’t know.”

  “I know. I’ve seen your records. I had you checked out. McGurk, they had notes in old OSS files that it was risky to send you and Duffy on missions together because you were too protective of him. I know you’re a rock-ribbed conservative. Duffy was a liberal. Yet, you two were like this,” said the Attorney General, squeezing two fingers together airtight. “Like this. Only a deep friendship can consider deep political convictions irrelevant. I know. And if you were in this conspiracy, if there is a conspiracy, well, I know Frank Duffy would be alive today.”

  McGurk swallowed. “I wish there were something like a police conspiracy. I wish there was someone who had killed him. Because then I could skin that scumbag alive. I mean it.”

  “Calm down, McGurk. I’m not issuing license for murder. But I want you to walk with me a very hard mile.”

  “Name it.”

  “Let’s assume a conspiracy exists. I want you to check out Big Pearl’s death quietly but completely. If there’s a conspiracy and you’re found out, you’ll be killed. Will you do it?”

  “For Frank Duffy, sir, I would die.”

  “You may have to, Inspector.” The Attorney General wrote down a telephone number. “Private. Leave no messages with my secretary.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “And Inspector. Let’s hope that everything Duffy imagined was the result of alcoholic paranoia, because your life isn’t worth a coyote�
�s poop if Duffy was right about this.”

  McGurk’s moon face broke into a slashing grin.

  “Why, you shit-kicking farmer, everything after World War II was gravy anyhow.”

  The Attorney General laughed and offered his hand. McGurk took it.

  Funny, thought the Attorney General, a man of such honesty and courage has the cold grip of a liar. Well, that disproved another Western saying: that you could tell a man by his handshake.

  The President, reviewing the confrontation that evening, was not impressed by the Attorney General’s actions.

  “Dammit, you’re not setting up a special police force in this administration. There are enough cuckoos running around here playing secret agent and I have to clean up after them. That goes for you. That goes for everyone.”

  “I think, Mr. President, that you’re being unreasonable in the face of such a clear and present danger.”

  “I’m being President of the United States. Our nation is sustained by laws. We will live within them.”

  “Sir, we’re dealing with something the law can’t handle.”

  “Well, it’s almost three-hundred years too late for that, isn’t it?”

  “You mean the Constitution, don’t you?”

  “I mean America. Good night. If you want to put that New York City policeman on your payroll, all right. But no secret people, secret vendettas, and secret espionage.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the Attorney General. ”Although an organization like that might not be a bad idea.”

  “Good night,” said the President. When the Attorney General had left the oval office, the President solemnly made his way through the White House to his bedroom. His wife was napping and he asked her apologetically to leave. She was a good trooper and she understood. A wife like her was a blessing greater than rubies. Old Testament. They must have had her in mind when they wrote the Good Book.

  In the top bureau drawer was the red phone. He dialed. The phone rang once.

  “Yes, sir,” came the voice.

  “Doctor Smith, there are some worrisome things happening. I am wondering if you people have not overstepped your bounds.”