Murder's Shield

by Warren Murphy

  The doorbell rang. Chiun moved quickly to the front door. “Do not move yourself, oh, good guy-bad guy. Your faithful servant will see who dares intrude upon your world of wit and wisdom.”

  Chiun moved through the living room, the formal dining room and into a small alcove, and opened the front door. A tall lean man with a stolid face stood there on the first step, looking down at Chiun.

  “Remo Bednick?” he asked.

  “Do I look like Remo Bednick?”

  “Call him. I want to see him.”

  “May I tell him who is calling?”

  “No.”

  “May I state your business?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you,” Chiun said. He closed the door tightly behind him and walked back inside.

  Remo was standing near the couch. “Who was it?” he asked.

  “No one of consequence,” Chiun said. “Come. The duck will get cold.”

  They sat in the kitchen, digging into the duck, Remo trying to hide his distaste.

  Both pretended not to hear the doorbell which brawked incessantly through the meal.

  Twenty minutes later, they sipped mineral water.

  “Well?” Chiun said.

  “The water’s great,” Remo said.

  Braaaawk.

  Remo held up his hand. “I’ll get the door this time. It might be someone who wants to steal your recipe for duck.”

  · · ·

  “I see somebody coming,” Kowalchyk hissed from the steps. “It don’t look like the chink.”

  “Okay,” came a voice from bushes alongside the house. “Everybody be ready.”

  “Right.”

  “Right.”

  Remo opened the door and tried not to laugh. The policeman stood there in plain clothes, his hand near his jacket pocket, slightly turned from Remo, ready to hop down the stairs and begin firing. How clumsy could you get? Remo was beginning to get annoyed with these graceless cops.

  “Yeah?”

  “Remo Bednick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come down here. I’ve got something to show you.”

  The cop headed down the stairs. Turning his back on Remo meant that he had help. The bushes. There was someone in the bushes. He listened for a moment. More than one. All right, Remo thought. He moved up close to Kowalchyk, moving with him, in time and in unison, making it impossible for his target to be separated from the policeman’s.

  At the bottom of the steps, the policeman turned. But Remo was right behind him, and he moved around the policeman, turning him again, and now stood facing his own house, using the cop as a shield between himself and the bushes.

  “What is it?” Remo asked.

  “Just this,” the cop said, pulling his hand from his jacket pocket. The hand had a gun attached. Remo heard a click, like a cricket. He heard pistols cock. The cop in front of him was trying to squeeze the trigger. Remo took the gun from him and cracked him alongside the temple with his elbow. The policeman crumpled and fell, and Remo went for the bushes in a rolling dive. Shots clipped around him.

  Chiun was right. Let yourself get annoyed and soon the shelves will be empty. There were police on both sides of him. Both sets of bushes. That’s what he got for being careless.

  There were two behind the bushes on the left and Remo was on them before they could spin and fire again. They dropped like a jumped-on soufflé as Remo moved into the two of them with knuckles and hands. Three down. One to go or more? Two shots skidded into the bushes near Remo. Then there was silence. He heard the breathing of only one man. Just one.

  Remo went up and over the bushes, across the walk and into the bushes on the other side, and slapped the gun away from the man crouched there.

  It was McGurk.

  He stood up and faced Remo. Slowly, sadly, he looked down toward the gun that lay at his feet.

  “Don’t try,” Remo said. “You’ll never make it.”

  Remo heard a groan behind him. It was the last dying gasp of the policeman on the walk. Remo felt sick.

  “These men cops?” he asked.

  “They were,” McGurk said.

  Remo hadn’t wanted this assignment. And now three policemen were dead. Three cops who probably thought they were doing America a service by getting rid of Remo Bednick, Mafia thug. No more. Remo would kill no more policemen. Chiun could, if he wished, make fun of good guys and bad guys, but there were good guys and bad guys. And cops were among the good guys, and Remo had once been one of them.

  So no more.

  He looked again at McGurk, who said, “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Aren’t you going to finish me?”

  “Not now. Why’d you come after me? I paid up. I didn’t get in your way.”

  “The girl.”

  “Janet O’Toole?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mean you got three cops killed because somebody got into her pants?”

  “Not just somebody. A mob punk.”

  “McGurk, you’re a bastard,” Remo said.

  “The colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady, Bednick. We’re both in the same racket. We just go different ways.”

  And then, because it seemed like a good way not to have to kill McGurk, Remo said, “And what if we could both go the same way?”

  McGurk paused; he was thinking; then he said carefully, “Like to have you aboard. You’ve got some talent.”

  “It’s how I make a living.”

  “I thought you were a gambler,” McGurk said.

  “No. I’m a hit man. And I pay well just so that I don’t get hassled by the bulls every time somebody loses a hubcap.”

  “Whatever you get, come with us and I’ll double it,” McGurk said.

  “How?” Remo asked. “By selling tickets to the policemen’s ball?”

  “Don’t worry about that, Bednick. We can afford you. We’ve been planning to get a pro in anyway.”

  McGurk, a moment ago, had been thinking.

  Now, Remo noticed, he was talking rapidly, forcefully. He had something in mind.

  “We? Who’s we?”

  McGurk grinned. “Me and my associates.”

  “Well, you’d better tell me about your associates,” Remo said.

  And there, behind a bush in Remo’s front yard, McGurk told him. About the forty cops around the country who now served as a killer squad, to mete out justice to those for whom the law’s justice had been ineffective. And he told him about the Men of the Shield, a national organization of policemen, that was going to fight crime and that could someday be the nation’s most powerful lobby.

  “Just think of it… nationwide power at the ballot… somebody who could work for law and order for real,” he said. A grin cracked his face. “If you come with us now, Bednick, you’ll be safe. If you don’t, the Men of the Shield will get you. Sooner or later.”

  “You the boss?” Remo asked.

  “As far as you’re concerned.” He stood looking at Remo, meeting his eyes straight on. Remo’s turn to think. Unless he wanted to kill McGurk, he’d have to go along. And he didn’t want to kill any more cops. And how could Smith complain if he infiltrated the organization? Isn’t that what he was supposed to do?

  “You got a deal, McGurk,” Remo said. “But one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “The girl is mine. You never had a chance with her anyway. You listened to what those long skirts told you, and didn’t pay any attention to what those tight blouses said. She’s mine.”

  McGurk shrugged. “She’s yours.”

  He picked up his revolver and slid it back into his holster. Later, leaving the yard, he was glad he had decided not to shoot the punk with the small .25-caliber pistol he had also stashed in his pocket.

  McGurk had a better plan now for Remo—one that would solve his problems with the leadership of the Men of the Shield and with Janet O’Toole. He would learn no more about the Men of the Shield than would be necessary for him to die.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE POLICEMAN LUNGED, WAVING the knife before him. Remo stepped aside and brought the heel of his hand, down on the wrist to which the knife was attached. The knife fell onto the wooden platform with a clank.

  Remo moved in and grabbed the policeman’s hand in his. He pressed the man’s fingers into his hand and the man screeched and dropped to his knees in submission.

  Remo released him and turned and looked away to the three other policemen sitting on the edge of the stage. He opened his own hand and extended it forward for the men to see. In his palm was a six-inch-long piece of highly polished wood, shaped roughly like a dog’s bone.

  “This is it,” Remo said. “The yawara stick. The quickest way I know to cause pain.”

  “Why that?” The question came from one of the policemen sitting on the stage. He stood up and repeated it. “Why that? Why not a toe in the balls or a fist in the kidneys? There are a lot of ways to cause pain.”

  “That’s right,” Remo said. “There are a lot of ways and most of them stink. If you hit the guy too square in the cubes, they’ll have to cart him off in an ambulance. Pound his kidney too hard, and he’ll be riding a hearse. That’s assuming you don’t just miss and he doesn’t smack the crap out of you. But in close, the yawara stick can’t miss. You just grab his hand, squeeze the ball of his thumb up against one of these knobs, and that’s it. That’s because the nerves of the hands are so sensitive to pain. Pain, but no injury. That’s why.”

  The policeman who was standing shrugged. He was a tall rawboned cop from St. Louis with flaming red hair and a jutting jaw and an absolute absence of humor. He shrugged as if to say “chickenshit bullshit,” and then said, “Chickenshit bullshit. It worked ’cause you had him.”

  “Look, pal. Why don’t you just take it on faith? I’m your training officer. That’s why McGurk has me here.”

  “Training officer or no training officer. You keep your funny little piece of wood. I’ll settle for a right cross anytime.”

  “All right,” Remo said, walking up close to the man. “Let’s see the right cross.”

  Without warning, the policeman swung, a short hard right hand at Remo’s nose. The fist would have gone through wood, but it had no chance to prove it. Remo grabbed the fist in the air with his left hand. He brought his right hand over and pressed one of the bumps on the yawara stick down upon the back of the policeman’s hand. His fingers opened wide and Remo pressed the stick against the base of the thumb, and the cop screeched with pain.

  “Enough, enough,” he yelled.

  Remo kept pressing. “You a believer now?”

  “Yes. I’m a believer.”

  “Oh no, not just a believer. Are you a true believer?”

  “I is the truest believer.”

  “All right,” Remo said, releasing his hand after one final squeeze. “Now cut out the ‘chickenshit bullshit’ and try to learn something.”

  So it went for the better part of the day, Remo—now McGurk’s training officer—teaching the four policemen to defend themselves, to use force, to learn how to use that force to get information. He had been instructed by McGurk not to get into killing; these men were going to be investigators for the Men of the Shield when it “went public.” They just had to be toughened.

  It was boring work, lessons that Remo had mastered years ago in those first sessions with Chiun at Folcroft. Remo wondered why police departments spent all those federal funds buying tanks and foam sprayers and water cannons, none of which they ever used, instead of hiring somebody to teach their policemen to be effective. Maybe he and Chiun could incorporate. Go to work for the general public. Assassins Inc. Put an ad in the Village Voice. Defend yourself. Hassle a pig. They’d be rich. Chiun would be ecstatic. Think of all the money he could send back to Sinanju.

  No, on the other hand, there was probably some reason why he couldn’t do it. Some five-hundred year-old proverb would make it impossible for Chiun to advertise in the Voice or to work for anyone except a government. Official assassins cannot work unofficially. That’s that.

  Another good idea shot to hell.

  The training session lasted from 9:00 a.m. until noon. Occasionally, Remo saw McGurk stick his head out of the office in the rear of the big gym and watch Remo perform on the stage that had been erected in front of the firing dummy. McGurk would just watch, saying nothing, occasionally nodding in satisfaction, before pulling his head back inside.

  It was close to lunchtime when Janet stuck her head out of the office. She moved into the doorway, wild and ripe in a short leather skirt and tight white sweater, and she crooked an imperious finger at Remo, directing him to her and Remo said, “Okay, men, that’s enough for now. A long lunch and be back at two o’clock.”

  “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.”