Coin of the Realm td-77

by Warren Murphy

  "This is ridiculous," Remo said for the twelfth or thirteenth time as he examined the monstrosity that lay on the ground.

  All nine octopus men had been joined into one huge octopus man. Remo had been harangued into retrieving the group he had knocked into the water. They had been easy to handle because they had stiffened into position from the effects of the poison darts.

  But the others had to be reassembled one by one and their limbs set and then broken so they were locked into place. Chiun had done that. He knew how to crush bone and joints so that they fused.

  "Now what? As if I can't guess," Remo asked.

  "Take your end. I will take mine."

  "On a count of three," Remo said, bending down. "One, two, three. Lift!"

  The bamboo pole groaned, but it held. The bodies hung off it like slaughtered chickens. Tongues lolled. Some of the eyes stared glassily.

  "Now, carefully," Chiun said, "back to the palace."

  "The mighty hunters return, huh?"

  "Say nothing about the blowgun," Chiun said in a sour voice.

  They trudged down to the water, sloshing inland and through the jungle. Dead Moovian heads bounced like overripe fruit. They stopped to pick up the other bodies they had vanquished along the way, piling them unceremoniously atop the others. When they neared the village, Chiun suddenly called a halt.

  "Lay it down," he ordered.

  "Tired, Little Father?" Remo asked solicitously.

  "Do not be ridiculous," Chiun countered, joining Remo in front of their burden. "I am reigning Master. To me goes the honor of entering the village first."

  "Oh," said Remo. "I guess that means the back of the bus for me." And without another word he took Chiun's place at the end of the bamboo pole.

  When they entered the village outskirts, Chiun began to call out in a loud singsong voice.

  "Arise, O children of Moo. See what Sinanju has brought you. No longer need you fear the darkness. For the last of the spawn of Sa Mansang, known to you as Ru-Taki-Nuhu, has been vanquished! Arise, O children of Moo, to greet a new day and a golden era."

  The children were the first to poke their heads out of the grass huts. Then the adults. Runners were sent to the palace, and Chiun smiled.

  Amazed voices lifted at the sight of the round red sucker marks that decorated Remo's chest and arms. "Ru-Taki-Nuhu!" they whispered. "The white one has fought Ru-Taki-Nuhu and lives!"

  When they at last came to the feast circle in front of the Royal Palace, the High Moo stood waiting with folded arms. His daughter hovered at his side.

  Red Feather Guards stepped forward as Remo and Chiun set down their burden. They poked and stabbed at the corpses with spears, seeking signs of life.

  "All are dead," one reported to the High Moo. The High Moo strode up to the Master of Sinanju. "You have brought me twelve kills, and twelve is the number the traitor of a royal priest swore served Ru-Taki-Nuhu. The octopus cult is no more. You have lived up to your word, Master of Sinanchu and have earned the full fee due to you."

  "Payable on demand," said Chiun.

  "I will be glad to store it for you in the royal treasure house for the length of your stay," the High Moo suggested.

  "And I accept," Chiun said with a quick bow.

  "The full hospitality of Moo is yours."

  "My ... slave and I are weary. We have had a long journey and ate much this evening. We require rest. A few hours only."

  "Come, rooms have been prepared in my palace. Dolla-Dree, show Remo to his room. I will escort the Master of Sinanchu to his quarters personally."

  "Hello again," Remo said when the Low Moo came to take him by the arm.

  "Will you tell me how you vanquished them before you sleep?" she asked, admiring the red marks on his arms.

  "Sure," Remo said.

  "Do not believe all he says," Chiun warned. "He will try to take more credit than is his due."

  "No, I won't," Remo said, winking at the Low Moo. "Chiun helped. Some."

  And Remo hurried into the palace ahead of Chiun's flurry of invective.

  Chapter 21

  It was raining when Dr. Harold W. Smith's flight landed at Boston's Logan Airport.

  He waited ten minutes at the underground exit of Terminal B for a free MBTA bus to the Blue Line subway stop. He rode the rattling train five stops to Government Center, walked upstairs, and switched to a Green Line trolley, riding it one stop to Park Street. The rain had tapered off to a sullen sprinkle when Smith emerged on the corner of Tremont and Park streets at the edge of Boston Common. He walked down Tremont.

  The office of Michael P. Brunt was above an antiquarian bookstore on West Street. Trudging up the dingy steps, Smith found an empty reception room.

  He stood for a moment, uncertainly clutching his briefcase. He wiped rainwater off his rimless glasses. He cleared his throat.

  The inner door opened and a square-faced man built along the lines of a refrigerator in a blue serge suit poked his unshaven chin out.

  "You Mr. Brown?" he demanded.

  "Yes," Smith lied.

  "You look more like Mr. Gray. But come in anyway. Sorry about the secretary. I sent her out for some bullets. I kinda ran out on my last case."

  The office was cluttered, Smith noticed, as he entered. Papers overflowed a wastepaper basket. The window was a film of grime that looked out over row of graying buildings so nondescript they might have been painted on the glass by an indifferent artist.

  Mike Brunt dropped behind his desk. His wooden chair squeaked loudly. The set looked as if it had once seen service in a high school. He leaned back and set sizethirteen brogans on the desktop, showing Smith the color of his left sock through a hole in the sole. It was white. On the wall behind him was a framed cloth saying: "When in Doubt, Punt, Bunt, or Shoot to Kill." It was done in needlepoint.

  "I will come right to the point," Smith said, seating himself primly on a vinyl chair, his briefcase on his knees.

  "I don't charge for the initial consultation," Brunt said, running a toothpick under his nails. He made a little pile of grayish ash on the desktop. "Unless you hire me. Then I try to sneak it into the expense sheet somewhere." He grinned disarmingly.

  "Yes. Well, I have a matter that only someone in your profession can handle."

  "You got the crime, I got the time," Brunt sang.

  "I have had an important personal item stolen from my home. I know who stole it and I know where this person lives."

  "And you want it back?"

  "Yes. It is quite important to me. The police say they can do nothing. My suspicions aren't enough for them to question the man."

  "Okay, I'll bite. What's missing? The family jewels? Gorbachev's birthmark? The Bermuda Triangle?"

  Smith hesitated, wondering if he shouldn't feign a weak smile. He decided not. He was growing uncomfortable with this man, who seemed to take nothing seriously. Doesn't he want work? Smith's computers had spit out his name as one of the least prosperous private investigators in the Northeast. Certainly such a man would be desperate for clients.

  "It's a tea service," Smith said at last.

  Brunt cocked a skeptical eye at Smith. "A tea service?" he said dryly.

  "Sterling. It's been in my family for over a hundred years. It has great sentimental value."

  "At my prices, you'd be better off switching to coffee."

  "It's an heirloom," Smith said stubbornly.

  "Takes all kinds," Mike Brunt said laconically.

  "The man's name is James Churchward. He lives at 334 Larchwood Place in Rye, New York. I happen to know he is away on vacation this week, but I do not know where. This would be the ideal time to search his house for my property. I have taken the liberty of writing out a check for your usual one-day fee." Smith started to rise, the check in hand.

  "Whoa! Did I say I was taking this case?"

  "No. But it is not a difficult task. A simple break-in."

  "Break-ins are illegal."

  "Yes, I know. But I ha
ve nowhere else to turn. And I understood that people in your ... ah ... profession do this type of work all the time."

  "Yeah, but that doesn't mean Mike Brunt stoops that low. Hey, you may not know it from his office, but I have scruples. Somewhere. Maybe in that filing cabinet. Under C, if I know my secretary."

  "Well, then, I won't waste any more of your time," Smith said, starting to rise again.

  Mike Brunt put up a hamlike hand.

  "Slow down, sport. Let's see the color of your money." Smith passed over the check. Brunt examined it.

  "A money order?" he said doubtfully.

  "Naturally I do not want to give you anything that could be traced back to me."

  "This must not be the first time someone walked off with your teapot. You really ought to hide it when company comes." Brunt took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Okay. So what happens if I'm arrested?"

  "I will take care of you in that eventuality."

  "Connected, huh? I had you figured for Mafia the minute you walked in."

  "I have political connections," Smith said testily.

  "This is a lot of potential fuss for a lousy tea service."

  "It has sentimental value," Smith repeated, thinking that perhaps he should have made up something more elaborate than a tea service. But anything too valuable might tempt a man such as Brunt to consider pilfering the house of other valuables.

  "That so? Come on, Brown. Spill it. Nobody lays down cash in advance over a tea service. What's in it? Diamonds? Gold? Is the exact location of Blackbeard's treasure worked into the filigree? You can tell me. The office cockroaches have taken a vow of silence."

  "It is a tea service," Smith repeated stiffly. "And if you are not interested in the matter, we are wasting each other's time."

  "Tell you what, Brown. I'll take this little caper. Strictly for chuckles, you understand. Maybe I'll get lucky and your friend will come back while I'm in the house."

  "Why would that be lucky?" Smith asked, his voice filling with horror.

  Just then the outer door banged open and the click of high heels announced the entrance of Michael Brunt's secretary. A thirtyish blonde in a beehive hairdo stuck her head in the office.

  "Here you go, shamus," she said, tossing a box onto the bare desk. Mike Brunt grabbed it and shook it apart. Shiny brass cartridges spilled over the desktop like wayward marbles.

  Michael Brunt unholstered a worn .38 revolver and began stuffing slugs into the cylinder. When he was done, he answered Smith's question with a cracked grin.

  "Maybe I'll get into a shoot-out."

  "You wouldn't," Smith croaked.

  "Suuuure, he would," the secretary said wryly, closing the door.

  "Perhaps I should see someone else," Smith began. "I do not want any unnecessary complications. This must be done in such a way that the homeowner is unaware of the entry."

  "Too late, pal," Mike Brunt said, pulling open a desk drawer and plunking a bottle of Old Mister Boston in front of his face. Two shot glasses came up next. "I've already spent your money. Why don't we just drink a toast to our new business relationship."

  "No, thank you," Smith said. "I must be going. The number at which I can be reached is on the check."

  "Good," said Michael Brunt, pulling the top off with his teeth and spitting it onto the desk. "I hate drinking with clients. It usually means less booze for me." He then proceeded to drink straight from the bottle. When he was done, he belched.

  Smith left the office feeling very ill. It was raining when he got out on the street. It was a three-block walk back to the subway, and Smith hunched his shoulders against the rain. Taxis drove by in each direction, but Smith disdained them. A cab would cost several dollars, and the subway ride back to the airport, even with two changes, was only sixty cents.

  Chapter 22

  Remo woke to a strange rustling sound.

  "Arise, you lazy slugabed," a familiar squeaky voice said. And Chiun entered the room.

  "Did someone steal your clothes?" Remo asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "Or have you just gone native?"

  Chiun puffed up his thin chest. "You do not like this gift from the High Moo?" He spread his skirts. They were made of rattan strips woven together with vegetable fiber. He wore a blouse of rough-weave wheat-colored cotton over it. Belled sleeves copied from his kimono design rounded out the ensemble.

  "It's a new you," Remo said, sitting up on his bed mat. He pulled on his stiff trousers. He left his rag of a T-shirt. "What time is it?"

  "Time passes differently on Moo, but you have slept nearly six hours. Are you ill?"

  "No," Remo said evasively. "I just felt like sleeping."

  "We are summoned to the Shark Throne. Come." Remo reached for his shoes, then realized that he had left them back at the Grove of Ghosts. He pulled on his socks. They would do for now. When he stood up, he noticed his fingernails were even longer than before, almost twice as long as he remembered from the previous night. He rubbed his face. He needed a shave too. He reminded himself to ask Chiun about getting the Moovian equivalent of a barber.

  Bare-chested, Remo followed Chiun down a maze of stone corridors to a central room.

  Guards stood outside the open door, on the inside, and at every corner of the room, Remo saw as he entered. Chiun bowed before the High Moo, who sat on his low Shark Throne. The Low Moo sat to his right, on an even lower stool. There was an empty stool on the left that Remo assumed belonged to the late royal priest.

  "My Red Feather Guard has returned from scouring the island," said the High Moo without preamble. "Emboldened by the trophy you have laid at my feet, they even ventured into the Grove of Ghosts. They found no living men, there or anywhere else. I hereby proclaim today the Dawn of the Era Without Octopus Worshipers."

  "Sinanju is pleased to serve," Chiun said simply.

  "Full payment will be tendered to you upon your leave-taking of Moo. A leave-taking I and my daughter beg is not soon."

  "I have not discussed this with Remo as yet," Chiun said.

  "Actually, we can't stay long," Remo said in Moovian. The High Moo frowned. The Low Moo gasped.

  "What Remo means," Chiun inserted hastily, "is that we have responsibilities elsewhere. Other clients. None so generous as you, of course. But it does not mean that we cannot pass the span of, say, one moon on Moo."

  "So be it," said the High Moo, mollified. "The full moon saw the end of the octopus cult. The next moon will see your going-unless you change you mind before then."

  "All things are possible on Moo," Chiun said, bowing.

  "Have you any requests?"

  "My son has not yet breakfasted. I would like to prepare for him his favorite. I will need lemons and eggs."

  "And I could do with something for my nails and beard," Remo added, showing his hands.

  Chiun looked at Remo's hands curiously.

  "You should have cut them before we left America," he said under his breath.

  "I thought I did," Remo shot back.

  And Chiun allowed himself a tiny smile of satisfaction. They were in the royal dining room, a roofless cubicle in one corner of the palace, when a steaming kettle of egg-lemon soup was brought in by a topless cook. Remo was relieved to see it wasn't the old woman from the feast this time, but a comely maiden.

  He said, "Ola." The girl smiled shyly and began to fill a wooden bowl.

  Another girl came in with a handful of objects. Remo saw a couple of bone knives and a fist-size stone.

  "What's this stuff?" he asked, tasting the soup.

  "You asked for these," the girl replied, kneeling at his feet. She took one of Remo's hands and examined the nails critically. The cook took one of the other knives and approached Remo from the other side.

  "Looks like I'm in for the Moovian version of a shave and manicure," Remo said, pushing his soup aside.

  Chiun frowned. "Do not forget your soup," he said evenly, pushing the bowl back under Remo's nose.

  "It can wait," Remo said, ey
es on the sinuous bodies hovering over him. They smelled nice too, he noticed. Like coconuts.

  "No," Chiun said suddenly. "The other thing can wait. Shoo, shoo!" he said to the maidens. "Come back later. My son has fought a hard battle and needs to replenish his strength. "

  The native girls fled the room on bare feet. "Hey! What's with you?" Remo demanded.

  "You must eat first. Keep up your strength."

  "I like to set my own priorities," Remo growled, his unhappy face watching the girls scurry down the corridor.

  "Eat," said Chiun.

  Reluctantly Remo started in on the soup. After a few tastes he was greedily devouring it, the girls of Moo forgotten.

  "I can't seem to get enough of this stuff," he said.

  "I will tell the hens to continue laying," Chiun said blandly, "so that you do not run out for the duration of our stay here."

  "We can't stay here a whole month," Remo protested.

  "We are due a vacation. This will be it."

  "What if Smith needs us?"

  "Then he can summon us, as always."

  "How? There aren't any phones here."

  "How is that my fault?" Chiun squeaked. "According to my contract, I am permitted to vacation where I will. Nowhere does it say that the Master of Sinanju is obligated to call ahead to see if there are telephones at his chosen retreat. Besides, I did not know the number of the High Moo."

  "Smith is going to be very upset," Remo cautioned.

  "Let him be upset. If he complains, I will tell him that he is not the only worthy emperor in the world. He has a rival, the High Moo."

  "I don't think he'll appreciate that. And what happens after the thirty days?"

  "Who can say?" Chiun said mischievously. "Thirty days is a long time from now. We live in an uncertain world. Anything is possible. Moo sank once. Perhaps America will be next. Then you will thank me for bringing you to this lovely land."

  "Dream on," said Remo, starting in on his second bowl. After he was done, Remo said, "Okay, call back the girls."

  "For what?"

  "For these," Remo said, showing his nearly half-inchlong nails.

  Chiun took Remo's hands in his. "If you let them grow, soon they will curve inward like mine."

  "Not interested," Remo snapped, withdrawing his hands.