Remo grunted.
"And then an assignment came to him from across the sea in Mongolia, and even though Tung-Si the Lesser would rather have stayed in the village, he went on the mission. And never returned," said Chiun.
Remo drummed his fingers on the side window of the cab. St. Louis was ugly. When he had been a young cop in Newark, he had been a pretty good drinker, and since then, looking at cities all over the world, he wondered if city people drank more than country folk in plain response to the ugliness of their environment. Did a drink help you to put up with the ugliness of a city? Then St. Louis would take a barrelful. Two hundred proof. And Newark?
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His Newark? An ocean of booze. Grain alcohol. Swim in it.
"And he never returned," Remo mumbled.
"He went off to far-off Mongolia," Chiun said.
Remo sighed. "And there he met the people who lived with fire and the fire consumed him and he never came back and that was the end of Tung-Si the Lesser, not to be confused with Tung-Si the .Greater. Or even with Tung-Si the Medium," said Remo.
"None of this is funny," Chiun said. "When you are sizzling and splattering suet drops on the floor, you will hope that you listened."
"Sorry," said Remo.
"At any rate, in Mongolia, Tung-Si the Lesser met the people who lived with fire and the fire consumed him and he did not return. But a message did and it told of a battle between the Master and a boy who could create fire out of the air without flame, without fuel, without tapers. And this young boy had been laying waste the countryside, because what else is there to do in Mongolia? And when the Master went to stop him, as was his mission, he was burned by the boy. But he knew of the danger the boy could bring to the people of Sin-anju and so, despite his pain, he lingered long enough to write the message to the village and to the Master who would succeed him."
The cab driver pulled to a stop. "Geez, that's a beautiful story," he said.
"Why don't you ride with him?" Remo said. "I can walk."
"We're here," the cabbie said. He pointed to police barricades on the corner by Barlin's Sports Emporium.
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'Tip this man well," Chiun ordered Remo. "I will finish this tale later."
The fire was out and although it had been water-soaked and gutted, the building still stood. Remo's interference had stopped Sparky from incinerating the building to nothing.
Policemen stood guard outside the building. Water still dribbled from upstairs windows and out from under the doors.
Remo led Chiun through an alley, and they slipped to the rear of the building and then inside through an open door.
"Where did he stand?" Chiun asked in a whisper.
"He was here," Remo said. He pointed to a spot on the old wood floor. Chiun bent down and touched the floor with his fingers. Remo had not had a chance to notice it before, but there were two footprints branded into the floor, as if by hot irons.
"And where were you?" Chiun asked.
Remo backed away about a dozen feet. "I was here."
Chiun turned, as if gauging the distance from himself to Remo.
"And he produced flames across this distance?"
Remo nodded. When he looked down again, he saw the almost perfectly circular ring of fire around where he had stood, where Sparky had started fire after fire. Above him, the beams of the ceiling were visible, charred black and flaking charcoal.
"Let us leave," Chiun said. Without waiting for Remo, he walked out through the shattered front glass of the door. Remo walked out behind him.
Two policemen on duty saw them and spun,
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their right hands at their sides, their fingers creeping toward their holsters.
Remo rubbed his eyes.
"Hey, you," the first cop called. "Where you been?"
"We were sleeping," Remo said. "There a fire here?"
"Sure was. Where were you?"
"In the back apartment," Remo said. "We musta slept right through it." As he spoke, he and Chiun kept walking past the policemen toward the corner, where Remo had parked bis rental car earlier that day.
"You're lucky you didn't get hurt," one of the policeman said.
"You betcha," Remo said. "I'm hauling my butt tomorrow to a lawyer. Sue the ass off that landlord. You two can be my witnesses."
Remo's suggestion had the effect he expected. The two cops turned away at the threat that they might spend untold hours in court, without pay, as witnesses. "Naaaah," one said. "Don't sue," the other said.
Remo and Chiun turned the corner. Behind them, the policemen looked at each other. After a few seconds, the small, fat one said, "They couldn't have stayed in there without being found. The firemen went through every apartment."
The second cop nodded. "And if they were in an apartment, how come they came out the door of the store? Maybe they were the ones who set the fire. . . ."
The fat one snapped bis fingers. "You know, for a change, you're probably right.''
They ran toward the corner. When they turned it,
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Remo and Chiun had gone. They could hear the accelerating roar of a car's motor a block away. They started running, but the car's sound vanished as the vehicle drove off.
Chiun sat in the passenger seat with his arms folded.
"So what did you learn?" Remo asked.
"It is as I feared," Chiun said. "A young boy. The power to create flame from his own body. Untouchable. Unreachable. It is very bad."
"You saying this has something to do with Tung-Si?" Remo asked.
'The Lesser. Yes. The message he sent back to our people while he was dying told of such a boy. The Master told how, when he was burned, he had put the curse of Sinanju upon the boy. And the boy laughed, and he told Tung-Si the Lesser, 'And upon all the Masters of Sinanju, I put míj curse and my children's children will put their curses.' "
"Come on, Chiun. You don't believe in that. You don't believe in curses."
"I believe in history," Chiun said.
"So what's history?"
"History is the rest of the Master's message. He told of the boy's curse. And the boy said that someday, a young boy of the line of fire people would meet the youngest Master of Sinanju. It would be a battle to the death. And the line of Sinanju would end forever."
Remo took his eyes off the street and glanced over toward Chiun. "He's just a kid," he said.
"And you are the youngest Master of Sinanju," Chiun said, looking stonily ahead.
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CHAPTER TEN
Remo let Smith know very clearly that this did not mean he was coming back to work for CURE. That part of his life was in the past, back before he realized what a nice guy he was, but just to show his niceness, he was going to give Smith and CURE a chance to do something good for America by letting them help dispose of the firebugs, Solly and Sparky.
"In other words, you're stumped," Smith said.
"I need some resource help," Remo said, annoyed with his own transparency.
"About what?"
"About people who can set their bodies on fire and then use them to set other things on fire," Remo said. Even as he said it, he realized how unbelievable it sounded. Smith confirmed his judgment.
"That's unbelievable," Smith said.
"Believe it," Remo said. "There are more things in heaven and earth than you ever thought about . . ."
". . . Horatio," Smith completed, "and you messed up the quote. Are you serious?"
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T
"Deadly," Remo said. "I saw it I got burned myself."
"I don't know then," Smith said. "I'll try to find out something. Where can I reach you?"
Suddenly, Remo was suspicious. Smith was stalling to find out where Remo was. "I'll call you," Remo said.
"That's not sensible," Smith said. "You're in a hurry, I take it."
"Yes."
"Well, suppose I have several people who know something about this. At least let me pick the one that
's closest to where you are."
"You do that," Remo said.
"I can't if I don't know where you are."
"Try the Midwest," Remo said, pleased at his cleverness.
"Just where in St. Louis are you?" Smith asked.
"Dammit, Smitty, how'd you know that?"
"I've taken to reading fire reports. There was a fire in St. Louis last night that fit the pattern."
Remo gave him the name of his hotel.
"I'll be back to you as soon as I can." Smith promised.
Remo felt vaguely foolish waiting for the para-psychologist at St. Louis University. He had always regarded parapsychology as kids' games for people with education. In America, university parapsy-chologists, after what they claimed were controlled laboratory tests, had certified that horses could count and read minds, that unsuccessful Israeli magicians could bend keys and start broken watches with waves sent out over the television set, when almost anyone could start a broken watch by carry-
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ing it to a television set. Just jarring it by carrying it was enough to start most broken watches, since most of them weren't broken anyway, but had just been overwound.
Remo regarded parapsychology as not much different from psychiatry, except that when you were wrong, no one committed suicide.
He was expecting a little old lady in Earth shoes, carrying a tarot deck, a divining rod, and a headset to listen to the heavenly voices. What he got was a tall, lissome redhead, with the kind of face that would make the heavenly voices wait on line to talk to her.
She smiled at him warmly and waved for him to follow her back into her office.
The woman stood behind her desk. "Won't you sit down?" she told Remo. She was wearing a violet jersey dress, and it clung to her body as if it had developed an attachment for her flesh which, Remo decided, was no difficult matter. The woman's voice was soft, with the musical hint of a laugh in it.
"I'm Doctor Ledore," she said. "I have been told by a scientific foundation in New York City, which provides us with some research funds, that I am to be helpful to you. I am not to ask you any questions. Those are my instructions." She smiled at Remo. "So, of course, I'll violate them. I'm interested in knowing who you are."
"Maybe your ouija board will tell you," Remo said. He realized by the sudden disappearance of her smile that that was not a terribly bright or witty thing to say. "Just kidding," he said lamely.
"Yes," she said. "What is on your mind?"
What was on Remo's mind was Doctor Ledore's
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fine chest. He hesitated a moment before remembering what he had wanted to say. "I'm interested in people who are able to set their bodies afire and use them as a torch to set other objects afire," he said.
"Have you ever heard of SHC?" she asked. She sat down behind her desk.
"Yeah, you put it in your car so it stops burning oil," Remo said.
"Not exactly," she said.
"SHC stands for spontaneous human combustion," she said. She rose from her seat and walked around the front of the desk. She was close enough for Remo to touch, and he could smell the faint woodsy scent of her perfume. He felt as if she were doing some spontaneous combustion of his body. He looked at her bosom, soft and full in her clinging dress.
"Pay attention," she said sharply, and Remo looked up to see her face. Her words were sharp, but her face was smiling.
"SHC is just what it sounds like," she explained. "A human body burns without apparent cause, and the fire feeds on itself."
Remo shook his head. "That sounds like nonsense," he said.
She walked to a book shelf and pulled down a thick book. "Here's a book on forensic medicine and toxicology," she said. "It was published in 1973, not in the dark ages." She flipped through the book, then handed it over to Remo. There were three pictures of burned human bodies. The caption underneath them said, "Almost total tissue destruction with little involvement of the surroundings."
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Í
He nodded and looked up. She said, "SHC isn't some myth, Mister . . . what is your name?"
"Remo."
"It's not a myth, Remo. It's a scientific fact that it happens, but no one knows why. There was a case in Florida almost thirty years ago. Someone went into a woman's apartment. The place was superheated, but there was only one little burn mark on the ceiling. But directly under the place where the flame was seen, firemen found what was left of a body. Ashes, a bone or two and a shrunken skull. Newspapers a foot away from the body weren't even yellowed by the heat, but in the bathroom, a plastic toothbrush had been melted. They investigated it for two years. It's still listed as 'death due to fire of unknown origin.'" She took the book from Remo and returned it to the shelf. He liked to watch her walk. Her legs were long and curvy, and her hair sparkled under the overhead fluorescent lighting.
"It's not nonsense, Remo. It happens. It's happened down through the ages, and we don't know any more about it today than we did then."
She returned to her position in front of him, leaning back against her desk. Arching backward, her pelvis was thrust out toward Remo.
He had to force himself to concentrate on business. "It's interesting," Remo said, "but it's not what I saw ... I mean, what I'm looking into."
"Which is?"
"Somebody able to ignite his own body, use it as a flamethrower to set other objects afire, then to cool his body down and walk off, without damage to or injury to himself."
"You saw this?"
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"Let's just say I know about it," Remo said. She shook her head. "I've never heard of it," she said. She looked at Remo, and excitement glowed on her face. "Never." "Trust me," Remo said. "It happens." She pursed her lips in concentration, and Remo wanted to kiss her. She looked off into space, and he wished she were looking at him.
She raised a finger as if trying to use it to find something. "Maybe . . ." she said. "Let me look." She walked quickly back to the bookshelves. As Remo watched the smooth, flowing lines of her hips and back and thighs, she pooched around from book to book on the long wooden shelf. "Got it," she said. She spun around. Her eyes were electrified.
She held the book open. "This is a book of pseudo-scientific mythology," she said. "Legends, strange reports, never nailed down by scientists. Here's one. It concerns a small group known as fire children. An oral legend thousands of years old. They were able to use their bodies as torches. Apparently, the power was passed from father to son. They laid waste the countryside . . ." "In Mongolia," Remo interrupted. She looked up from the book sharply. "Yes. That's correct. How did you know that?"
"I've heard the legend," Remo said. "From the source."
'Then you know as much as I do." She snapped the book closed. "You've really made this day interesting, Remo," she said. She put the book on the desk behind her.
He stood up to face her. "I could make it more interesting," he said. He met her eyes and smiled.
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"What exactly did you have in mind?" she said.
"I do parlor tricks," Remo said. "I have extrasensory perception. I can call every one of your little ESP cards without a mistake. Do you love me yet?"
"No. But I could learn to. Can you really do that with the Rhine cards?"
"Sure," said Remo, who wasn't sure what the Rhine cards were.
"We'll see," she said. She took a deck of cards from her desk drawer.
"I've got to warn you," Remo said. "I'm a gambler, and I can only do it when something worthwhile is at stake. What are you willing to risk?" He allowed himself to look at her bosom again.
Doctor Ledore laughed. "I'm sure you'll think of something," she said.
"Yes, I'm sure I will," said Remo. She showed Remo the deck of cards. There were twenty-five cards. Their backs were plain white. On the fronts were either circles, crosses, stars, squares, or wavy lines.
"Look at them," she said. "Five of each kind of marking. Twenty-five cards in all."
"Right,"
said Remo. "Twenty-five."
"Now, if you were just to guess what a card was, by chance, you'd average five right out of twenty-five. If your score is substantially higher than that, then maybe—just maybe—you have ESP. You want to test?"
"Sure," said Remo. "Shoot."
She shuffled the deck, turned her back to Remo, and laid the twenty-five cards out in a line across her desk.
She turned back.
"Before you start," Remo said, "One thing."
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"What?"
"Lock your office door. And tell your secretary no calls."
Doctor Ledore laughed again. She had a free, easy laugh that seemed to find humor where there was no humor. Remo had always found it the mark of the happy person.
But she did as Remo said, then came back and sat behind the desk. She took a pencil and paper.
"All right," she said. "You start from the left and tell me what you think the cards are."
"Am I allowed to touch the backs?" Remo said.
"You can if you wish," the parapsychologist said. "But I wish you wouldn't."
"Why?"
"Because you might be doing some kind of sleight of hand. Touching one card and peeking at another. Misdirecting me."
"Do I look like I'd misdirect you?" Remo said.
"Yes," she said.
"All right, then, I won't touch them." It was still easy. If Remo had been able to touch them, he would have been able to feel through his fingertips the slight impressions that the printing process had made on the thick cards. Not allowed to touch them, he would have to do it by eye.
He moved his chair to the end of the row of cards, so he could look down the entire row. He narrowed his field of vision, until his gaze was virtually tunneled down a narrow tube, ending at the back of the cards. He cleared his mind, to avoid outside influences, even though he found it hard to clear his mind of the scent of Dr. Ledore's perfume.
He called off the cards, one by one.
"Cross, cross, square, circle, star, star, lines,
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