“There is one karate hand formation. It is the basis of all others,” Chiun began as they sat on the mats facing the dummies. He opened his hand, palm up, and extended all the fingers. “The thumb must be cocked,” he said, “much as the hammer on a pistol. There should be a pulling motion extending back into your forearm. This, in turn,” he continued, “results in an extension — a pushing forward — of your little finger. The three center fingers are slightly bent at the ends and the entire hand is slightly bowed.”
He brought his hand into position. “Feel my forearm,” he told Remo. Remo did. It was like braided rope.
“It is not exertion, but tension, that creates this toughness,” Chiun said. “And it is not strength, but this tension, which makes the hand such a weapon.”
He brought Remo to the dummies and began instructing him in dealing volleys of hand-chops…right, left; low, high; over and over.
Although the dummies were packed hard with rope fibers, Remo’s hands were virtually immune from the impact, he found.
Once Chiun stopped him. “You are attempting to follow through with your blows. There is no follow-through in karate. Instead, a snapping motion is used.”
He took a pack of paper matches from his pocket. “Light one, Mr. Remo,” he said.
Remo lit it and held it at arm’s length. Chiun faced it, lifted his hand up to shoulder level, then lashed downward with a strong exhaling. Just before his hand reached the flame, it reversed itself and snapped back up. The flame seemed to jump up after it, in the vacuum caused by Chiun’s lightning move, and the match was out.
“That is the motion and action one must strive for,” Chiun said.
“I don’t want to put out fires. I want to break boards,” Remo said. “When will I be able to do that?”
“You already can,” Chiun said. “But first, the practice.”
He kept Remo working on the dummies for hours. Toward evening, he showed him the other karate hand formations. The hand sword Remo had first been shown, he learned, was called shuto. It could be held all day without tiring.
Let the hand bend back slightly at the wrist. This is the hand piston — shotei — and is used for striking the chin or throat. The hiraken is made the same way, but the middle fingers bend more. It is a paddle…“very good for boxing ears and breaking eardrums,” Chiun explained.
The mace, formed by rolling the hand sword into a fist, is called tetsui. “There are others, but these are the ones you will need to know,” Chiun said.
“When you learn the art of extending your power through your hands and through your feet, you will learn, too, to extend it through inanimate objects. In the hands of an expert, all things are deadly weapons.” He showed Remo how to make knives of paper and deadly darts of paper clips. How much more he could have shown Remo went unanswered. A guard entered Chiun’s quarters at three o’clock one morning. He spoke softly to Chiun for a few moments.
The old man bowed his head, then nodded to Remo who was awake but motionless.
“Follow him,” he told his pupil.
Remo rose from the straw-thin sleeping mat and slipped into a pair of sandals. The guard seemed nervous. He apparently knew he was in one of the rooms of the special unit.
As Remo approached him he backed away toward the door. Remo nodded for him to lead the way.
The wind from the sound ripped through Remo’s thin white tunic as he walked behind the guard down one of the stone paths. The November moon cast an eerie light over the darkened buildings. Remo contained his breathing to limit the effect of the chill. But by the time he and the guard reached the main administrative hall, he was slapping his arms to keep warm.
The guard wore a thick wool jacket which he kept buttoned even as they entered the building and rode up two flights in the self-service elevator. They were stopped by two guards and Remo’s man had to show his passes twice before they reached an oak door with a brass handle. Funny how Remo noticed the off-balance postures of the guards now. They held their hands almost inviting to be thrown.
Unconsciously, Remo had recorded that they would be easy to penetrate.
Lettering on the door read: “Private.”
The guard stopped. “I can’t enter here, sir.”
Remo grunted acknowledgment and turned the brass handle. The door swung outward instead of into the room. By its inertia, Remo judged it couldn’t be penetrated by a pistol shot, except perhaps from a .357 Magnum.
A thin man in a blue bathrobe leaned against a mahogany desk sipping from a white steaming cup. He was staring out at the darkness and the moon-splashed sound.
Remo pulled the door shut behind him. A .357 wouldn’t penetrate.
“I’m Smith,” the man said without turning around. “I’m your superior. Would you like some tea?”
Remo grunted a no.
Smith continued to gaze into the darkness. “You should know most of your business by now. You have access to the weapons. You’ll pick up drop points and communication lines from a clerk in 307 of this building. Of course you’ll destroy written matter. Clothing with California labels will be in 102. You’ll have money. Identification is for Remo Cabell. Of course, you know the first-name necessity in case of a sudden call.”
Smith spoke as though he were reading a list of names.
“We have you as a free-lance writer from Los Angeles. That’s optional. You can change that. Method, of course, is your own. You’ve been trained. We’d like to give you more time, but…”
Remo waited by the desk. He didn’t expect his first assignment to be like this. But then what did he expect?
The man droned on. “Your assignment calls for a kill. The victim is in East Hudson Hospital in Jersey. He fell from a building today. Probably pushed. You will interrogate and then eliminate him. You won’t need drugs for questioning. If he’s still alive, he’ll talk to you.”
“Sir,” Remo interrupted. “Where do I meet MacCleary? He’s supposed to accompany me on my first assignment.”
Smith looked down at the cup. “You’ll meet him at the hospital. He’s the victim.”
Remo’s breath slipped out. He stepped back a pace on the soft carpeting. He couldn’t answer.
“He’s got to be eliminated. He’s near death, in pain, and under drugs. Who knows what he’ll say?”
Remo forced out the words. “Maybe we can make a snatch?”
“Where would we bring him?”
“Where you brought me.”
“Too dangerous. He was carrying identification as a patient at Folcroft. We’ve already received word from the police in East Hudson where the fall occurred. There’s a direct link to us now. One of the doctors told the police the patient was emotionally disturbed and as far as we know the East Hudson cops have closed it out as an attempted suicide.”
Smith swirled the cup. Remo assumed he saw something in the tea. “You will, if he’s still alive, question him on a Maxwell. That’s your second assignment.”
“Who’s Maxwell?”
“We don’t know. He provides the New York syndicate with what we believe is the perfect murder service. How and where and when we don’t know. You will end Maxwell as quickly as possible. If you don’t do it in one week, don’t look for any more communication from us. We may have to close down and reorganize elsewhere.”
“Then what do I do?”
“You can do two things. You can continue after Maxwell. That’s optional. Or you can settle down for a while in New York. Read the personals in the New York Times. We’ll reach you when we have to through them. We’ll sign our messages ‘R-X’ — for prescription, for CURE.”
“And if I succeed?”
The man placed the cup of tea on the desk without turning around. “If you succeed within a week, it’ll be business as usual. Take a rest and keep your eyes on the Times. We’ll reach you.”
“What do I do for money?”
“Take enough with you now. When we contact you again, we’ll get more to you.” He rattled o
ff a telephone number. “Remember that number. In emergencies — only in emergencies — you can reach me directly on that line between 2:55 and 3:05 each afternoon. At no other time.”
“Why are you telling me to hole up if I miss Maxwell?” Remo had to ask the question. Things were moving too fast.
“The last thing we want is you looking up and down channels and then driving into Folcroft one day. So you blow the Maxwell mission. One mission, one training center, it doesn’t really matter. But this organization can’t be exposed. That’s why your first assignment on MacCleary is a must. It’s a link to us and we’ve got to break that link. If you fail in that one…” The man’s voice tailed off. “If you fail in that one, we’ll have to get you. That’s our only club. Also you know that if you talk to anybody, we’ll get you. I promise that. I’ll come myself. MacCleary’s in the hospital as Frank Jackson. That’s it. Goodbye.”
The man turned to shake hands, then apparently thought better of it and folded his arms. “No sense making a friend in this business. By the way, make it a fast job on MacCleary, won’t you?” Remo saw the man’s eyes were red. He left for Room 307.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE TWO EAST HUDSON DETECTIVES RODE QUIETLY UP in the Lamonica Towers elevator to the twelfth floor, the penthouse level.
The silence of the elevator’s rise seemed to stifle their speech. Detective Sergeant Grover, a round ball of a man, showed the end of a dead cigar and watched the numbers flash by. Detective Reed, “Long Gaunt Reed” as he was known to the homicide squad, ran a pencil along markings in a small black notebook.
“He had to fall from at least the eighth story,” Reed said.
Grover grunted assent.
“He wouldn’t talk.”
“You fall eight stories, you going to talk?” Grover asked. He touched the immaculately polished button panel with a pudgy, hairy finger. “No, he ain’t gonna talk. He ain’t gonna say nothing. He ain’t gonna even make it to the hospital.”
“But he was able to talk. I heard him say something to one of the stretcher men,” Reed said.
“You heard. You heard. Get off my back, you heard.” The blood rushed to the folds of Grover’s face. “So you heard; I don’t like this whole business. You heard.”
“So what d’ya want from me?” Reed yelled. “It’s my fault we gotta speak to the owner of Lamonica Towers?”
Grover wiped at a smudge on the polished button panel. They had been a team nearly eight years and both knew the danger, of Lamonica Towers.
It was a luxury apartment house fit for the most exclusive sections of New York, yet the builder had chosen East Hudson. He had brought the town $4.5 million worth of taxable real estate, twelve stories high. Lamonica Towers balanced the municipal budget and lowered the taxes of the townspeople. It was a political asset that had kept one party in power for nearly a decade. It rose, white and splendid, among the gray three-story dwellings that huddled at its base.
And the mayor had issued strict instructions to the police force:
— A prowl car was to circle the towers twenty-four hours a day. No policeman was to enter without the permission of the mayor himself. Any emergency call was to receive top priority.
— And if Mr. Norman Felton, the owner, who lived in the 23-room penthouse, should call headquarters, the East Hudson Police Department was to be at his service — after the department had first notified the mayor, who might be able to do something personally for Mr. Felton, whose political contributions were generous.
Grover rubbed a coat sleeve across the panel and stepped back to survey his shining. The smudge was off.
“You should’ve reached the mayor,” Reed said as the elevator doors opened.
“I should’ve. I should’ve. He wasn’t home. Whaddya want?”
A red flush rose to the surface of Grover’s puffy cheeks. He gave the panel a last inspection, then left the elevator and stepped onto the deep pile of a dark green foyer carpet. When the elevator doors closed, he suddenly realized there was no button to call it back.
He nudged Reed. They could only go forward to the single white door ahead of them with a large metallic eye in the center. The door was ridgeless and without handles.
The well-lit foyer was like a windowless gas chamber except they couldn’t even spy a hole for a pill to drop through into the add.
The foyer bothered Reed least of all. “We didn’t even reach the chief,” he grumbled.
“Will you shut up?” Grover asked. “Huh? Just shut up?”
“We’re gonna be busted sure as you’re born.”
Grover grabbed a handful of Reed’s wide blue labels and whispered fiercely: “We have to do it. There’s a body downstairs. I know these rich people. Don’t worry. We’ll be okay. There’s nothing the chief can do. We got the law behind us. It’s okay.”
Reed shook his head as Grover knocked on the white door. The rap was muffled, like flesh coming against solid steel. Grover removed his hat and nudged Reed to do the same. Reed fumbled with his black notebook but managed to hold on to his fedora. Grover chomped on the butt of the cigar.
The door opened quickly but quietly, sliding to the left, revealing a black-frocked butler, tall and imposing.
They were sorry for disturbing Mr. Felton, Grover told the butler, but they must see him. A man was found on the sidewalk in front of Lamonica Towers. There was reason to believe he fell from one of the apartments.
Grover and Reed suffered under the butler’s stare for a moment. Then he said: “Please step inside.”
He ushered them into a large room the size of a banquet hall. The detectives didn’t even notice the door quietly slide closed behind them. They gaped at the rich white drapes partially shielding a fifty-foot long picture window. A dark, richly upholstered couch ran the length of a side wall. The room was illuminated by indirect white lighting that seemed like a diffused spotlight for an art exhibit. Modern paintings, each in a different striking setting, surrounded the room like sentinel reminders that two high school graduates had entered a different world from East Hudson.
A black Steinway dominated the far corner of the room. The chairs were works of sculpture, flowing in marble simplicity into lines that blended with the room’s decor. Through the picture window, the men could see the red reflection of the setting sun glinting off the sides of passenger ships tied up in New York harbor.
Grover let out a low, long whistle and suddenly wished he had waited to reach the chief. The cigar in his mouth felt like an indictment against his rearing. He stuffed it, wet and sticky end first, into the pocket of his overcoat.
Reed just kept mashing his notebook into his hat.
Finally, the butler returned.
“Mr. Felton will see you gentlemen. If you’ll follow me, no smoking please.”
When the butler opened the door to the study, Grover knew he had made a mistake. This was not the East Hudson kind of person he was used to dealing with, not the mayor whom he had known as a shyster lawyer or the leading town physician who while drunk had once rumbled away the life of an infant.
It was a different breed of man who sat in the cherrywood chair, his legs crossed under a cashmere robe, a thin volume on his lap. His graying hair, immaculately groomed, seemed to highlight a strong-lined, somber face. His eyes were light blue and unmoving.
An aura of greatness and elegance seemed to permeate his being, as if his presence lent dignity to the book-lined walls. He seemed like what men should be, but never were.
“Mr. Felton,” the butler said, “the two police gentlemen.”
Mr. Felton nodded and the butler ushered them into the study. The servant placed two chairs near Felton’s knees. To his right was a high-polished oak desk. Behind him, drawn curtains.
Mr. Felton nodded. The butler left. Grover sat down hesitantly. Reed followed.
“We’re sorry to bother you,” Grover said.
Mr. Felton raised a hand in a gesture of reassurance.
Grover shifted in
his seat. His pants suddenly felt hot and wrinkled tight. “I don’t know how to begin this, Mr. Felton.”
The gray-haired man leaned forward and smiled benevolently. “Go ahead,” he said softly.
Grover glanced at Reed’s pad and nodded.
“A man was found about an hour ago in front of this building. From the way his body was crushed, we think he fell from one of these apartments.”
“Someone saw him fall, you mean,” Felton asked in a tone suggesting more of a statement than a question.
Grover tilted his head like a man suddenly seeing a door open where none had been before. “No, no,” he said. “No one saw him fall. But we’ve seen a lot of these plungers and I’m almost sure, begging your pardon, that he came from this building.”
“I’m not almost sure,” the dignified owner said.
Reed demolished his notebook in his twisting hands. Grover swallowed again, his throat suddenly as dry as a summer sidewalk. He started to say something, but a motion from Felton’s hands cut him off.
“I’m not almost sure, I’m positive,” Felton said.
The two detectives sat motionless. Felton continued: “There have been several families in this building who have entertained rather…how can I say it…rather odd types. We have a careful screening process before leasing an apartment, but as you men know, you cannot always be sure of the caliber of tenant. I believe the man jumped or…” Felton lowered his head as if gaining strength to force the words out. He looked into the blinking eyes of Grover and said: “God forgive me, I believe he may have been pushed.”
Felton stared at the thin volume of poetry on his lap. “I know how horrendous this may sound to you, the taking of a human life. But it is possible, you know. There are cases of it.”
If their jobs had not been at stake, Grover and Reed would have been hysterical with laughter at someone telling two homicide detectives that murder actually existed in the world. But what could you expect from someone so refined, who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and who insulated himself against the world with books of poetry?
Felton went on. “I was on the balcony of my apartment an hour ago, leaning over and looking down at the street below when I saw the man fall. He came off the balcony of the eighth floor. My butler and I went down there, but it is an empty apartment. It has been vacant for some time. No one was there. If the man was pushed, his assailant had escaped. I was going to volunteer this information, but I was so unnerved I had to return here for a few minutes to regain my composure. What a terrible thing.”
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