Midnight Man td-43

by Warren Murphy

  "Yeah?" he growled as Remo entered.

  "Is that any way to greet a man who's going to save your life?"

  "Yeah? How you going to save my life?"

  "Maybe by changing my mind," Remo said, "and not doing to you what you obviously deserve."

  "Yeah?"

  Remo was beginning to wonder if that was about

  "I want to look through your records." "What for?"

  finish my story for them." 1 «j w£mt to know the names of your advertisers

  What s your story going to be about?" I mdwhich ads have been answered recently."

  104 1 105

  "Take a hike. Our records are private," the man said.

  "How many other people work here?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "Because if there's anybody else here, I don't need you and I can shove you into your desk drawer," Remo said.

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't start that again," Remo said.

  The man stood up behind the desk. He was six-foot-six and outweighed Remo by half a ton.

  "There ain't nobody else here right now," he said with a sneer. "So it's just me and you, pal."

  He extended a hand toward Remo like a wrestler offering a handlock test of strength.

  Remo shrugged. It was better than killing him. Even with a busted hand he could still talk.

  Remo joined his right hand to the giant's left. He exerted no pressure.

  "If that's all you got, pal, you're in big trouble," the big man said. Slowly, he began to put pressure on Remo's hand. Remo neither flinched nor moved.

  The giant frowned. "Playtime's over, buddy," he said. He exerted what he thought was enough pressure to crush Remo's hand and drive him to his knees.

  Remo didn't move.

  The big man blinked and his forehead was now a map of lines and creases.

  "I'm right handed," he complained.

  Remo nodded. They unlocked hands, then locked again, this time with Remo's left against the giant's

  right.

  The big man instantly turned on maximum pres-

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  sure, every bit of energy and strength he could mus-

  ter.

  Remo didn't move.

  Just as Remo decided he would have to crush the man's handbones into paste, the giant disengaged his fingers from Remo's.

  "All right," he said. "You win. How'd you do that?"

  "Training and clean living."

  "Look, no offense, but you don't look like you train much."

  "It's not that kind of training. It's all done in your head. What's your name?"

  "Hal Barden."

  "You the editor?"

  "No. I'm everything but. This is just a two-man sheet. Mark Simons is the editor. He's inside."

  "You were fibbing me," Remo said. "Naughty, naughty."

  "I'm still here, so maybe it didn't work out so bad," Barden said. "Come on, I'll take you to the editor."

  Inside the front office was another small cluttered office with another man sitting behind a small cluttered desk, wielding scissors and paste on some yellowed newspaper clippings.

  "Mark, this is a friend of mine." Remo stepped forward.

  "Remo Williams," he said, extending his hand.

  "Yeah, yeah," said Mark Simons, ignoring the extended hand.

  Remo looked at Barden who shrugged.

  "Remo's interested in the magazine, Mark. I told him I'd show him around."

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  „_,,„„. . j I Here they are." He turned and handed Remo a slim

  "Go ahead," Simons said. . I manj]a ¿lder

  "You ever buy manuscripts?" Remo asked Si- | ? contain,d the copy fof thfee advertisements

  mons.

  "Sometimes. If they're really good. You a . writer?" ¦ tiser-

  "No. But a friend of mine is," said Remo.

  "He know anything about assassinations and contract killings?"

  "A little," Remo said.

  "Good. Send in anything he's got. Most of the people who send us stuff have been pulling their pudding for too long. They're like writing Alice in Wonderland."

  "Thanks. I will."

  Barden led Remo away. "C'mon. Another room back here."

  He led him into another small room that appeared to hold all of Contract's files.

  Barden waved toward a file cabinet. "That's our ad files. What do you need?"

  "I need your ads on killing the Emir of Bislami," Remo said.

  Barden nodded. "Yeah. He was hot in last month's issue. We had a couple on him."

  "Three," Remo said. "Can you find them?"

  "Sure." The big man opened the top drawer of the file cabinet and began riffling through envelopes.

  "Do you keep a record of who answers?" Remo asked.

  "No," Barden said over his shoulder. "We just forward them to the advertiser. We don't even open

  my trainer with me." 108

  them. That way, we stay out of trouble with the law.

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  *- ---------------

  eachhad ^e nameand address of the adver-

  The first ad, "Ice an Emir," was inserted by a John Brown with a post office box in Rye, New York. That would be Smith, Remo realized.

  The second ad was "Send a Monarch to the Mortuary." The ad form announced that it had been placed by Mrs. Jane Smith, with a New York post office box.

  Remo handed it to Barden. "You remember anything about this ad?"

  Barden looked at it. "Mrs. Jane Smith," he said. "Boy, do I. Tall, good-looking woman with great red hair. Spoke very elegantly. Like a queen she

  was.

  That would be Princess Sarra, Remo realized. He looked at Barden with heightened respect. The man had sensed the innate royalty in the Princess, even when she was parading around as Mrs. Jane Smith.

  The third advertisement was "Ever Kill an Emir? Check Out the Price." The record showed it had been placed, and paid for in cash, by a Mr. Riggs who lived in the East Seventies.

  Remo jotted the name and address down on a piece of paper.

  "I appreciate your help, Hal," he said.

  "Any time. Maybe if you come back, you can tell me about your training."

  "Even better," Remo said. "I might bring back

  "That'd be great," Barden said.

  "Wait until you meet him," Remo said.

  As he went to the door, Barden handed him the latest copy of Contract. "Here. A freebie."

  "Thanks a lot," Remo said. Chiun would be glad to get it.

  After Remo left, Mark Simons came out of his office and hit Barden's desk with his fist.

  "Who the hell was that?"

  "Hey, he was cool, Mark. You wouldn't believe how strong that skinny guy is. Some special training and . . ."

  "Who the hell was he and what did he want?"

  "Take it easy," Barden said. "He just wanted to look at some of our ads."

  "What ads?"

  "The ones about killing the Emir."

  "And you showed them to him?"

  "I wasn't about to tell him no," Barden said.

  "You're a moron, Hal," Simons said and went back to his office. He locked the door behind him.

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  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The name on the doorbell was James Riggs. Remo pushed his way through the locked downstairs door and walked up the steps to apartment 3-

  A.

  When he opened the door, Remo said, "Mr. Riggs, I'm here in answer to your ad."

  "How'd you get my name?" Riggs asked. The man was tall, white haired, with tired, reddened eyes.

  "Does it matter?" Remo said.

  "The job has been filled," Riggs said.

  "I can fill it better," Remo told him.

  "I doubt it," the man said, looking sharply at Remo.

  "Don't doubt it," Remo said.

  "Look. I'm sorry, but the ad has been filled to my satisfaction. Good-bye."

  He slammed the door shut.

  Remo took the doorkno
b in his hand and bent it down until it snapped off on his side. Inside, he could hear the other half of the doorknob fall onto the floor of the hallway. Remo hit the door with the heel of his hand and it flew open.

  James Riggs was standing five feet inside the apartment looking at the broken door, then at Remo, with fright in his eyes.

  "Well, as long as you're in anyway."

  Ill

  "Thank you," Remo said. "Who filled the ad?"

  "I don't really think . . ."

  "Good. I'm used to dealing with people who don't think." Remo closed the door and brushed past Riggs into the apartment.

  "If you don't leave, I'll call the police."

  "Fine. I'll just tell them I came here to answer your advertisement for a murderer."

  Riggs winced as Remo said the word "murderer." Finally he walked to a bar in the corner of the chrome and glass living room and poured himself a water tumbler full of Scotch. He drank half of it, then said, "I don't know. It was just a voice."

  "You better explain this."

  "I got a letter answering the ad. It told me to put a phone number in the Times. I did. I got a phone call from a man who told me to meet him in the Sheep Meadow last night at 1 a.m. I left my apartment to walk over there just around 12:40. The street was dark. He was waiting for me in the street. I couldn't see him. We negotiated a fee."

  "How much?"

  "A hundred thousand dollars."

  "To kill the Emir?"

  Riggs finished his drink, even as he was shaking his head.

  "I didn't want the Emir killed."

  "That's what your ad said," Remo pointed out.

  "I just put that on it to attract attention. I figured anyone who'd tackle the Emir would be willing to take on a simple job like I had in mind. It was just a thought."

  "Who did you really want hit?" Remo asked.

  Riggs hesitated. Remo stepped toward him.

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  Il

  "My business partner," Riggs said. ||

  "What kind of business are you in?" Remo asked.

  "Advertising."

  "It figures," Remo said. He got the name and address of Riggs' partner and left. As he went through the door, Riggs was pouring himself another drink.

  "Be sure to have this door fixed," Remo said. "There's a lot of crime in New York." Riggs didn't know how lucky he was. If he had been in any business but advertising, Remo might have extracted a price for his trying to have his partner killed. But Remo did not think there should be any law against killing advertising men.

  He walked down the stairs and on the first landing met Princess Sarra coming up.

  "We seem to be covering a lot of the same ground," Remo said. "No Pakir today?"

  "I do not need an escort everywhere I go," she informed him. "Mr. Schwartzenegger."

  "Call me Remo," he said.

  "They told me at the magazine that you had been there," she said.

  "No point in covering the same ground twice. Come with me and I'll tell you what Riggs had to say."

  She considered it.

  "Are you suggesting we work together?"

  "We are on the same side, aren't we?" Remo asked. i|i|

  "I know what side I am on, Remo. Is that your side?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "Then let us go to my apartment and talk," she offered.

  113

  "All right. But we have a stop to make first," Remo said as he took her arm and walked her back down the stairs.

  "Where?"

  He told her what Riggs had just told him.

  "We are going to warn his partner?"

  "No. He's in advertising," Remo said. "But I want to see if Wimpler's been there yet. If not, maybe we'll just hang around for a while."

  A taxi brought them to an apartment building almost identical to the one they had just left, except it was on New York's West Side, on the other side of Central Park. Remo checked the mailboxes, forced the door and they rode the elevator to the ninth floor.

  The door was open.

  "Stay behind me," Remo told the Princess.

  "How gallant," she said, but Remo could hear the tension in her voice. She was frightened. Somehow it made her seem warmer and even more desirable.

  The apartment did not appear to be ransacked. There was no sign of a struggle. Remo left her in the living room with orders to stay put while he looked around.

  The bedroom was dark as Remo pushed open the door. Heavy drapes sealed out all light from outdoors. Remo remembered how close he had been to death last night, and he paused, heightening his senses, listening to hear if an invisible Wimpler was still in the room, ready to smack him over the skull with an invisible baseball bat.

  But there was no sound from the room.

  Remo went in.

  The body of Riggs' partner was on the floor. He

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  had apparently been undressing when Wimpler struck. He was wearing socks and underwear. His shirt and suit were tossed over the back of a chair. Next to him was a portable TV set with a cracked screen.

  Remo heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. Sarra had followed him into the bedroom and seen the body. The back of her right hand was pressed up against her mouth; her eyes were opened wide; her left hand against her breasts completed the classic pose.

  "Don't scream," he ordered.

  "I do not scream," she told him as she dropped her hands to her side.

  Remo bent over the body to examine it. His head had been crushed, but not with any special device. Apparently Wimpler had knocked the man unconscious, then dropped the television set on his head to make sure of death.

  Advertising had scored again. Riggs' partner was dead. The death was just a little more direct and quick than that usually inflicted on Americans by advertising.

  "Let's go," Remo told Sarra, touching her elbow and turning her around. "Don't touch anything."

  "Shouldn't you call the police?" she asked.

  "No."

  They rode the elevator down and found a cab cruising past on the corner.

  Sarra gave the driver the address of her apartment.

  At her penthouse, overlooking the East River, she offered Remo a drink which he declined. It had been years since he had tasted liquor and the

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  thought of drinking alcohol, a substance used to dilute lacquer, made him feel sick.

  She did not make one for herself. She sat on the couch next to him, drew her long legs up beneath her and asked, "What did that all mean to you?"

  "That dead guy?"

  "Yes."

  "Only that I missed a chance at Wimpler."

  'That's all?"

  He shrugged. "I'm sorry if that disappoints you, Sarra, but he didn't mean anything to me."

  He could see that his viewpoint didn't disappoint her. It might even have excited her because she moved closer to Remo on the sofa.

  "Do you think this man Wimpler will try to kill my brother?"

  "Yes."

  "Why? Who would he work for? What has he to gain?"

  "You're right there. He doesn't have a contract. He didn't get one from us and he didn't get one from you. The other advertisement was a phony. But the fact is that your brother is a wanted man and the price on his head is very high. It won't be hard for a man, especially an invisible man, to make contact with somebody who'll pay him a lot of money to kill your brother."

  She nodded. "I don't know why," she said, "but I have a feeling that he would do it even if there were no money involved."

  Remo agreed. "We're talking about a man who was a pussycat all his life. Now he's got power, and last night Chiun and I challenged that power. I

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  don't think he can ignore the Emir. Otherwise it tears down all he's tried to do with himself. I don't think he can resist the challenge."

  "And you?"

  "What about me?" he asked.

  She touched his arm, then his cheek and finally his lips. Her fingers were cool and sm
ooth as they traced the outline of his mouth.

  "Can you resist a challenge?"

  "Only when I want to, Princess," said Remo.

  And this time he didn't want to.

  It was almost midnight when Remo left Princess Sarra's penthouse apartment and her bed.

  As he rode down in the elevator, he felt oddly satisfied with himself and began to analyze the feeling. For a long time, he had been able to satisfy any woman. He was like a machine, not getting personally involved, just doing a job. All the result of 27 steps taught to him by Chiun.

  Usually, Remo went down those steps with clinical detachment, stopping at whatever step was the most the woman could stand. The best was usually around step 13.

  All neat and precise and mechanical. And boring.

  While technique flowered, desire had shriveled to nothing.

  But not this time.

  It was not just Sarra who had enjoyed their marathon, he had, too. It had nothing to do with love either. Love was an emotion of weakness, an emotion he tried to restrict in himself, for he could af-

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  ford no weaknesses. Falling in love would make him vulnerable, and a vulnerable man in this business was a dead man.

  This had just been sheer rollicking physical joy. If he had been able to tell Chiun about it, Chiun would have thought it disgusting because it was sex without procreation as a goal. But there had been nothing disgusting about it. It had just been a celebration of life by two people who appreciated life. It had been happy. There was no other word for it.

  Preoccupied by these thoughts, Remo strolled out of Sarra's building at precisely midnight.

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  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Slits Wilson liked midnight in Manhattan. It was the time he usually did his best work.

  He had earned his nickname with a knife, cutting slits in other people's bellies, and he was proud of it. He also earned his living with that knife and didn't live too badly, when he wasn't vacationing as a guest of the state.

  But this was a chance to end those trips to jail forever. It was his big score, and if it came off all right, he would have enough money to set himself up with a couple of women. A couple of foxes working the street for him could really start pulling in the green. Then he could branch out. A little numbers business. Eventually, a little high class drug dealing.

  But first this job. The dude wanted some other dude taken out, and there were five big ones in it for Slits. The dude told Slits to make sure he had enough help. Now, how many brothers would it take to ice one honkey?