Death Check td-2

by Warren Murphy

  "You see," Brewster explained. "Even though you are a policeman, you have not fully accepted the fact of violence as an integral part of man's life. You have not come to terms with the very obvious fact that man is a killer. And his greatest game is man himself. A predator. Only late in development did he become herbivorous. The overreaction against violence in more backward American communities is an eruption of the sublimation of violence. Which is really not sick. Violence is healthy, human. Vital."

  Maybe he would call her a kike and just walk away. But what if she laughed when he said that? Worse, what if she were hurt? He would apologize and hold her. But if she were really hurt, she wouldn't let him. No. Not Deborah. She would laugh. Right at him. In his face. Then he would laugh. Then it would be all right.

  "I know it's difficult, son, but as I was explaining to some general or other, no, a congressman, I believe-well, in any case, one of those things. I told him that perhaps policemen like yourself are the ones who are least able to handle violence and therefore are drawn toward it as a profession. You know that's how we get funding?"

  "What?" said Remo.

  "How we get funding, son," Dr. Brewster explained. "You exploit their little dreams or fears. Whatever."

  "What are you talking about?" Remo asked. He would take care of Deborah later. "I was finding it hard to follow."

  "Our funding, son. The way to get funding is to decide what you want, then throw in something the government may want. As an afterthought. Like our study on the community life of combat."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, that paid for Schulter's animal experiments and Boyle's ethnic studies."

  "I see," said Remo. "And your little plan to conquer the world?" He dropped the reference casually.

  "That bought the golf course, the auditorium and about five more years of just about anything we want. I don't know why I trust you like this. I just do. I'm a good judge of men."

  He was, thought Remo, like most people who do not work at it, a very bad judge of himself. He trusted now because he felt safe. Apparently, he had taken Remo's preoccupation with Deborah as shock over the Ratchett killing and no longer felt threatened by someone who might possibly be above panic.

  "Is there a plan to conquer the world?"

  "Yes, of course. You could conquer the world with 50,000 men. Provided, the rest of the world wanted to be conquered. Hah. You see, it takes the cooperation of the losers. But we're not going to include that in any study for at least three years though, not until we have another funding source. Your job is safe with us for another three years."

  So it was just a hustle, after all. All the federal funds, the secrecy, the work of CURE, the deaths of McCarthy and Hawkins and Ratchett, all of it was only to allow these harmless nits to go on figuring up days and down days, drugging rhinoceroses and lowering heartbeats. A goddam hustle.

  "I imagine Deborah was working on that plan."

  "Don't call her Deborah. She's Dr. Hirshbloom. I personally don't mind, but you know how some of these medical doctors get. No, as a matter of fact, she wasn't the least bit interested. Recently, I've been getting the impression she is interested in nothing but chess. A fine mind. But very unproductive, I'm afraid."

  "Uh, uh," said Remo, who noticed suddenly that he had been walking in his old manner, the natural walk of his youth and early manhood. His peak was falling rapidly now. Several times a day now, he was forced to go back mentally to his little room, where Chiun waited. But the effect was wearing off more and more rapidly. His vitality was ebbing.

  Brewster was rambling on about his plan to conquer the world. Of course, it could be pulled off if each soldier in the Army could be brought up to twenty percent capacity. Did it shock Remo that the average man used less than ten per cent? But no one yet, Brewster said, had reached twenty per cent. He wasn't even sure if a human being could survive using twenty per cent of his capabilities. So, in a way, the forum was really giving the government its money's worth. A brilliant plan that was impossible. Generals like those sort of things.

  Remo tried to concentrate on the room, but the sidewalk still thumped hard against his heels. He pulled oxygen deep into his groin, but still felt winded. He thought of Deborah and for a moment was exhilarated. He realized. She was uninterested in the work of Brewster Forum because she did not come to work for Brewster Forum.

  She was an agent, all right. Her control proved that, even when she was afraid of him. And she was beginning to fall in love with him. The alienation of their lives had been broken and both shared the first flushes of knowing someone. That was why things had moved so well the night before.

  And Conn MacCleary was the key. The Israelis wouldn't let Conn fight his holy war against the Arabs after they had desecrated the sanctity of his still because, quite simply, Conn MacCleary was not in Israel to fight Arabs or even to train people to fight Arabs.

  Conn MacCleary, master of the personal attack, was training people to seek a different enemy. And it would also explain why he volunteered and why Deborah had not listed the real name of her village, and why, if it was so secret, the presence of Arabs would in no way commit.

  This little village was the first training ground for the agents who would follow those who had processed people in ovens, stripped human flesh for lampshades, tore off genitals with pliers, experimented on babies and women and men to see how long it took shock to set in when an organ was ripped off or when you tied a woman's legs together during labour. The village was a training site for people to track down Nazis and Deborah was on the trail of one.

  And that one must be the killer, the one who had brought , about the deaths of McCarthy and Now Ratchett. Because they had somehow gotten in the way of his plan to get the compromising photos of the Forum's staff. But why did he want the pictures? Probably to blackmail the staff into giving him the little plan to conquer the world. Well, the joke was on him. The plan to conquer the world was a hoax, only Brewster's way of getting more federal funds.

  Remo would have a good day off peak. And if Deborah asked him to, he would help set up a snatch or a kill on the one she was after. He would show her how good he was. And then they would make love.

  "You know," Remo said to Dr. Brewster, "it's a beautiful day." They were at the phone booth on the corner. I'll be right out."

  "You're not going to phone the police or something. I mean, what are you going to do?"

  "I'll take care of it," Remo said assuringly.

  "You're sure you're all right now? You were pretty shocked before, son. And I wouldn't want you to do anything that would embarrass you or anything. Not many people can accept the violence we saw today, and I want you to know that I don't hold it against you."

  "Thank you," said Remo. "But I think I can handle it."

  Brewster put a fatherly hand on Remo's arm. "I'm sure you can, son. I'm sure you can. And if the police need more information, I'll be right here."

  "Oh, I think I've got most of the information they need," Remo said. "Somebody cut off Dr. Ratchett's penis and he died from shock caused by loss of blood, while flailing around in a pink puddle of gore. They'll find out for sure when they take his lungs out in the autopsy."

  Dr. Nils Brewster nodded sagely and collapsed on the gravel before the booth in a dead faint. Remo removed the pipe from where it had fallen near Brewster's head. It was still lit and could have set the tumbleweed hair afire.

  And that afternoon, the good Reverend gave Remo some delightful news. He was not only off peak, but he was to leave. Immediately. Remo spoke the number into the tape recording and waited. Dr. Brewster was blissfully in the land of out.

  A car passed and the driver offered to help. It was Anna Stohrs, the blonde with the hard face. Remo waved her away, angrily, and with a hard glint in her eyes she gunned the gas pedal and sped off.

  Remo whistled softly to himself as he kept the cradle down with his elbow. Some day he might set the record for holding down a receiver without moving. Guinness Book of Records: Remo
Williams, three hours and fifty-two minutes. Let's hear it for clean living and expensive training. But how could somebody pose people in sex photos without their knowing? Hypnotism? Too hard. Too hard. It must be drugs.

  The bing of the first ring and Remo released the cradle.

  "What is it now?" Smith sounded angry. That meant he was happy.

  "I'd like to stay a day. Here."

  "No."

  "I've got something I'm working on."

  "No," said Smith. "Just do what you're supposed to do."

  "One of the people here has met with an accident."

  "That's all right. Doesn't matter."

  "I know about the little plan."

  "Forget it."

  "Aren't you interested?"

  "If I see you in a year or so, you can tell me all about it."

  "Well, why the sudden go?"

  There was silence. And then Smith said in a calm but pained voice: "You're asking me a why?"

  "I'm sorry. I really am."

  "So am I. I'll attribute it to the inordinately long peak."

  "Well, screw you," Remo said. "You ding-dongs set the peak, not me."

  "Look. Rest."

  "I'm not getting off till I get the reason. I want to stay another day."

  "If you must know, another agency had moved into it. Remember the paint shop? Well, it's become an international and they're working with an ally. In twenty-four hours that place is going to be crawling with agents. We're not needed now. So if you suddenly feel some need to perform some public service that is not your job, why don't you help with the garbage collection?"

  "I want that extra day."

  "Why?" Smith was getting annoyed.

  "Would it surprise you if I told you I want to get laid." Remo used hard terms, lest Smith suspect affection.

  "Anyone special?"

  "One of the scientists."

  "Not that fairy?"

  "No. Doctor Hirshbloom."

  "Remo." Smith's voice was suddenly harsh and imperious. "Stay away from her. She's an ally and she'll be working with our people to clear up this mess. She'll finger the targets."

  "She'll work better if she's well-laid."

  "Leave her alone."

  "What about the sex photographer?"

  "All part of the same thing. Blackmail against the government. I tell you, it's in good hands. Now get out of there before you get arrested for loitering. We're closing this number. We'll reach you. You get lost until we do. That's an order."

  Remo hung up. Screw Smith and screw CURE. He was staying and he was having his day with Deborah. That was it. Insubordination. He had peaked too long. If he hung around, they would be after him to set him up. But a setup is not a follow-through and he was not a part to be replaced easily. Or was he?

  Well, if it came to that, he couldn't think of a better reason to go. Conrad MacCleary chose patriotism. Remo Williams chose a woman. Maybe another day, he would feel differently. But today was today and it was August and he was going to stick it to Deborah, and then go to Henrici's Restaurant in Dayton, Ohio, for a Wednesday night meal, and keep going to Wednesday night meals until they found him.

  On impulse, he dialled Dial-a-Prayer again. A tape retold him "The number you have reached is not a working number."

  Fast.

  Outside, Brewster was coming to. The first words he said to Remo as soon as he regained his balance were "Are you all right, son?"

  "Yes, Nils. Thank you." .

  "Do you need help?"

  "I...." Remo paused. "Couldn't make the phone call to the police."

  "That's all right. I understand. You've been through hell. It's a very difficult job to be security officer."

  "I don't know if I can, can continue in the job. Not now."

  "Yes, you can," Brewster said firmly. "Because we're doubling your salary. You're the first policeman good enough for the job. And that's that. Don't say no. I know men. You're the first one good enough for Brewster Forum. I'll make the phone call to the police."

  Remo thanked Dr. Brewster who fumbled a dime into the telephone and dialled the emergency number listed on the board above the coin slots. He winked at Remo, made an okay sign with his right hand, and began to babble incoherently into the receiver.

  Remo waved at Brewster, who was gesticulating wildly with his free hand, as he shouted into the phone: "Dead. Aaah. Dead. Ooooh. Help. Dead. Brewster Forum. Blood."

  And Remo sauntered off, flatfooted, off balance and laughing at himself. The flush of relaxation might have explained why he was about to enter the first black-out period of his life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The man once known as Dr. Hans Frichtmann examined the new negatives. The lighting was not as good as on the others, but it would do. And the set was complete. He would take pains that no illiterate cop would steal these as McCarthy must have done with the first set. An insignificant Irish life for a brilliant plan. Funny how a flea could clog a great engine.

  "Well, no matter. The Jewess had been the last. One could almost develop a fondness for the animals if they were not so annoying.

  The average German had not understood. They had reaped the benefits, but they did not want to know about the dirty work. They had almost made the world Jew-free, and did the world appreciate it? How did they expect them to get rid of Jews if not by gassing them and burning them?

  Oh, certainly everyone at home cheered when you were on top and they did not have to get their sweet little hands dirty. But when you lost, the shock. No one was political. Not when you lost. But they had cheered you when you were winning. Did they expect the Jews to disappear without mass killing? Just by wishing? Of course, it was unpleasant. That was the price one must pay. There were even some Jews he would have saved if he could. Some he respected more than Germans. But if you started making an exception here and an exception there, then where were you? Jews. All over.

  He didn't ask for the Jews to be in the world. He hadn't put them there. Hadn't made them like they were. He was building a better world. And if it took some unpleasantness, then certain brave people would do it. Nobody had seen the Germany he had seen or lived in the Germany he had lived in. Chaos. Disorder. Der Fuhrer had ended it and given Germany back its soul.

  But the Germans had failed the party and the nation. Because they were not worthy of their heritage. A little trouble and they collapsed, and then every one of the little hypocrites ran around saying he didn't know, he was sorry. Well, they were not strong enough to know, only to reap the benefits. They could have known. The evidence was there.

  Where did they think all the Jews went that disappeared in box cars? To Grossinger's?

  He had to laugh at that. Even the generals in their cars and with their fancy servants. Turning their heads, going through convulsions not to see the blood that he had to live through daily. And he was a doctor. But he was a German and a Nazi.

  Their clean hands. The swine. Looking down on him. How dare they, those generals? He remembered a night at Horcher's in Berlin. It had been furlough from the camp in Poland. He had sent a drink to the young staff officer, sitting with his lady friend at the next table. The drink had come back untouched.

  "What? An officer from the Afrika Corps refusing a drink? I've never heard of such a thing."

  He said this with as much warmth as possible. They were all Germans after all, especially under the new order. He had gone through medical school, the son of a carpenter. So the officer obviously was aristocracy. But what did that mean now? In the new Germany, they were all one. One race. The master race.

  "Will you not share a drink with a fellow officer?" he had asked. And the arrogant swine had answered:

  "With a fellow officer I would."

  That had done it. "You think you are so fine in here, eating the best of foods, drinking the best of wines. Why do you live so well? Because of me."

  The officer had tried to ignore him. But one could not ignore a man who refused to be ignored.

 
; "I see your lady friend eats delicately. In our camps we do not have the luxury of delicacy. We must have the gold teeth pulled out of the heads of Jews because Germany needs the money. To pay you and put wine on your table. The fatherland needs the hair of Jew children and the clothes of the processed people.

  "Who do you think is putting the food on that table? I am. By killing the inferior races so that you can live in your delicate comfort. Do you know what it is like to rip out someone's testicles? But I must, so we will know more about reproduction for your comfort.

  "Hey, high-class lady! Have you ever seen so many people in a ditch, that the blood seeps up through the earth that covers it? Does that go well with your chocolate mousse? Eh? How does that go?"

  They had left, of course. Run away, leaving the dirty work for men strong enough to do it. Naturally, he had been arrested that night for disorderly conduct and given a stern rebuke for his loose tongue. But doctors were scarce. And the SS understood, despite what was said of them after the war.

  He put the negatives back in the envelope. With these, he had just the wedge to give his new employers who, as coincidence would have it, were also building a great new world. With these, one could easily begin to work effectively. Oh, not to get anything major all at once, but to force a scientist to take a visit to a city in another country and just talk about things. These photos could enslave America's greatest brains for their entire lifetimes.

  A perfect plan. Almost ruined by that Irish cop, but salvaged. The new policeman? Well, he was something more. Luckier than McCarthy and better. But still only a policeman and it was too late for him to do anything anyway. Dr. Hans Frichtmann allowed himself a touch of regret that he would not be around long enough to teach a final permanent lesson to Remo Pelham.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  First there was the note.

  Deborah was not home. The door was unlocked, her cottage empty of her, and a note on the desk, sealed in an envelope with Remo's name on it. The bitch. The little Jew bitch. That little whore Remo had been willing to die for, just to screw. She probably gave it away for shekels.

  Smith had been right. He had been descending so fast that he was incapable of correct judgment. She had given him a feel and sidestepped him. Quick and neat.