"I have the name of the grantor," said Smith.
"Come this way," said the woman, stepping out behind the flip-top counter. She led Smith to a book-lined alcove. "These," she said sternly, running her fingers along a line of black-bound books, "are the Grantor Indexes. And these are the Grantee Indexes." She pointed to an opposite shelf of similar books. They were dated by year, Smith saw with relief. He had had visions of having to comb through countless volumes.
"You look up the name you know in either set," she concluded.
"I only know the grantor's name," Smith repeated.
"I am explaining the entire procedure in case you ever have to do this again. Now, do you understand the difference between the indexes?"
"Indices. "
"I beg your pardon?"
"The plural of 'index' is 'indices,' not 'indexes.'"
"Sir, have you ever heard the expression 'close enough for government work'?"
"Of course."
"Well, it applies in this case." She went on in a lecturing like tone, "Now, if you will let me continue. You will find a reference number next to the name. It will probably be a four-digit number, unless of course you are searching records prior to 1889, in which case it will be a three- or possibly two-digit number. It will correspond to the number of one of these books." She indicated a bookshelf filled with worn black spines. They bore numbers written by hand in white ink.
"Select the correct book and look up the deed by the page number, which you will find next to the two-, three-, or four-digit number separated by an oblique stroke. These books contain sequential photocopies of all deeds within each serial."
"I see," Smith said.
"Good. Do you have any other questions?"
"Yes. Is there a photocopy machine on the premises?"
"Around the corner by the water cooler. Copies are fifteen cents. And I do not make change."
"Of course. Thank you," said Dr. Harold W. Smith. The woman walked off without another word and Smith made a mental note to see if there was a nameplate at the counter. The woman was very efficient, no-nonsense. Smith liked that in a worker. He resolved, if he should ever lose his current secretary, to offer the position to this woman. Smith went to the Grantor Index, found the name of his former next-door neighbor, and made a mental note of the serial and page number. The book was on a lower shelf. It was new. There was a red-stamped bindery date on the flyleaf that was barely two weeks old.
Smith flipped through the pages of photocopied deeds until he found the one he wanted. He gave it a quick scan. The name of the grantee was James Churchward.
The name sounded familiar. Smith tried to place it. He could not.
Hurriedly he went to the photocopy machine and put in a quarter. He made a copy, and when his change did not come, he hit the change plunger several times without result. And so concerned was Harold Smith over the familiar name that he did something unprecedented for the frugal bureaucrat.
He did not stop at the counter on his way out to demand restitution.
In his car, Smith slid in on the passenger side and opened the briefcase on his lap. He dialed the Folcroft computer number and placed the receiver in the modem receptacle. Then Smith input the name of James Churchward and requested a global search of all CURE-sensitive files pertaining to past operations.
It was ten minutes and six seconds by Smith's wristwatch before the on-screen message showed. It said, "NOT FOUND."
Smith frowned. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the name was not CURE-linked. He lifted the receiver and dialed his home.
"Dear," Smith said when his wife answered. "That man you saw leaving the house next door-the one whose name you couldn't recall?"
"Yes?"
"Was his name James Churchward?"
"No, I've never heard that name. Who is James Churchward?"
"I don't know," Smith said slowly. "It is probably riothing," he added. "Just a hunch. Excuse me. I must get back to work."
"On your way home, why don't you pick up another box of those nice potato flakes you like so much? The supermarket is having a two-for-one sale."
"If I can," said Smith, hanging up.
He stared unseeingly out the windshield for several minutes, trying to make the puzzle parts come together. His wife recognized the face of a man coming from the house. And Smith recognized the name. The name did not match the face. Unless, Smith thought suddenly, Mrs. Smith never knew the man's name in the first place. Or this could mean that there were two of them. The man Mrs. Smith saw and this James Churchward.
Tight-lipped, Smith closed his briefcase and slid behind the wheel. He sent his car in the direction of Folcroft Sanitarium. The sun was going down, but there was much more work to do today. The Folcroft computers might not contain any reference to a James Churchward, but somewhere, he knew, there was a computer that did. And Dr. Harold W. Smith knew that his computers would find that computer and extract the information.
It was now, without question, a top-priority matter.
Chapter 17
Remo raced into the benighted jungle, his eyes automatically compensating for the deeper darkness under tree cover. He glided like a phantom, his loafer-clad feet avoiding twigs and vines in an automatic way that Remo could not explain because his eyes weren't on the ground, but on the vine-choked path before him.
"Remo!" Chiun called breathily.
Remo halted, annoyed. He figured the chase for an easy one. And the quicker it was done, the sooner he could get back to the delectable Moovian maidens.
"What's the problem?" he demanded, hands on hips. "Do not blunder ahead like a fool, Remo," Chiun warned, halting beside him. He looked up at Remo with a grave face.
"What's the big deal?"
"And what is the rush?" Chiun countered.
"I don't want them to get away," Remo said defensively.
"And where would they go? We are on an island." Remo shrugged.
"And do not underestimate these people, Remo. They have dangerous weapons at their disposal."
"Come on, Chiun," Remo said, looking around. "Clubs and bone knives? I've been known to two-step between the bullets in a machine-gun crossfire, for crying out loud. No clown in bark briefs is going to get the drop on me."
"No?" asked Chiun. "Then what is that beside your left cheek?"
"Huh?" Remo said, turning. "It's a tree. So what?"
"And what is that sticking out of the tree?"
Remo looked closer. He saw a needlelike object projecting from the rough bark.