Amazed voices lifted at the sight of the round red sucker marks that decorated Remo's chest and arms. "Ru-Taki-Nuhu!" they whispered. "The white one has fought Ru-Taki-Nuhu and lives!"
When they at last came to the feast circle in front of the Royal Palace, the High Moo stood waiting with folded arms. His daughter hovered at his side.
Red Feather Guards stepped forward as Remo and Chiun set down their burden. They poked and stabbed at the corpses with spears, seeking signs of life.
"All are dead," one reported to the High Moo. The High Moo strode up to the Master of Sinanju. "You have brought me twelve kills, and twelve is the number the traitor of a royal priest swore served Ru-Taki-Nuhu. The octopus cult is no more. You have lived up to your word, Master of Sinanchu and have earned the full fee due to you."
"Payable on demand," said Chiun.
"I will be glad to store it for you in the royal treasure house for the length of your stay," the High Moo suggested.
"And I accept," Chiun said with a quick bow.
"The full hospitality of Moo is yours."
"My ... slave and I are weary. We have had a long journey and ate much this evening. We require rest. A few hours only."
"Come, rooms have been prepared in my palace. Dolla-Dree, show Remo to his room. I will escort the Master of Sinanchu to his quarters personally."
"Hello again," Remo said when the Low Moo came to take him by the arm.
"Will you tell me how you vanquished them before you sleep?" she asked, admiring the red marks on his arms.
"Sure," Remo said.
"Do not believe all he says," Chiun warned. "He will try to take more credit than is his due."
"No, I won't," Remo said, winking at the Low Moo. "Chiun helped. Some."
And Remo hurried into the palace ahead of Chiun's flurry of invective.
Chapter 21
It was raining when Dr. Harold W. Smith's flight landed at Boston's Logan Airport.
He waited ten minutes at the underground exit of Terminal B for a free MBTA bus to the Blue Line subway stop. He rode the rattling train five stops to Government Center, walked upstairs, and switched to a Green Line trolley, riding it one stop to Park Street. The rain had tapered off to a sullen sprinkle when Smith emerged on the corner of Tremont and Park streets at the edge of Boston Common. He walked down Tremont.
The office of Michael P. Brunt was above an antiquarian bookstore on West Street. Trudging up the dingy steps, Smith found an empty reception room.
He stood for a moment, uncertainly clutching his briefcase. He wiped rainwater off his rimless glasses. He cleared his throat.
The inner door opened and a square-faced man built along the lines of a refrigerator in a blue serge suit poked his unshaven chin out.
"You Mr. Brown?" he demanded.
"Yes," Smith lied.
"You look more like Mr. Gray. But come in anyway. Sorry about the secretary. I sent her out for some bullets. I kinda ran out on my last case."
The office was cluttered, Smith noticed, as he entered. Papers overflowed a wastepaper basket. The window was a film of grime that looked out over row of graying buildings so nondescript they might have been painted on the glass by an indifferent artist.
Mike Brunt dropped behind his desk. His wooden chair squeaked loudly. The set looked as if it had once seen service in a high school. He leaned back and set sizethirteen brogans on the desktop, showing Smith the color of his left sock through a hole in the sole. It was white. On the wall behind him was a framed cloth saying: "When in Doubt, Punt, Bunt, or Shoot to Kill." It was done in needlepoint.
"I will come right to the point," Smith said, seating himself primly on a vinyl chair, his briefcase on his knees.
"I don't charge for the initial consultation," Brunt said, running a toothpick under his nails. He made a little pile of grayish ash on the desktop. "Unless you hire me. Then I try to sneak it into the expense sheet somewhere." He grinned disarmingly.
"Yes. Well, I have a matter that only someone in your profession can handle."
"You got the crime, I got the time," Brunt sang.
"I have had an important personal item stolen from my home. I know who stole it and I know where this person lives."
"And you want it back?"
"Yes. It is quite important to me. The police say they can do nothing. My suspicions aren't enough for them to question the man."
"Okay, I'll bite. What's missing? The family jewels? Gorbachev's birthmark? The Bermuda Triangle?"
Smith hesitated, wondering if he shouldn't feign a weak smile. He decided not. He was growing uncomfortable with this man, who seemed to take nothing seriously. Doesn't he want work? Smith's computers had spit out his name as one of the least prosperous private investigators in the Northeast. Certainly such a man would be desperate for clients.
"It's a tea service," Smith said at last.
Brunt cocked a skeptical eye at Smith. "A tea service?" he said dryly.
"Sterling. It's been in my family for over a hundred years. It has great sentimental value."
"At my prices, you'd be better off switching to coffee."
"It's an heirloom," Smith said stubbornly.
"Takes all kinds," Mike Brunt said laconically.
"The man's name is James Churchward. He lives at 334 Larchwood Place in Rye, New York. I happen to know he is away on vacation this week, but I do not know where. This would be the ideal time to search his house for my property. I have taken the liberty of writing out a check for your usual one-day fee." Smith started to rise, the check in hand.
"Whoa! Did I say I was taking this case?"
"No. But it is not a difficult task. A simple break-in."
"Break-ins are illegal."
"Yes, I know. But I have nowhere else to turn. And I understood that people in your ... ah ... profession do this type of work all the time."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean Mike Brunt stoops that low. Hey, you may not know it from his office, but I have scruples. Somewhere. Maybe in that filing cabinet. Under C, if I know my secretary."
"Well, then, I won't waste any more of your time," Smith said, starting to rise again.