The door was locked, the kind of lock in which a small pin shoots out from the lock mechanism and prevents the knob from turning. But if the knob is turned anyway, Remo found, the pin is sheared off and the door will open.
He pushed open the door. Curpwell was slumped forward on his desk. Remo covered the fifteen feet in just three steps.
Curpwell was not a pretty sight. His head lay on the desk blotter between his arms. His hands were threaded with small strings of blood from tiny puncture holes made in each finger and in the backs of his hands. There were the same puncture wounds in his ears and cheeks. Remo felt sticky blood under his fingers as he looked for a pulse in Curpwell's neck. There was only a faint pulsation.
Curpwell's secretary stood in the doorway, her hand to her mouth.
"Quick," Remo said. "Get a doctor. He's been hurt. Then call the sheriff. And for God's sake, close the door."
The doctor would do no good. He would be too late. The sheriff was as worthless as a banker's smile. But Remo did want the door closed. He wanted to be alone with the dying man.
He reached down inside Curpwell's shirt and with strong hands began to tap the chest in the area over the man's heart. He leaned Curpwell back into his chair and spoke into his ear.
"Curpwell, it's Remo. Remo Blomberg. What happened?"
Curpwell's eyes opened and Remo saw that they had been punctured too. Blood had dried inside each eye and they stared forward unseeing, each bearing a deep wound which had cost Curpwell his sight and would soon cost him his life.
"Curpwell. What happened?" Remo repeated.
"Remo." The man spoke slowly, agonizingly. "They thought I made earthquakes. Wanted me to tell secret."
"Who did?" Remo asked.
"Mafia. Man named Musso. Had an ice pick."
Remo's hands kept working on Curpwell's chest and the voice came a little stronger now.
"Remo? Remo Blomberg?"
"Yes. I'm right here."
"Mafia wants earthquake secret. You call . . . you call Captain Walters of State Police. Tell him. Important he knows."
"Captain Walters?"
"Yes. Sure to tell him. Important." Curpwell gasped, a giant gulp of air.
"Curpwell, I've got to know something. Mafia guys came after me too. Did you send them?"
"No. Don't know about it."
"Do you know who's behind the earthquakes?"
"No."
"Where did this Musso go?"
"Go? Musso? Oh." His face twisted as he remembered something important. "Think they went to see Professor Forben ... er ... Doctor Quake. They said. Stop them. They'll kill him." He gasped in air again, but his voice gurgled and cracked, rattling in his throat. He slumped forward.
Remo stopped massaging his chest. There was nothing more to do. He slowly placed Curpwell's head back against the seat. Then Curpwell spoke again.
"Remo. Tell me truth. You from the government?"
Remo leaned close to his ear again. "Yes," he said.
"Good," Curpwell said, trying to crack a smile past the dried blood on his face. "Must stop earthquake people. Don't let Mafia get hands on it."
"Don't worry, Les. I won't."
Curpwell died against Remo's hand, a small smile hardened on his bloody punctured face. Remo gently lay his head down on the desk.
The secretary was still on the telephone when he stepped out of the office. "You can slow down," he said. "No hurry now."
Remo had dropped the Cadillac at his house when he let Chiun off. Down in front now, he got back into his rented red hardtop, gunned the engine, and sped off toward the hills overlooking the valley, where he knew the Richter Institute was. His ears picked up the sound of sirens behind him. It would be the doctor. Maybe Wyatt.
So he had been wrong. It wasn't Curpwell. One innocent man dead, and maybe Remo-by refusing to pay the quake insurance, by accusing Curpwell of being behind it-maybe Remo had played a part in getting him killed. Now there was Doctor Quake to worry about.
Outside the town, the black roadway suddenly became bare of curbing, then the occasional gas stations and car washes vanished. The roadway was bare and heat-soaked, sending up waves that shimmered and made the road ahead always look wet.
Off to the side, Remo saw a glass encased telephone booth.
He pulled up to it, skidding dirt and rocks as he veered off onto the shoulder. He jammed on his brakes and hopped out through the passenger's door. He glanced at his watch. About noon. Smith should be there.
He dialed the direct 800 area code number that went to Smith from anywhere.
It was answered on the first ring.
"Smith."
"Remo."
"What's happened?"
"A man named Curpwell was killed. The Mafia's in on this now. They tried to get him to talk about the quakes. Another gang of Mafia goons tried to kill me and Chiun today."
"The Mafia," Smith said, as if repeating to himself the latest chess move in an opening unfamiliar to him. "The Mafia, hmmmm."
"Goddamit, Dr. Smith, stop muttering to yourself."
"Under no circumstances must the Mafia get its hands on this."
"I know that," Remo said heatedly. "One thing."
"What?"
"Before Curpwell died, he said I should tell a Captain Walters of the state police that the Mafia was interested in earthquakes."