Looking over, Chiun saw Remo's arm leveled at a comical figure striding down Broadway. He was dressed like a black-and-yellow insect. His step as he walked was springy. The antennae on his shiny forehead bounced happily.
"There's our Bee-Master!" Remo shouted. "Come on."
Remo raced to the door to the roof. Sensing the Master of Sinanju was not behind him, he paused. "Shake a leg, Little Father."
Chiun shook his head in the negative. "No. That is not him."
"What do you mean, it's not him?"
"Look at his legs. He is dressed as a wasp."
"Yeah. So?"
"A yellow jacket is a wasp, not a bee."
"That makes him a not-bee, right?"
"No," Chiun said stubbornly. "A not-bee is a thing entirely different. Go without me. For you go on a fool's errand."
Remo hit the stairs, flashing to street level faster than an elevator could carry him. By the time he got out into the rushing river of New Yorkers, there was no sign of his quarry.
Remo looked up Broadway. Then down. Then he heard the high, anxious droning filtering down from the sky.
Above him, Chiun gave a warning hiss. Remo knew that sound. He ducked back into the building and held the glass-and-brass door shut with both hands, and started wishing he had accepted that extra pair of earmuffs from Chiun.
The weird sound came and went quickly. When it was gone, Remo stepped out cautiously.
Moving with every sense alert because he had no defense against the voracious insects that were too small to see, Remo worked toward a gathering knot of people.
They were crowding around a dead man lying in the middle of stopped traffic. The dead man was dressed like a yellow jacket wasp. A cop was kneeling over the body. When he got the man's golden helmet off, the eyes behind the green compound lenses looked as if they had been gouged out.
Remo looked away from the dead man toward Chiun, still stationed several floors above, and shrugged his shoulders elaborately.
Chiun ignored him. Remo waved him down. Finally, the old Korean disappeared from the parapet edge.
When Chiun joined Remo a few minutes later, Remo was saying, "This doesn't make any sense. Look at him. Bee-Master's own bugs killed him."
Before Chiun could speak, a small voice at their side said, "That isn't Bee-Master."
Remo looked down. A boy of about thirteen with blond hair cut in a mushroom fade stood there.
"Who asked you?" said Remo.
"Nobody. But you called him Bee-Master. Everybody knows Bee-Master wears a silver cybernetic helmet with infrared goggles. That's Death Yellowjacket."
"Death Yellowjacket?"
"Yeah. He's much cooler."
"Not anymore," said Remo. "He's dead."
"That's not the real Death Yellowjacket, just some guy dressed like him for the convention," the buy said.
"What convention?" asked Remo.
The boy puffed out his chest. On his T-shirt's front was a legend of Day-Glo green and red: New York Comic Collectors' Spectacular.
"The comic convention," the boy said. "At the Marriott. I just came from there." He held up a fat sheaf of comic books sealed in clear Mylar envelopes.
Noticing this, Chiun asked, "Do you have any Donald Duck?"
"Naw. Nobody reads about ducks anymore. It's all superheroes."
By now, an ambulance was pulling up, and the police were pushing the crowd back.
"Did you see this guy at the convention?" Remo asked the kid.
"No. But there's a costume contest at six. He was probably dressed for that. Too bad he died. Bet he'd cop first prize."
Remo and Chiun swapped looks. Remo's was puzzled, and Chiun's was bland.
"Tell me, kid," said Remo. "Why would Bee-Master want to kill Death Yellowjacket?"
"He wouldn't. Bee-Master wouldn't kill anyone. He's old-fashioned that way. On the other hand, Death Yellowjacket kicks butt and takes no names."
"Humor me. If Bee-Master wanted to kill Death Yellowjacket, what's his motive?"
"That's simple. Death Yellowjacket outsells Bee-Master two to one. And bees and wasps hate each other anyway."
"Told you so," said the Master of Sinanju in a serenely smug tone of voice.
At the Marriott Marquis, they were told that the man in the yellow jacket costume was registered under the name of Morris Baggot.
They were about to leave when Chiun happened to look up and noticed a man in black spandex descending in one of the capsulelike glass elevators. His head was encased in a stainless-steel helmet mask with glowing red eyes.
"Observe," Chiun hissed.
Remo looked up. "Uh-oh." He called the desk clerk's attention to the descending elevator. "You wouldn't happen to know who that is, would you?"
The desk clerk did. "That's Mr. Pym," he said.
"Pym? Not Peter Pym?"
"That's right. Do you know him?"
"Only by reputation," growled Remo. "What's his room number?"