The hand was the last to go. After the fingers had released their grip on the handset, the hand practically evaporated.
Rumpp caught the cellular before it could hit the rug.
"When this is over with," he growled, "I'm gonna own that fucking suit. And I don't care who I have to screw over to get it."
Chapter 28
Major Yuli Batenin took little note of the strangeness that was taking place in the Rumpp Regis lobby. There were two persons, one in some Asian native costume and the other a Western man, engaged in making a racket-to the consternation of the desk staff. No doubt, he concluded, it was related to the odd holiday known as "Halloween."
Batenin had just had his first American breakfast in three years, and cared little for watching street performers. He had ordered a Spanish omelet, blueberry pancakes, a side order of wheat toast, orange juice, and two cups of good Brazilian coffee.
It had cost him the equivalent of a year's salary at the bread factory-or it would have, if he'd had any intention of settling his room tab-and probably taken three months off his life span in cholesterol consumption. But Major Batenin didn't care. His first American meal in three years. His first decent meal in the same amount of time. It sat in his stomach like a warm mountain of pleasure.
It was good to be working-truly working-at his craft again.
He strode to the elevator and rode it, humming "Moscow Nights," to his fourteenth-floor suite.
The elevator was old, but soundproofed. So he didn't hear the insistently ringing telephone in one corner of the supposedly nonexistent thirteenth floor.
IRS agent Gerard Vonneau could hear the phone all too clearly. It had been ringing for fifteen minutes now. If he got his hands on the damned thing, he was not only going to give the caller hell, but personally audit him until the end of time.
Gerard Vonneau was an agent for the New York regional office of the IRS. It was his job, along with a team of other agents, to inventory the staid old Rumpp Regis and prepare its contents for auction.
His responsibility was the thirteenth floor, which hotel records indicated had been set aside for no less than Randal Rumpp himself. Somewhere, he knew, there must be an office where that damned phone was jangling. It was the only explanation.
He was going to enjoy answering that telephone. He was going to take extreme pleasure in giving the caller hell. If he ever found it.
There were rings under Cheeta Ching's eyes as she tore apart the morning paper. On the front pages were blurry photos of the white floating thing her cameraman had filmed the night before. Each was credited to MBC News.
"I could just spit!" she hissed, as she ripped the papers to shreds with her busy talons.
The phone rang and she snapped it up, saying, "What is it?"
"Miss Ching. This is Gunilla."
"Right. How are you?" said Cheeta, having no idea who Gunilla was.
"They say you're willing to pay five hundred dollars for information on that witch lady."
Cheeta brightened. "You know where she is?"
"Yes. I'm her maid."
"Maid?"
"At the Rumpp Regis. Her room number is 182. But you'd better hurry. The IRS has taken over the place."
"The check's in the mail."
"But you don't know my-"
Cheeta Ching hung up and stormed from her Park Avenue penthouse.
Moments later, she burst out of a yellow cab in front of the Rumpp Regis Hotel, and stormed up the palatial steps toward the revolving doors.
She noticed a heavyset man in the revolving door. He was pounding on the brass-bound glass, as if he were somehow stuck.
Delpha Rohmer was doing phoners when a demanding knock came at her door. She tried to ignore it. She was speaking to a talk show in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, and judging from the hysterical tones of the callers, witch awareness was reaching new heights.
The knocking continued.
When the talk-show host called for a commercial break, Delpha excused herself and hurried to the door. She threw it open.
The sight of a plump maid with a red worried face was not exactly what she'd expected.
"Can't this wait?" Delpha huffed.
"No, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. My name is Gunilla, and I want to warn you that Ching woman is on her way right now. And she knows your room number."
If it had been possible for Delpha Rohmer to become more pale than her normal state, she would have done so. As it was, the only outward sign of her fright was a darkening of her mushroom eye shadow.
"Thanks," said Delpha, grabbing her coat. She thrust a five-dollar bill in the maid's plump hand and raced to the elevator, cursing the MBC news director, who had promised her absolute anonymity.
Remo Williams was trying to keep the beat on the stupid drum and at the same time avoid the bear hugs of various IRS revenue collectors.
Avoiding their clumsy grabs was easy. He barely had to pay attention. They tried to circle him, but he ducked and retreated effortlessly. They might as well have been wearing lead diving shoes while attempting to bear-hug a flock of doves.
Keeping time with the Master of Sinanju's jingling and caterwauling, however, was not easy. If there was a rhythm, Remo couldn't find it. If there was a beat, he couldn't keep it. So he just pounded on the stupid drum until the Master of Sinanju had finished his ceremonial spirit-chasing.
Then, suddenly, four strange and unexpected things happened at once.
First, Remo felt wrong. It was a kind of wrongness that was difficult to describe. His teeth hurt. His vision blurred for a microsecond, almost too quickly for an ordinary person to detect.
Chiun stopped in mid-warble.
"Remo!" he squeaked. "Something is wrong!"
"I know. I feel it, too."
They looked around. All seemed normal. Except for the persistent IRS operatives.
Then Remo noticed Delpha Rohmer hurrying from the elevator banks.
Simultaneously, the Master of Sinanju spied Cheeta Ching clopping in off the street.
Delpha and Cheeta were both headed toward the same thing: the revolving door.