"To Mr. Plum's office. Naturally."
"Where is that?"
"In the office across the hall."
Remo looked. The clerk was pointing to the office where the tweedy man Remo had first accosted had disappeared.
"This Plum," Remo said. "Is he about six feet tall, sandy hair, and built on the lean side?"
"I believe he is, sir. Ah, here comes the response now."
A block of text appeared on the screen. Remo tried to read it over the clerk's shoulder, but the man had already digested the text and was erasing it by holding down the delete key.
He turned in his swivel chair and expressed his regrets with a pointed smile.
"I'm sorry, sir. But Mr. Plum is not available to callers at this time. If you'd like to leave your name . . ."
"I already did. Remember?"
"I fear I no longer have that particular information on my terminal. I shall have to take it again." His fingers lifted over the keys. "Mere formality. It shan't take long."
"It's already taken too long," Remo grumbled. "Come on, Little Father."
Remo skirted the profusion of desks and went through the unmarked door. Chiun floated after him, serene of face.
Clive Plum, manager of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, was in the middle of a phone conversation, his eyes on the interoffice computer transmission, when the office door opened with a bang. Remo appeared before him as if teleported there.
"My dear man," he said, rising involuntarily. "I don't believe you have a proper appointment."
"The name is Remo," the man said curtly in a rude American accent. "And I'll settle for an improper appointment. Just so long as we get this done."
"I see," Plum said. His eyes went to the phone clutched in his hand.
"I won't be a mo," he said. Into the phone he said, "Knight to Queen's Bishop Three." And then he hung up.
"I play chess by phone," he explained self-consciously.
"I'd be embarrassed to admit it too," Remo said casually. "And you're holding up my retirement with small talk. You people reported a Hong Kong stock sell-off fifteen minutes before it happened. Where did that report come from?"
" I must tell you, my dear fellow," Plum said, "that the SEC does not have jurisdiction here. This is Hong Kong, a crown colony. We are subject to British authority. And British authority only."
Remo leaned over and took the telephone receiver in one hand. He squeezed. The plastic creaked. When Remo replaced it on the cradle, it resembled a dog's chew bone.
Remo smiled without humor. "Right now," he said, "you're subject to American intimidation."
"I see," Plum said weakly. "Well, all reports such as this go through our computer room. Perhaps it was a computer malfunction."
"Perhaps you'd better show me," Remo said in the same too-polite tone. He gestured toward the door.
Plum stood up, adjusting the cut of his charcoal-gray Edwardian suit. "I really must protest-"
"Protest all you want-after we're done. Call the SEC. Call the President. Just don't waste my time. Got that?"
"I believe I do," Plum said, coming around the desk.
Remo followed him with his eyes, noticing for the first time that Chiun wasn't in the room. On the way out of the room Plum picked up a silver-headed cane from a wooden rack by the door.
Remo followed him into the hall, where Chiun was engaged in conversation with a pair of white-gloved Hong Kong police officers. They were speaking in Cantonese, so the trend of the conversation was lost on Remo.
"I say . . ." Plum began, lifting his stick in the direction of the police.
Plum broke into a relieved smile as the police surged toward him. The smile went south-along with the faces of the two officers. As they passed the Master of Sinanju, they inexplicably tripped over their own feet.
It was one of the oddest sights Plum ever recalled seeing. Not only did both men trip, but they tripped in perfect synchronization, without having encountered any impediment in their path.
Most remarkably, they did not rise again.
"Ready, Little Father?" Remo asked.
"I would watch this one," Chiun said, drawing near. He nodded in Plum's direction. "He signaled for police in some fashion. But they will not bother us for a while."
"Meet Chiun," Remo told Plum.
"Charmed," Plum said through a frozen polite smile. It stayed on his face like a 3-D tattoo all the way to the computer room, six floors above.
"Where is Ian?" Plum asked a white-coated technician.
"I believe Ian is in the loo, sir."
"What's a loo?" Remo asked Chiun.
"The lavatory."
"Now that I know what a loo is, what's a lavatory?"
"I believe Americans call it the bathroom," Chiun said.
"Tell you what," Plum offered. "As Ian's superior, why don't I fetch him?"
"Just make it snappy," Remo said sourly.
Plum did. He came out almost as quickly as he went in. "Summon the police," he said, aghast. "Ian has been murdered."
"What!" Remo went into the rest room like a rocket. He found a young man seated on the toilet, his pants down around his knees, his forearms clutching his stomach and his eyes staring into eternity.
Remo smelled the blood before he saw it. It was dripping from the man's crossed forearms. Remo separated the arms. There were a dozen puncture wounds in Ian's naked abdomen.