"I have no idea," said Harold W Smith truthfully, wondering what on earth could be making the noise. It struck his ears as vaguely familiar, but he could not for the life of him place it.
"YOU HEARD that drumming, too?" Remo asked Chiun after the IRS agents and Harold Smith had finished clumping up the basement steps.
"Yes."
"Sound familiar to you?"
Chiun's eyes became knife-blade creases in the wizened dough of his face. "Yes, but I cannot recall where I have heard this strange sound."
They continued listening. Soon the sounds faded away as if whatever was beating on the drum-if it was a drum-was going down a very long corridor.
They stepped from the shadows. "This isn't getting any better for Smith," said Remo.
"He is equal to that loud cockroach."
"Maybe one on one, but that little red-faced jerk represents the IRS. And they've definitely got a mad on for Smith."
Chiun sniffed derisively. "They do not suspect who they are dealing with. Emperor Smith controls mighty armies, spies beyond number and vast wealth greater than that of the pharaohs."
"None of which he can touch right now. Look, his computers are down for good, he can't reach the President, and the IRS is riding him hard. Let's face it. CURE is finished."
"It is finished when Smith informs me that it is finished. Until then, we fight on."
"Fine. You fight on. I have an errand to run."
"What erand?"
Remo lifted his T-shirt and tapped a letter tucked into his waistband. "I slipped this out of Smith's office when no one was looking. It's that dippy letter he thought was so important. I gotta mail it."
"Hold," said Chiun, lifting a long fingernail.
Remo's eyes flicked to the fingernail and too late back to his waistband. He never felt the letter leave, so expertly did Chiun remove it.
"You are not the only one who can make things disappear," Chiun said aridly.
"What manner of address is this-FPO and a number?"
"Means Fleet Post Office. Guy's probably in the Navy."
The Master of Sinanju lifted the letter to the weak 25-watt bulbs and frowned unhappily.
"Bad manners to read someone else's mail," Remo pointed out.
"It is stupid to mail a letter whose contents one does not know in case it bears tidings that could harm the mailer."
And the Master of Sinanju blew on the flap once, then slipped a fingernail in. The flap snapped open without tearing. He withdrew the letter. Remo crowded around to read it, too.
Dear Nephew,
Congratulations. This is the year you reach your twenty-first birthday. You are now ready to take your place in the world and no longer require or are due any further assistance from me, whether financial or spiritual. Please accept my sincere good wishes on your future, and under no circumstances return to visit the place where you were raised.
Dutifully, Uncle Harold
"Nice guy," said Remo. "He just told his nephew to kiss off forever."
"It is his right," said Chiun.
"Well," said Remo. "This doesn't concern us. It's family stuff. I'll mail the letter and we can forget it." Chiun handed the letter and envelope back and said with a disdainful sniff, "Whites have no appreciation of family ties."
Remo took the letter, stared at it and said, "Aren't you going to reseal it?"
"You are the postman. That is your task." "What are you going to do?"
"Find Beasley! "
Frowning, Remo resealed the letter with his tongue. It tasted so bitter he spit his mouth dry. And when he remembered who must have licked the flap in the first place, he spit twice more for good measure.
Remo slipped from the basement and made his way to the brick wall that enclosed the Folcroft grounds on three sides. He went over the fence in one leap, landed on the other side and went in search of his car.
He found it down the road with an IRS seizure sign clipped under a window wiper with a yellow Denver boot immobilizing the right front tire.
Kneeling, Remo took hold of the gripping mechanism and began wrenching odd pieces away. They snapped under his powerful fingers until the tire was freed. Then he drove off, whistling.
When he reached town, Remo stood in line for twenty minutes at the Rye post office waiting to mail the letter to Harold Smith's nephew, Winston.
The mail clerk said, "You'll need an express envelope and an air bill. You can fill them out at the counter over there."
"I just stood in line twenty freaking minutes," Remo protested.
"You're supposed to fill out the air bill before you get in line."
"Where does it say that?"
"Nowhere. You're supposed to know these things."
Grumbling, Remo got out of line, dropped the envelope in a cardboard mailer, sealed it and filled out the air bill. After another ten minutes in line, the same clerk took the cardboard mailer, weighed it and said, "Eight seventy-five, please."
Remo dug into his pockets and found only a crumpled-up five-dollar bill and an old buffalo-head nickel.
"Take a credit card?" he asked.
"No."
"Damn."
Stepping out, Remo noticed a Western Union office across the street and went in. "You accept major credit cards?" he asked the clerk.