"Englewood's in New Jersey," Remo said.
"Then you will probably still find it there," Chiun said. "Silence."
"Finish it up," Remo said. "Then put on your tape machine. You're coming with me."
"Of course. Order me around."
"Why not? It's all your fault," said Remo.
Chiun refused to answer. He fastened his gaze onto the small color television screen.
Remo went to the telephone. His first call to the private line in Smith's office drew a screeching whistle that indicated he had dialed wrong. After two more tries resulted in the same response, he decided the telephone had been disconnected.
On a chance, he called a private number that rang on the desk of Smith's secretary in his outer office.
The telephone rang eight times before it was picked up and the familiar voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Smitty, how are you?"
"Remo--"
Remo saw Valerie watching him. "Just a minute," he said.
He picked up Valerie by her still-bound legs.
"What are you doing, swine?"
"Quiet," said Remo. He put her in a clothes closet and shut the door.
"Bitch. Bastard. Rotten bastard," she yelled, but the heavy door muffled the noise and Remo nodded with satisfaction as he picked up the telephone.
"Yeah, Smitty, sorry."
"Anything to report?" Smith asked.
"Just for once," Remo said, "couldn't you say something pleasant? Like 'hello' and 'how are you'? Couldn't you do that just for once?"
"Hello, Remo. How are you?"
"I don't want to talk to you," Remo said. "I just decided I don't want you to be my friend."
"All right, then," said Smith. "With that out of the way, have you anything to report?"
"Yes. The girl Bobbi Delpheen has been grabbed by those Indians."
"Where did this happen?"
"In my hotel room."
"And you let it happen?"
"I wasn't here."
"And Chiun?" asked Smith.
"He was busy. He was turning on his television set."
"Wonderful," said Smith dryly. "Everything's coming down around our ears, and I'm dealing with an absentee and a soap opera freak."
"Yeah, well, just calm yourself down. As it happens, we have a lead. A very good lead, and now I don't think I'm going to tell you about it."
"Now or never," said Smith and allowed himself a little chuckle that sounded like a bubble escaping from a pan of boiling vinegar.
"What does that mean?"
"I've finished dismantling this place now. There are too many federal agents around and we're just too vulnerable. We're closing down for a while."
"How will I reach you?"
"I've told my wife we're going on vacation. We've found a little place near Seboomook Mountain in Maine. This will be the number there." He gave Remo a number which Remo remembered automatically by scratching it into the varnish of the table with his right thumbnail.
"Do you have it?"
"I've got it," Remo said.
"It's odd for you to remember something first try," Smith said.
"I didn't call so you could bitch about my memory."
"No, of course not." Smith seemed to want to say more, but no more words came.
"How long are you going to be up there?" Remo asked.
"I don't know," Smith said. "If it looks like people are getting too close and that the organization might be exposed, well… we might just stay there."
Smith spoke slowly, almost offhandedly, but Remo knew what he meant. If Smith and his wife "stayed there," it would be because dead men did not move, and Smith would choose death before risking exposure of the secret organization to which he had devoted more than ten years.
Remo wondered if he would ever be able to look forward to death with Smith's calmness, a calmness born of knowing he had done his job well.
Remo said, "I don't want you staying up there too long. You may get to like the idea of vacations. You might retire."
"Would it bother you?"
"Who'd pay off my expense accounts? My Texaco card?"