"You think this might mean something?" Remo asked.
"It is hardly the job of the Master of Sinanju to examine bug droppings," Chiun said haughtily. "We will leave those details to Emperor Smith. White men enjoy dung. That is how they invented disco dancing and frozen food."
Remo forced open a locked drawer and found inside a sheaf of papers covered with mathematical equations and illegible notes.
"These are letters and things. Notes. They belonged to ... let's see." He turned over one of the envelopes. "A Dexter Morley. There's a bunch of letters after his name."
"Letters?" Chiun asked.
"Yeah. Degree letters. Like Ph.D. I think he's a doctor, whoever he is."
"Yes, a doctor. A veterinarian, no doubt," said Chiun, looking with distaste at the sinks filled with toads and salamanders.
Chapter 17
When Smith entered the apartment in St. Martin, Barry Schweid was huddled in a corner, away from the bright sun, his blue blanket draped over his shoulders.
He looked up as Smith came in and his forlorn face suddenly lit up with joy, as intense and as consuming as the firing of a flashbulb.
"You came back. You really came back," Barry shouted. He lifted his pudge to his feet.
"As I told you I would, Barry," Smith said. He was carrying the small attache case, containing the CURE files, which he had reclaimed from the airport locker in San Juan, Puerto Rico.
As he set it on a coffee table, the latch on the handle popped open, and with a sigh, Smith opened the case and picked up the telephone.
"Yes?"
"This is your office, Dr. Smith."
"I know who you are, Mrs. Mikulka."
The woman's voice was cheerier than it had been the previous day. "I just wanted you to know that. . . I think the problem was discussed ... I mean . . ."
"I'm sure you have everything under control, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.
"Oh, it wasn't me. It was all very mysterious and then I got this telegram and-"
"Mrs. Mikulka, I really have to be on about my business," Smith said. "Perhaps this conversation will wait."
"I understand, Dr. Smith. About my resignation . . ."
"You're not resigning," Smith said flatly.
"I thought you'd want me to," she said.
"I don't know where you got that idea," Smith said.
"Well, it . . . uh, well . . ." she sputtered.
"Carry on, Mrs. Mikulka."
When he replaced the phone, Barry Schweid asked, "Can I get you some Kool-Aid, Harold?"
"No, Barry."
"Here. I already poured it." He handed Smith a glass of something vaguely green.
Smith took it. "It's not cold," he said.
"The ice melted. I poured it yesterday just after you left. I really missed you, Harold."
Smith cleared his throat.
"I tried to fill up my time, though. I collected rocks and worked on cosmic refractions that store all your files and talked to your friend Remo on the telephone."
"What?" Smith glared at the butterball little man. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? When did he call?"
"This morning. He said something about a man named Perriweather."
"What about him?" Smith said angrily.
"He didn't know. He wanted you to find out who he was." As Schweid spoke, he opened Smith's attache case and began to speak aloud as he typed onto the keyboard:
"Waldron Perriweather the Third, Address . . ." Smith went into the kitchen, poured out the Kool-Aid and drew a glass of cold water from the faucet. When he reentered the living room, Schweid handed him a long sheet of paper. Smith glanced at it, then nodded.
"Did I do good, Harold? Are you happy with me?"
"You did fine, Barry," Smith said. He called Remo at the IHAEO labs but was told they were out of town in Massachusetts.
Reading from Barry Schweid's computer printout, Smith dialed Perriweather's telephone number. "Speak," came a familiar voice.
"Smith here. What's on your mind, Remo?"
"What's on my mind is that last night we had to get rid of an atomic bomb. And now we've got three bodies here and a goddamn bone zoo. You think you could cut short the island madness and come lend a hand?"
"Who are the three bodies?" Smith asked. "Don't know."
"Who killed them?"
"We did. Well, two of them," Remo said. "Listen, Smitty, there's too much to explain over the phone. Speaking of which, who's the dork you have answering the phone? I didn't think anybody was allowed to answer your phone."
"That's usually correct," Smith said. "But these were extraordinary circumstances."
"What's that mean?"
"I was called away on business," Smith said.