"Good," Smith said, returning to his terminal. That mesmerized expression came over his face again. Remo nudged Chiun. Chiun shrugged.
"If you need us, we'll be at Mount Rushmore, shaving off Teddy Roosevelt's mustache," Remo said.
"Have a safe trip," Smith replied vaguely. Remo sighed:
"Good-bye, machine," Chiun said to the computer.
"Farewell, Master of Sinanju. See you soon."
"Not if I see you first," Chiun said when they got to the hall elevator. "I do not like her," he told Remo firmly.
"Her? Now she's got you doing it too."
"You just called her a she."
"We're going to have to have a long talk with Smitty when we get back," Remo said as the elevator doors closed on his unhappy face.
Chapter 21
Henri Arnaud was very old. He had outlived his friends and every relative he cared about. All he had left were his trains.
He walked among them one last time, his cleft chin lifted in defiance to the cruelties of fate.
It was not so bad for himself. He would not live much longer. The zest for life had faded long ago. But his trains were different. He had hoped that they would survive him. But times changed. A hundred years ago, the train was as romantic as a fine auto. Fifty years ago, it was nostalgic. But in this age of Concorde jets and space shuttles, the train was an anachronism.
And the Arnaud Railway Museum was a conclave of anachronisms. Fewer and fewer people attended it each year. It had been ten years since Henri Arnaud had let go of his last greeter. Now he was greeter, accountant, and, when necessary, janitor.
No more.
Touching the shining flank of a 1929 four-cylinder de Glehn compound locomotive, Henri Arnaud reflected on how suddenly one's fortunes could be reversed.
He had survived the Depression and German conquest, and even the most recent stock-market crash had not diminished his family wealth. It was the Arnaud money that had enabled Henri Arnaud to assemble this collection-some purchased from dying rail lines, others reclaimed from the junkyards of the world. The 1876 Paris-Orleans 265-390 was his prize. It was the only surviving model. The 1868 L'Avenir was a treasure. He had purchased it in 1948. One wing contained American engines. Less aesthetically pleasing, but in their way fascinating because of their raw power:
A magnificent collection, rivaling the great railway museums of the Continent. Now it was about to be broken up and scattered to the four winds. Just like that.
Heaving a gentle sigh, Henri Arnaud wished that he could turn back the clock. Not much. Just a week. One last week to enjoy his collection. One final sunny weekend to greet the tourists. Even American tourists with their infantile questions would be welcome. But last week it had rained and no one had come. Then, Henri Arnaud had not thought much of it. There would be other weekends.
For Henri Arnaud, yes. For the Arnaud Railway Museum, alas, no.
It had all disintegrated with a phone call and a familiar voice.
"Ah, mon ami, it is good of you to call," Henri Arnaud had told his mellow-voiced friend. He had never met this wizard of an investment counselor. It did not matter. For years, Friendship, International had managed his portfolio. So when Monsieur Friend had called, Henri Arnaud's humor had brightened in spite of the lowering clouds over the Pyrenees.
"I have unfortunate news," Friend had said.
"Not a death in your family, I hope."
"No," Friend had said. "But I am deeply distressed to inform you that you are personally bankrupt."
Henri Arnaud clutched the telephone. Could it be? "How? Why?" he croaked, trying to get a grip on himself.
"An unforeseen repercussion of the crash. Some investments I selected for you have dried up. Others are faltering. I am divesting even as we speak."
"This is terrible. This is so unexpected."
"A pity," Friend had agreed. "I myself have lost millions."
"I am so sorry for you," Henri Arnaud said sincerely. And he meant it. After all, he was an old man. Friend sounded at best thirty-five. Very young. The poor unfortunate man.
"Thank you," Friend replied graciously.
"I will survive."
"As will I, I am sure."
"Not without some further liquidation. You're over seven million francs in debt."
"Debt? Impossible!"
"I will send you a full report and accounting. But my preliminary assessment is that the only certain avenue to solvency would be to liquidate your museum."
"I would of course be retained as a greeter," Henri Arnaud said stiffly. "It would be all that I would ask."
"I did not say sell. I said liquidate. The collection would be broken up."
"Non! That would be outrageous. Non, non! It is all I have left of my life."
"I am sorry, friend Arnaud. But your advanced years make an extreme solution mandatory. I had hoped you would see the necessity of this unpleasant solution. After all, you have had your life."
Henri Arnaud was a stubborn man. But he was also a sensible man. He drew himself up proudly, even though he was alone in his genteel parlor.
"You ... you would find them good homes?" he asked quietly.
"The best. I know several wealthy collectors-much like you in your younger days. Think of it not as a liquidation, if you wish, but as a bequest to the younger generation."
"I have no choice," Henri Arnaud said finally, a catch in his raspy voice.
"You will send me a letter of execution?"
"Oui, oui. Naturellement. Now, please, I feel unwell."
"Then I will not keep you. It has been a pleasure to serve."
Only days ago, thought Henri Arnaud. But he had not slept since then. All the fears of old age that he had successfully beaten off with work had come to roost upon his stooped shoulders like heavy-headed vultures.
Within an hour, the transport men would arrive. The trains would be hoisted onto great trucks and taken to the seaport of Marseilles, and from there shipped to some distant port. Arnaud had not asked where. He did not wish to know.