"Smitty," he said. "We'll meet you in St. Louis and discuss this some more."
"I can't get away," Smith protested.
"You have to get away. This all won't wait. If you don't go to St. Louis," he said "don't look for us there."
Smith paused for a moment, to try to unravel the logic of that sentence, then surrendered to it. "I'll be there tomorrow," he said.
"Good," said Remo. "Bring enough money for a house."
He hung up and told Chiun, "We're going to St. Louis."
"Good," said Chiun. "Let us go now."
"Why the hurry?"
"Soon those four cowlike females will come to their senses and they will be back. What do I need with four servants?"
Remo nodded.
"When I have you," Chiun said.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dr. Harold W. Smith woke up at 3:45 a.m. He let his wife sleep as he went into the kitchen and prepared one slice of whole wheat toast, light, without butter, one two-and-a-half-minute egg and a four-ounce glass filled with two ounces of lemon juice and two ounces of prune juice, his only concession to the possibility of originality in the kitchen.
He followed the breakfast with a glass of lukewarm water, then re-entered the bedroom where he picked up the two-suiter he had packed the night before, planted a kiss on the cheek of his still-sleeping wife, who tried to swat it away, and then drove to his office.
Something had been niggling at his mind since he had first gotten the name from an informant of Professor William Westhead Wooley of Edgewood University, and he planned to make one last check.
He was waved through the gate of Folcroft Sanitarium, which served as headquarters for CURE, the secret organization he had headed since its formation. When he parked his car in his private parking space in the otherwise empty lot, he took a notebook from his pocket and jotted down a reminder to do something about the front gate security which was becoming a little bit too lax, even for an institution masquerading as a sanitarium for the wealthy ill and an educational research center.
Alone in his office, Smith quickly composed a retrieval memo to be fed into CURE'S computers. He wanted anything on Wooley, Edgewood University, and television inventions.
The computer returned only a trade journal report that said "word has it that a major breakthrough in television technology has almost been perfected and an announcement is expected soon."
That was all.
Smith crumpled up the report and dropped it into the shredder basket next to his desk. He set a series of locks that would prevent anyone but himself from tapping into the CURE computer system for information, then turned out the lights, locked up behind him, and went back to his car.
He bought a New York Times at the airport and when he was safely on the T.C.A. 6 a.m. "early bird" to St. Louis, he started to read the paper, thoroughly, story by story.
And on page 32, he found a story that told him why two major Mafia figures were on their way to the Midwest to meet with an obscure college professor.
Already in St. Louis, Don Salvatore Massello was reading the same story which told how the television networks were sending representatives to Edgewood University where a conference had been called by Dr. William Westhead Wooley to announce "the greatest technological breakthrough in the history of television."
The conference was getting underway that night.
Don Salvatore swore softly under his breath. The story meant that he would have very little time to negotiate with Wooley before Grassione would have to be turned loose on the man. And if the television networks showed any interest in Wooley's invention, as they surely would, it would certainly drive Wooley's price up out of Don Salvatore's reach. And other people's involvement meant that the secret of Wooley's invention was just that much more vulnerable to public disclosure.
Don Salvatore snapped the paper closed and leaned forward to check in the rear-view mirror. Grassione's car, driven by that strange looking Oriental who had accompanied him, was still behind the Don's as they pulled into the closed boatyard and arrived at Massello's tied-up yacht.
He politely offered Grassione and his men the use of his yacht as their headquarters and home while in St. Louis, as custom required.
"No, Don Salvatore," Grassione said. "We're going straight to the campus to look it over for the hit."
"If there is a hit," Massello reminded him.
"Of course, Don Salvatore," Grassione said. "But if there is to be a hit, I want to know everything I can about this college and all, so we can do it and get out without trouble."
Massello nodded his approval as Grassione's car turned and drove off. On his way from the boatyard, Grassione sank deeper into the seat and thought that Don Salvatore was very bright, but he didn't know everything.
For instance, he didn't know that Grassione's uncle, Don Pietro Scubisci, had personally visited Grassione the night before to tell him that Don Salvatore seemed "to be getting too big for his own good" and that an accident to him would not be looked on unfavorably by the national council.
No. Don Salvatore didn't know everything. There would not be one hit; there would be two. And neither of them was a maybe.
Definite.
As definite as bang, bang.
CHAPTER SIX
If God had created a human vessel for worry on earth, its name was Norman Belliveau. He had been born in France on D-Day and grew up in the United States to be the living embodiment of worry. He worried about how he looked, which was tall and thin with sunken cheeks and a hooked nose. He worried about how he dressed, which was after the fashion of college drama teachers: lousy.
He wore loud jackets and fuschia or purple or pink shirts, with an ascot. To keep up with the changing theatrical world, however, he wore levis and hush puppies.
But he usually bought a new pair of jeans after the first wash. Levis always faded and Norman thought faded Levis looked tacky. So now everyone on the Edgewood University campus knew when Norman was coming by the swish-swish-swish of his too new jeans.
Norman Belliveau inherited his worry from his mother who named him Norman because the allies landed in Normandy and she thought naming her son that would bring him good luck.
And then it didn't, and their home was destroyed by an erring artillery shell, and Norman's father killed by stepping on a forgotten land mine, she tried various other methods: stuffing rabbits' feet in Norman's pockets, throwing salt over his shoulder constantly, and not allowing him to step on cracks in her presence.
But nothing worked and Norman worried about that, but now he had more important things to worry about.
Like the rooms.
It was bad enough that Professor Wooley had gone ahead and scheduled the conference on some kind of technological breakthrough without telling anyone. That was bad enough. Suppose no one came? The university would be a laughing stock.
But people came. Oh, how they were coming, and where was Norman going to put them all?
This new interruption was the last straw. Imagine being dragged away from a very important classroom lecture to have to personally inform somebody that there was no more room. Hadn't he told the guard to allow nobody else in?
Norman worried about why guards never followed instructions. They had ignored his orders when that television reporter, Patti Shea, had shown up.
Norman had heard of her and her catty reports on the odd and unusual gatherings all over the world. He could not understand what she was doing at a technical conference in Missouri and he told her so.
"Just get me a room, will you, bub?" she said. "I've got a migraine you wouldn't believe."