"She is on somebody's boat," Chiun said. "I know that because I am the Master."
"Yeah, but how do you really know?"
"The nice man with the television set said so."
"What nice man?"
"I don't know his name," Chiun said. "All those names sound alike."
"What boat is Leen Forth on?" Remo asked.
"Who knows? All boats look alike."
"You must have some idea," Remo said. He looked around at the trees that bordered the grassy field in front of Professor Wooley's house and wished that he were conducting this interrogation with a scarlet-crested titwillow. At least he could get an answer.
"Come on, Chiun, think," Remo said. "That little girl's life may be in danger."
"She is a Vietnamese," Chiun said. "A South Vietnamese at that. But never mind. I will do this for my country. She is on marshmallow's boat."
"Marshmallow?" Remo asked.
"Yes. Something like that."
"Massello?" Remo asked. "Was that the name? Massello?"
"Yes. Marshmallow. As I said. And another thing. She has the dream machine with her."
"The nice man told you," Remo said.
"Right."
"Was that nice man's name Grassione?" Remo asked.
"Yes. That was it."
"Chiun, that man is the leading contract killer for the crime syndicate in the United States."
"I knew there was something about him I liked."
It took Remo a telephone call to the local St. Louis Power Squadron to find out that Mr. S. Massello's yacht was docked in the Captain's Cove Marina in the southern part of the city, near Point Breese, and a few minutes later, in a car that might generously be called borrowed, they were zipping south along Route 55.
The gate to the boat yard was closed and bolted when Remo and Chiun arrived. The late afternoon sun was behind them and the Mississippi looked flat and black in its dying rays.
Chiun snapped the chain on the gate and he and Remo trotted quickly toward the back of the marina, when Remo saw the boat: Il Avvocato.
"It is strange to name a boat after a fruit," said Chiun.
"That's Italian for lawyer," Remo explained.
"And it is English for fruit," Chiun said. "Do not lie to me. I have not forgotten about electrical Washington."
The guard who had earlier been posted on the front gate had been pressed into service by Arthur Grassione after the "unfortunate accident" that had claimed the lives of Don Salvatore Massello and his two bodyguards, and now he patrolled the deck of the yacht with Big Vince Marino. The guard was the first to see Remo and Chiun as they came up the steps of the gangplank.
"Hold it," he called. "You can't come up here.
"Not even if I answer a riddle?" Remo said.
"Get out of here," the man said. He took his gun from a shoulder holster and waved it at Remo for emphasis. "G'wan. Beat it."
Remo nodded to Chiun who stood alongside him.
Just then Marino came around from the port side of the boat. "What's going on here?" he called.
"Trespassers, Vince," the other guard said.
Marion pulled his revolver and approached them at a lope. He stopped at the top of the gangplank and said, "What do you two want? Hey, it's the old guy with the television. What do you want?"
"Is this all of you?" Remo asked. "Are we all here?"
Marino pointed the gun at him in threatening concentric circles that narrowed until the muzzle was fixed directly on Remo's stomach.
"You better beat it, pal."
"Just what I had in mind," Remo said. Without tensing his legs, he was airborne, moving toward the top of the gangplank. He clapped a hand over the young guard's face. The man fell back; his gun dropped helplessly to his side; he looked at Marino with two gaping cavities where his eyes had been, and then fell over the rail into the brackish waters of the river where he sank like a stone.
Marino tried to squeeze the trigger at Remo, but his finger wouldn't close on the ridged metal. The old Oriental had come up the gangplank and now his hand was around Marino's hand, and there was something wrong with the bones of Marino's hand, they wouldn't work anymore, and he looked down to see what was wrong, and he saw the old man's thin bony yellow hand close around the barrel of his gun and he saw the barrel bend toward the deck, as if it were made of summer tar.
"Where's the girl?" Remo said.
Marino shrugged.
"One more time," Remo said. "The girl."
"Dead. Dead. They're all dead," Marino gasped. The pain in his right hand where the old man held it was now radiating up his arm.
"Who killed her?" Remo asked.
"The boss," Marino gasped. "Grassione."
"You're not Grassione?" Remo said.
Marino shook his head vigorously. "No. No."
"You know what that makes you?" Remo asked.
"What?" Big Vince Marino gasped.