"Thanks," Remo murmured tiredly.
"But now you look like something the cat dragged in, and I wouldn't have you on a stick."
"That's nice," said Remo, closing his tired eyes.
"So I guess I don't feel so bad about what I did."
"That's nice, too," said Remo, tuning her voice out.
Ethel stood up and called over her shoulder. "He's over here."
"Who is?" mumbled Remo.
"You are," Ethel replied.
The Maine State troopers surrounded Remo with their hands on their side arms. They looked unhappy, the way men look when they've spent a cold night on a long stakeout.
"Get up, sir," one said formally. "You are under arrest."
"For what?"
"Suspicion of smuggling."
"Smuggling what?"
"You tell us."
Remo got up, shivered one last time energetically and cracked a weak grin. "The only thing I'm smuggling is shark meat."
"Where is this contraband?" the second trooper demanded.
"In my stomach."
Nobody looked very amused.
Because it was the easiest way to go and it meant warmth and probably dry clothes, Remo allowed himself to be taken to the local state police barracks. He was issued a hot shower and blue prisoner denims. He took them in that order.
"We know you're a bad guy," a trooper told Remo in the interrogation room after Remo had gotten dry.
"Wrong. I'm a good guy."
"You're a smuggler. Ethel said so. She's well liked around here."
"You know, I thought she had an honest face."
"She does. Why do you think she turned you in?"
"Good point," said Remo. "I want my one phone call."
"We need your name and address first."
"Sure. Remo Mako." He gave a Trenton, New Jersey, address.
"That a house or apartment?"
"House," said Remo. "Definitely a house."
"Any statement you care to make at this time will be counted in your favor."
"Thanks. My statement is I want to call my lawyer."
A clerical head poked into the interrogation room. "You don't have to. He's already on the horn, demanding to speak to you."
"His name Smith?" asked Remo, who was not about to fall for some trick and lose out on his lawful call.
"Ay-yah. And you must get into a lot of this kind of trouble if he knows where you are so quick."
REMO TOOK THE CALL in private.
"What took you so long, Smitty?"
"Your Remo Mako alias is not on my list of approved cover names. When it went out on lawenforcement wires, my system spit out the fact that the address you gave was that of the Trenton State Prison death house. That told me it was you being held in the Lubec barracks on suspicion of smuggling."
"Good catch."
"What happened, Remo?"
Dr. Harold W. Smith was grimly silent after Remo told him what had happened.
"You can spring me the polite way or I can spring myself," Remo told him.
"We need to do this quietly."
"Don't take long, or I'll take matters into my own hands," Remo warned.
Remo knew he was on his way home when he heard the helicopter rotors beating his way.
The chopper settled on the back lawn, where he could see it from his holding cell. It was a big orange-and-white Jayhawk rescue helicopter with the Coast Guard anchor-and-flotation-ring crest in red-and-white striping on the tail.
Coast Guardsmen in crisp whites came running out, holding their service caps against the rotor wash.
In less than ten minutes Remo was being processed out.
"You might have informed us you were with the Coast Guard," the arresting officer told Remo as he searched his pockets for the handcuff key.
Remo handed over the handcuffs, still locked tight, and said, "Lost my ID in the water. Would you have taken my word for it?"