"Do not spit on the walkways, scratch yourself in a place not normally discovered, and when spoken to, reply in the language in which you are addressed."
"You are bilingual, aren't you?" a second Mountie inquired.
"Sure. I speak English and Korean."
"I will take your word on the latter," the Mountie said frostily. "But in the former you are seriously deficient."
"Thanks," said Remo. "Is your red suit at the cleaner's today?"
"The red serge is strictly ceremonial," the first Mountie said stiffly.
"Really? I didn't know that."
"Tell your damn friends," both Mounties called after him.
In the lobby Remo met the Master of Sinanju, who was wearing a placid expression.
"Have any trouble?" Remo asked.
"I was well treated."
"You must have used your Korean passport."
"Of course. I would not wish to be mistaken for a fish-stealing pharisee."
"Cut it out."
They grabbed a cab, and the driver accepted them on the proviso that they pay in advance, which Remo did because strangling this cabdriver would only mean having to find another who might be even more insufferable.
Other than the bilingual French-English signs and the profusion of green copper roofs on Parliament Hill, Ottawa might have been any American city. On the way into the city, Remo noticed the only thing that was unusual.
"Check it out, Chiun. The squirrels are black."
Chiun spied a squirrel sitting on a snowy branch of an oak.
"I have never seen a more sinister rodent. No doubt he is a fish hoarder."
"Doubt it. Squirrels are strictly nuts. Like Canadians."
Chiun peered out his window at the snow-covered buildings that marched by. As they got closer to the heart of the city, it looked more and more European, like a theme park of stone and green copper roofs.
"Ottumwa lies fat under its snows. Fat and easily sacked," intoned Chiun.
"It's Ottawa, not Ottumwa, and we're not in the sacking business," said Remo.
The cab let them off in front of the Chateau Laurier, and Remo handed the driver twenty dollars for a fifteen-dollar fare.
"Thank you," said the driver, pocketing the bill.
"Hold up. What about my change?" Remo demanded.
"What about my tip?"
"I like to tip from my change."
"Your change is my tip," the driver countered.
"Normally I'm the judge of that."
"Normally you tip American taxi drivers. You are in Canada, and we like to take our gratuity this way, owing to the muddled manner in which Americans confuse U.S. and Canadian dollars."
"I'm not confused."
"Very well."
Back came a handful of coins.
"What are these?" asked Remo, staring at the one gold and two silver coins.
"Coins. They constitute your change."
"I want bills."
"They are legal tender, out of which I expect a generous tip."
"Here's a tip," said Remo. "Don't tick off a paying fare."
And Remo took the silver coins between the thumb and forefinger of each hand. He performed a double squeeze, and the coins went scrunk. Remo returned them in the form of silver Tootsie Roll bits.
"What is this?" demanded the cabbie.
"Four bucks' worth of warning," said Remo, getting out.
The driver started to protest, but the rear passenger door slammed shut in a way that shook the car on its springs. It bounced so badly that the driver got out, thinking it was an earthquake.
By that time the two peculiar passengers had vanished into the hotel.
INSIDE, REMO DECIDED on the direct approach.
Walking up to the front desk, he asked a supercilious-looking desk clerk, "We understand the Secretary-General of the UN is staying here."
The clerk looked up, frowned at Remo's casual, out-of-season dress and sneered, "You understand imperfectly."
"Oh, but I beg to differ," said Remo, adopting a similar tone.
"Sir, you are mistaken."