"And where is that, sir?" asked the lieutenant.
"Into some kind of detective work. Our caller seems to believe that we could solve the question of Kaufmann's death if we tried. However, I need not tell you what that might lead to. Once we allow ourselves to be saddled with that responsibility, and then fail in it, we are finished. We have another hidden weapon. That major agency has two men it wishes to protect, an Oriental and a Caucasian who were here with Kaufmann."
"And the weapon, sir?"
"Those two persons. It is obvious they are undercover of some sort. Well, we are going to attack. I have had the post art department do these sketches of the two and I'm going to put the pictures on national television and let their agency -which will remain nameless since I don't know for sure who it is-run for cover. Run for cover, gentlemen."
He held up the two sketches.
"That doesn't look much like the two men," his chief of staff said. "I saw them while they were here."
"It doesn't matter," said Haupt. "We don't want anything to happen to those men necessarily; we just want their agency off our backs. And this will get them off. We're going to turn this thing around as quickly as a Howitzer charging across an open field. Did I get the name right, lieutenant?"
"Yessir, general, yessir," said the lieutenant.
"Good. Just wanted to show you that an Army career does not limit a man to one narrow line of work," said Major General William Tassidy Haupt with a chuckle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Chicago Juvenile Correctional Center.
The sign was a small brass plate next to the front door of the old four-story brick building in a dismally dark section of the city, as if that narrowed it down any.
"What is it, this correctional center?" Chiun asked.
"A reform school," said Remo. He was looking at the walls of the building. The drainpipe would be all right.
"Ah, very good," said Chiun. "He tells me a reform school. As if I am supposed to know what a reform school is."
"A reform school is where they send bad kids to make them worse." If the drainpipe wasn't strong enough, there was a setback section of wall between two columns of windows, a depression running from the base of the building to the roof.
A man could walk up the wall there, bracing his hands against the two jut-outs of wall on either side.
"There are no bad children," said Chiun.
"Thank you, Father Flanagan. Sweet little Alvin wasn't firing that gun at you."
"That is of no moment to this discussion," Chiun said. "There are no bad children."
"Just bad parents?" The set-in wall between the windows was probably the best bet. Alvin was on the fourth floor of the building.
"Not even that," said Chiun.
Remo turned to Chiun. "All right, then, since you seem determined to tell me anyway. There aren't bad kids and there aren't bad parents. What are there then? That little punker was shooting at me."
Chiun raised a finger. "There are bad societies. This one. Children reflect what they learn, what they see, what they are. This is a bad society."
"And Korea's a good one, I suppose."
"How quickly you learn when you wish to," said Chiun. "Yes, Korea is a good one. The ancient land of the pharaohs, that was another. They knew how to treat children and surround them with beauty."
"Egypt kept slaves, for crying out loud. They were always at war."
"Yes. See. A child will remember a good example. A bad example will make a bad child." Chiun folded his arms, as if resting his case on a monumental base of logic.
Remo shook his head. So much for Chiun as Dr. Spock. "The drainpipe or the wall?" he asked.
"That is what I mean by bad example," Chiun said. "Look for hard where there is easy. It is the nature of your kind."
Chiun walked away and Remo mumbled, "Carp, carp, carp," before following the old man across the street, glistening from the late night Chicago rain. How unlike New York, Remo thought-New York, where the streets never glistened in the rain because the clumps of garbage in the streets broke up the reflections from the street lights.
"This is a nice city," said Chiun, walking up the steps of the old building.
"I read all about it. It's run by a tyrant."
"I knew there was something about it I liked," Chiun said. "The tyrants were very good to work for. Greece never amounted to anything when it fell into democracy."
The uniformed guard at the desk inside the front door listened politely when Chiun said that he wanted to see… "What is his name, Remo?"
"Alvin Dewar."
"Alvin Dewar," Chiun said to the guard. "He is a very close relative of mine."
Chiun turned and winked at Remo broadly.
"That's strange," said the guard. "He's white, and you're Oriental."
"I know. Everyone is not lucky."
"He's a relative by marriage," Remo explained.
"That is right. Alvin is married to my daughter. He is my nephew."
"Son-in-law," Remo corrected, with an uncomfortable smile.
"He's just a kid. He can't be married to anybody," said the guard.
"Why are you being difficult?" Chiun asked. "I come here to see my close relative… what is his name again, Remo?"
"Alvin."
"I come here to see my very close relative, Alvin, the husband of my daughter, and you give me difficulty."
"Yeah? Well, let me tell you something. You'd be amazed at the perverts we get hanging around here, because of these little kids. Now I think you better get out of here before I call the cops. You want to see Alvin, you come tomorrow."
"Remo. Reason with him."
When the guard was asleep, Remo took his keys and Chiun led the way to the elevator.
"Perhaps it is your haircut," Chiun said.
"Perhaps what is my haircut?"
"The reason that person thought you might be a pervert. Perhaps you should see about getting a haircut."
The elevator opened onto a long corridor at the end of which sat another uniformed guard.
"Now let me handle this," Chiun said.
"Fine," said Remo. "But clean up your own bodies."
"There will be no bodies. I will trick him."
Chiun walked gently up to the desk, with Remo behind him. In back of the desk, the guard rolled away slightly in his swivel chair to free his gun hand. He was reading a copy of Amazing Detective stories.
"Hi, fella," said Chiun with a smile. "I gave up my Monday night football to come here to visit with my close relative, Alvin something."
"This is Wednesday," said the guard. "Who let you up here?"
"The kindly gentleman downstairs," Chiun said.
"Rocco? Rocco let you up here?"
"He did not tell me his name. Did he tell you his name, Remo?"
"No. But he looked like Rocco."
"Where's your pass?" said the guard.
"Remo, give him our pass."
"Yeah. Right. The pass."
When the second guard had joined Rocco in repose, Remo asked Chiun if he had any other clever schemes in mind.
"No. Everything seems to have gone along nicely. As I told you, there is no need to difficultize problems,"
"There's no such word as 'difficultize.' "
"There should be."
On the wall next to the sleeping guard were long rows of shelves with papers, forms, office supplies, towels, sheets, pillowcases, and light blue uniforms. Remo took two of the sheets.
Alvin Dewar had had no trouble falling asleep. He slept the blissful sleep of a guiltless child, flat on his back, arms up over his head, sipping air through his slightly opened mouth.
"Alvinnnn. Oooooooh."
Alvin sat up on the hard-mattressed cot in the large single cell at the far end of the building, and looked toward the bars of his cell.
There were two figures there, two white swirls standing outside the bars, barely visible in the dim light from the end of the corridor.
"Alvinnnnn. Oooooohhhhh," came the call again.