"I don't charge for the initial consultation," Brunt said, running a toothpick under his nails. He made a little pile of grayish ash on the desktop. "Unless you hire me. Then I try to sneak it into the expense sheet somewhere." He grinned disarmingly.
"Yes. Well, I have a matter that only someone in your profession can handle."
"You got the crime, I got the time," Brunt sang.
"I have had an important personal item stolen from my home. I know who stole it and I know where this person lives."
"And you want it back?"
"Yes. It is quite important to me. The police say they can do nothing. My suspicions aren't enough for them to question the man."
"Okay, I'll bite. What's missing? The family jewels? Gorbachev's birthmark? The Bermuda Triangle?"
Smith hesitated, wondering if he shouldn't feign a weak smile. He decided not. He was growing uncomfortable with this man, who seemed to take nothing seriously. Doesn't he want work? Smith's computers had spit out his name as one of the least prosperous private investigators in the Northeast. Certainly such a man would be desperate for clients.
"It's a tea service," Smith said at last.
Brunt cocked a skeptical eye at Smith. "A tea service?" he said dryly.
"Sterling. It's been in my family for over a hundred years. It has great sentimental value."
"At my prices, you'd be better off switching to coffee."
"It's an heirloom," Smith said stubbornly.
"Takes all kinds," Mike Brunt said laconically.
"The man's name is James Churchward. He lives at 334 Larchwood Place in Rye, New York. I happen to know he is away on vacation this week, but I do not know where. This would be the ideal time to search his house for my property. I have taken the liberty of writing out a check for your usual one-day fee." Smith started to rise, the check in hand.
"Whoa! Did I say I was taking this case?"
"No. But it is not a difficult task. A simple break-in."
"Break-ins are illegal."
"Yes, I know. But I have nowhere else to turn. And I understood that people in your ... ah ... profession do this type of work all the time."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean Mike Brunt stoops that low. Hey, you may not know it from his office, but I have scruples. Somewhere. Maybe in that filing cabinet. Under C, if I know my secretary."
"Well, then, I won't waste any more of your time," Smith said, starting to rise again.
Mike Brunt put up a hamlike hand.
"Slow down, sport. Let's see the color of your money." Smith passed over the check. Brunt examined it.
"A money order?" he said doubtfully.
"Naturally I do not want to give you anything that could be traced back to me."
"This must not be the first time someone walked off with your teapot. You really ought to hide it when company comes." Brunt took his feet off the desk and sat up. "Okay. So what happens if I'm arrested?"
"I will take care of you in that eventuality."
"Connected, huh? I had you figured for Mafia the minute you walked in."
"I have political connections," Smith said testily.
"This is a lot of potential fuss for a lousy tea service."
"It has sentimental value," Smith repeated, thinking that perhaps he should have made up something more elaborate than a tea service. But anything too valuable might tempt a man such as Brunt to consider pilfering the house of other valuables.
"That so? Come on, Brown. Spill it. Nobody lays down cash in advance over a tea service. What's in it? Diamonds? Gold? Is the exact location of Blackbeard's treasure worked into the filigree? You can tell me. The office cockroaches have taken a vow of silence."
"It is a tea service," Smith repeated stiffly. "And if you are not interested in the matter, we are wasting each other's time."
"Tell you what, Brown. I'll take this little caper. Strictly for chuckles, you understand. Maybe I'll get lucky and your friend will come back while I'm in the house."
"Why would that be lucky?" Smith asked, his voice filling with horror.
Just then the outer door banged open and the click of high heels announced the entrance of Michael Brunt's secretary. A thirtyish blonde in a beehive hairdo stuck her head in the office.
"Here you go, shamus," she said, tossing a box onto the bare desk. Mike Brunt grabbed it and shook it apart. Shiny brass cartridges spilled over the desktop like wayward marbles.
Michael Brunt unholstered a worn .38 revolver and began stuffing slugs into the cylinder. When he was done, he answered Smith's question with a cracked grin.
"Maybe I'll get into a shoot-out."
"You wouldn't," Smith croaked.
"Suuuure, he would," the secretary said wryly, closing the door.
"Perhaps I should see someone else," Smith began. "I do not want any unnecessary complications. This must be done in such a way that the homeowner is unaware of the entry."
"Too late, pal," Mike Brunt said, pulling open a desk drawer and plunking a bottle of Old Mister Boston in front of his face. Two shot glasses came up next. "I've already spent your money. Why don't we just drink a toast to our new business relationship."
"No, thank you," Smith said. "I must be going. The number at which I can be reached is on the check."
"Good," said Michael Brunt, pulling the top off with his teeth and spitting it onto the desk. "I hate drinking with clients. It usually means less booze for me." He then proceeded to drink straight from the bottle. When he was done, he belched.
Smith left the office feeling very ill. It was raining when he got out on the street. It was a three-block walk back to the subway, and Smith hunched his shoulders against the rain. Taxis drove by in each direction, but Smith disdained them. A cab would cost several dollars, and the subway ride back to the airport, even with two changes, was only sixty cents.
Chapter 22
Remo woke to a strange rustling sound.
"Arise, you lazy slugabed," a familiar squeaky voice said. And Chiun entered the room.
"Did someone steal your clothes?" Remo asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "Or have you just gone native?"
Chiun puffed up his thin chest. "You do not like this gift from the High Moo?" He spread his skirts. They were made of rattan strips woven together with vegetable fiber. He wore a blouse of rough-weave wheat-colored cotton over it. Belled sleeves copied from his kimono design rounded out the ensemble.
"It's a new you," Remo said, sitting up on his bed mat. He pulled on his stiff trousers. He left his rag of a T-shirt. "What time is it?"
"Time passes differently on Moo, but you have slept nearly six hours. Are you ill?"
"No," Remo said evasively. "I just felt like sleeping."
"We are summoned to the Shark Throne. Come." Remo reached for his shoes, then realized that he had left them back at the Grove of Ghosts. He pulled on his socks. They would do for now. When he stood up, he noticed his fingernails were even longer than before, almost twice as long as he remembered from the previous night. He rubbed his face. He needed a shave too. He reminded himself to ask Chiun about getting the Moovian equivalent of a barber.
Bare-chested, Remo followed Chiun down a maze of stone corridors to a central room.
Guards stood outside the open door, on the inside, and at every corner of the room, Remo saw as he entered. Chiun bowed before the High Moo, who sat on his low Shark Throne. The Low Moo sat to his right, on an even lower stool. There was an empty stool on the left that Remo assumed belonged to the late royal priest.
"My Red Feather Guard has returned from scouring the island," said the High Moo without preamble. "Emboldened by the trophy you have laid at my feet, they even ventured into the Grove of Ghosts. They found no living men, there or anywhere else. I hereby proclaim today the Dawn of the Era Without Octopus Worshipers."