The credit-card bill went to a post-office box in Lander, Texas, where a postal employee, who thought that monthly supplementary check came from the CIA, was under instructions to send it to a mail-forwarding service in Chicago, which relayed it to Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, by express mail. With the current state of the U.S. Postal Service, this system took a minimum of six weeks and sometimes as long as nine.
Thus the bill was already overdue when it finally crossed Smith's desk. He put it aside for the moment as he tried once again to contact Michael Brunt in Boston. Brunt's secretary informed him that Mr. Brunt was out of town. Smith distinctly heard the sound of gum cracking as he hung up in distaste.
Then the blue-and-orange express envelope caught Smith's eye. He opened the nearly indestructable Tivek envelope with shears.
Inside, there was an American Express credit-card bill made out to Remo Robeson, one of the many fictitious identities and accounts Smith had created for Remo's use. This was the name on his American Express card. Smith examined the bill.
It listed a variety of purchases, including a tractor lawn mower and a big-screen projection TV. Smith couldn't imagine what Remo would need a lawn mower for, but in years past, odd items had cropped up on his expense accounts, the most puzzling of which was an industrial ice-scraping machine whose only purpose was to clear the ice between hockey games. Smith never asked what Remo had needed with such a thing. Not after the time five refrigerators showed up on the account and Remo had informed Smith, when asked, that he had given them away to deserving families who had been burnt out of a split duplex apartment house in Detroit.
The other charges were an airline flight and something purchased from a concern called Malibu Marine. Smith blinked.
"Can't be," he muttered. "This must be in error."
The charge was sixty thousand dollars. Smith called the airline first. He was informed that the flight originated in New York City and terminated in Los Angeles, with no connecting flight booked on that airline. Was there a problem with the charge?
Smith said no and hung up. The Malibu Marine charge was dated one day after the airline flight. He called Malibu Marine.
"I am calling about a charge on my American Express card," he told the manager. "Can you verify that price? Sixty thousand dollars."
"That's right. Is there a problem?"
"I'm not certain. Exactly what was purchased?"
"It's your card. Don't you know?"
"I am co-signatory. My nephew also has use of this card."
"Well, I hope you have deep pockets. He bought a junk. Right now, he's somewhere out where the buses don't run."
"Junk," Smith gasped, envisioning Remo purchasing the contents of an entire junkyard for some frivolous purpose. "He spent sixty thousand dollars on junk!"
"No, not junk junk. A junk."
"Beg pardon?"
"He bought a Chinese junk. Sailed off in it right away, too. "
"Oh. Did he say where he was going?"
"No, he and this elderly Chinese guy just hopped aboard and sailed off. They had a gal with them."
"Did they say anything that would lead you to guess at their destination?" Smith inquired.
"Nope. Once the charge was verified, they went out with the tide. Say, you can cover these charges, can't you?"
"Yes, of course. Thank you for your time." And with that, Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up. His face was an etching. The title might have been "Pain." Without looking, he reached into his desk drawer and brought out a bottle. He needed an aspirin badly.
Smith was so intent on his thoughts that he failed to notice that he was chewing on an Alka-Seltzer tablet and not aspirin.
Remo and Chiun had left the country. They had gone without a word. What could have happened? Had he offended the Master of Sinanju somehow? And would Remo have gone with him if he had?
All that Dr. Harold W. Smith could imagine was that Remo and Chiun had returned to the village of Sinanju on the West Korea Bay. And he was alone against whoever had bought the mysterious house next to his own.
Suddenly realizing that he had eaten an entire aspirin without benefit of water, Smith drew a paper cup of mineral water from the office dispenser and drank it. For the remainer of the day he wondered why his headache persisted and he kept belching uncontrollably.
Chapter 28
Remo heard the scream and reached for his pants. "Excuse me," he said as he darted from the room. It was night. The Royal Palace of Moo was dark except for the odd places where moonlight cast geometric patterns of light.
Chiun emerged from his bedroom, his face grim. Together, without a word, they ran down the corridor leading to the High Moo's bedroom, their bare feet slapping the cool stones.
The High Moo confronted them at the door. He waved his war club angrily. It was spattered with blood, as was the High Moo's greasy chest.
"There were three of them," he thundered, gesticulating wildly. "Two have gotten away."
Groans came from behind the High Moo. He stepped aside to show a Moovian sitting on the floor. The man was holding his red-splashed arm. His forearm was bent below the elbow joint. A jagged spear of bone stuck out. It was broken.
"They forget. How easily they forget." The High Moo grinned.
A Moovian girl slipped up behind Remo. She held her bare breasts in fear. Her mouth gaped open.
"What is that peasant girl doing in my palace?" the High Moo thundered. "Is she another traitor?"
"No, she's with me," Remo said evenly. Chiun turned on Remo.
"With you?"
"We were together," Remo said. "You know."
"We will speak of this later," Chiun warned.
The Low Moo crept out from an adjoining room. She took one look at the peasant girl, and the girl retreated in fear.
"Are you safe, my father?" the Low Moo asked.
"Traitors. I am beset by traitors," he said bitterly.
"Let's round up the usual suspects," Remo said in English.
"Allow me to dispatch that base traitor," Chiun said, pointing to the broken-armed assailant.
"He is nothing. The ones who roam free are the threat," the High Moo said. His Red Feather Guard showed up at that moment.
"We could not find them," the captain of the guard reported.
"Then it is up to Sinanchu," the High Moo said pointedly. "If they hope to leave Moo with their full measure of coins."
Remo and Chiun left the palace. Out in the courtyard, Remo said, "He's sure getting a lot of service for payment that was supposed to be in the bag."
"That man was not an octopus worshiper. He will admit that later. At this moment we must get the other two."
"Want to split up?"
"No. Stay with me." And Chiun flashed through the foliage. People were stirring at the sight of them; faces retreated into doorways.
"Reminds me of when I was a cop," Remo said unhappily.
"Their fear will vanish once we have eliminated the plotters. "
"At the rate we're going, we're on our way to depopulating all of Moo."
Chiun was following tracks in the dirt. The tracks veered off into the jungle, and from there the trail was one of broken stems and crushed grass that slowly straightened.
The trail led down to the south beach and into the water.
The Pacific sparkled. No shadows dotted its surface. "Looks like we lost them. Octopus worshipers or not." Chiun watched the water. When he was certain no swimmer would surface, he spoke.
"I do not think they were octopus worshipers, although they fled into the ocean. Come, we must inform the High Moo."
As they walked back, Chiun spoke up. "That girl. What was she to you?"
"I don't know. I'd only known her ten minutes when the trouble started."
"Ten?"
"She came in through the window."
"Obviously a tramp," sniffed Chiun.
"If she was, that's how they grow them on Moo." Chiun stopped.