"Laughing stock of the world. Of course, nothing per
"Of course not," Remo said. "It must be nice to come from a country protected by mountains, a country that neither gives aid nor receives it, a country whose only function is to be the world's counting house."
"It's a nice little country," Stohrs said. "Not a great country but a nice one. I am proud to call it home."
"What brings you here?"
"This is a lovely job and place to work. A good environment for me to raise my daughter. Lovely. That is, if you are not a policeman, no?"
"No," said Remo who had finished his mental sit-ups and now saw that the light was on in the Hirshbloom cottage. "Good night and thank you for walking with me."
"It's an honour. I respect you. Watch your step. There is evil here. That tragic Hawkins' accident. I am glad we now have a real man as security officer.
"Real man?"
"Yes. I do not like to dishonour the dead, but McCarthy was just... well, a clerk. You need a man for the job. Good night. We must play soon."
"We will."
And Remo would not see him again until he would defeat him at the chess table with only a king and queen, against a queen, a king, two knights, a rook and a bishop. It would be a brilliant move, one that no chess master could ever perform as well.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The man once known as Dr. Hans Frichtmann sat in one of the foam-contoured seats of the Brewster Forum auditorium watching the weekly amateur show. They changed the program from week to week. Last week, it was Father Boyle on guitar; the week before that, Professor Ferrante in elegiac poetry. They never called it an amateur show and at first had attempted to sell tickets. The first week they sold eight, the next week six, and then they stopped charging.
He could see that the new director of security and Dr. Deborah Hirshbloom were among the missing. Well, that was something. It was undoubtedly a better performance than Dr. James Ratchett, his magic, and now his hypnotism.
He was frankly worried. The business with the motor-hoodlums was one thing. But how had he escaped the fall from the plane and managed to kill Hawkins in the process? He wished only that his job were finished. That he could leave this accursed place.
His attention was brought back to the stage by Ratchett's voice.
Dr. Schulter was sitting in a chair at center stage. Ratchett's lardy body was frozen before the seated figure. It had taken six minutes to put Schulter under, and the boredom of moving bodies coughing and sighing could be felt, as only courtesy tethered the forum personnel to their seats.
"Black longing pools of opalescent nights and the deepest of deep escapes. You are moving down, black-ward, into darkness and restful slumber," Ratchett's voice purred. A few coughs brought a haughty condemning glance from Ratchett and back to the gibberish. Strange that a theoretical chemist, surrounded by great psychiatrists and psychologists, would seek to entertain them with hypnotism. And such amateurish hypnotism.
Oh, well. The dangers of espionage this decade varied. Death by boredom was a possibility. He heard Ratchett call for a return to horrible times. What were horrible times? Let's see. The surrender was bad, the Russian occupation worse. The removing of testicles from tremmen with forceps? Not bad at all, especially when that Jew professor stood before him. The Jew professor who had attempted to expel him from medical school in Hamburg because of alleged sadistic practices. What was wrong with sadism? Really. If you didn't look at it in the sloppy Jewish sentimentality, or through the rose-colored filter of Jewdom's whore child, Christian ethics. Sadism was good. It was the extension of natural hostility, to a point where it had its own meaning, its own beauty. The Nazi Party knew it.
The Nazi party. The only healthy, honest force in his mind. And the way these scrawny, hairy youngsters dared call the American government fascist and Nazi. How dare they? The American government, nothing but hypocritical flotsam, mealy-mouthing its way through history, obsessed with domestic well-being and international public opinion. How dare they call that Nazi? He could show them NAZI. They should see NAZI! They should see that Jewish professor. Why didn't that Semitic scum scream? That was the bad part. He didn't scream. Yes. That was a horrible time. Horrible. As on stage.
Schulter was searching, in his hypnotic past, for a horrible time. Then he jumped to his feet, dancing around the stage. Skip and a hop. And his jacket flew to the floor, followed by his shirt, his undershirt. Unzip the pants and step out. Then down on his bony knees. The white stage-light reflected blue off his perspiring back. "The whip," he cried. "The woman with the whip. Whip. Whip."
Ratchett was panting heavily. "The whip," he chorused. "The whip," making little sucking noises through his puffy lips.
The staff was not sure what happened next. Nobody could recall exactly. But when the new director for security asked around the next morning, the story was this:
1) The hypnotism show had touched off something that was better not talked about and really none of Remo Pelham's business.
2) Dr. Nils Brewster snapped both men out of their trance by jumping on stage and mimicking Ratchett's voice.
3) Everyone was strangely disturbed by the episode, and really, stop bothering people.
They would be bothered though-even more, when they discovered the awesome price Doctor Ratchett would have to pay for his dramatic success.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Having been thrown out of a plane while trying to talk to Dr. Hirshbloom, there was no price too great for Remo to pay to see her. He would even talk to Nils Brewster.
Brewster was arrogant, almost as if that tragic accident to the sky-diving instructor had been Remo's fault.
"No," Nils Brewster had said, through bandaged nose. "No request from Doctor Hirshbloom. Why are you so interested?"
"Why is there joy in your voice?"
"Don't answer a question with a question. They tell me that's how you carry on a conversation."
"Four out of five department heads want to talk to me.
The fifth doesn't. Why?"
"That's your answer?" Brewster asked.
"Yes," said Remo.
"I told you you'd never understand about us."
"Well, I'm going to see her."
"You don't have my permission."
"How do I get it?"
"You don't."
"Do you know that if I flick your nose with this forefinger Remo said, bringing the forefinger very close to the white bandages, "I can cause you all sorts of hurt?"
"And you'll be out on your ass before the throbbing subsides."
"What if a brick should fall on it at night from you know not where?"
"You'll be out on your ass before it hits the ground."
"What if I teach you to do to people what I did to those motorcycle thugs?"
"I'm pushing sixty, man."
"I could teach you to do it to at least two people."
"Young people?"
"Young people."
Dr. Nils Brewster dialled his telephone and said into the receiver: "Deborah, I thought you would like to do an input feedback on Remo Pelham, the new security officer. The others have and... oh. Yes, of course. Certainly I understand." He returned the telephone to the receiver.
"She said she was busy on something else. But you have my permission. I'll deny it afterwards, but of course that'll be too late. At least you're not risking your job. Now when do we start on the...." Brewster made striking motions at young faces and young stomachs, dodging very swift punches of young athletes whom he would now rend asunder should the little twerps dare make wise-ass comments on the road or in restaurants or anywhere. Any
"In two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Brewster looked hurt, cheated.
"Well, you've got to get into shape first. Run a quarter of a mile a day for a week, then a half-mile the following week."