It was then that he noticed the fresh tire marks imprinted on the oil-softened floor.
He stomped his foot. The vibrations that came back confirmed his suspicions. He ran to the wall. Pressing the flat of his palms against the surface, he pushed. With a creak of protest and a single snap, the false door popped open, sliding up into the ceiling-The secret panel opened on another parking garage.
Remo slipped inside.
The smaller garage had room for only about twenty cars. A private elevator was at the rear, its door open. The tiny lot was full. Most of the cars were Bentleys painted different loud colors, although there were a few sports cars and a single white Rolls-Royce. A powder-blue Lotus Elan S3 was parked in the space nearest Remo.
The yellow Bentley Remo had followed from the street was parked in the spot farthest from the secret entrance. And standing calmly before it was Thomas Smedley.
The Source agent wore a coolly superior smile. His black bowler was tipped slightly toward his left eye. His umbrella was hooked to his forearm.
"Very good," the British agent said, impressed. "Being American, I assumed I would have to wait until you summoned fifty thousand troops with surface-to-air missiles to blast apart greater London to locate me. Jolly good show."
"Stuff the twaddle, Jeeves," Remo said as he marched across the garage. "You wanted to get my attention. Who are you and what do you want?"
"I, sir," Smedley said, "am your killer. As for the rest of your question, one hopes you can work it out from there. But, then, one hopes so much with Americans."
His gloomy tone and sadly shaking head made clear his disappointment on that front.
As he spoke, Smedley unhooked his umbrella from his arm. Continuing to shake his head, he aimed it like a weapon.
Remo barely had time to note the tiny hole at the silver tip when a trio of sounds like three clapping gunshots rang through the big basement room. Three bullets fired from the tip of the umbrella.
Although surprised, Remo's instinct took over. He dodged the first two bullets. The third he caught with the hardened tip of one index fingernail. With a flick and a snap, he sent it zinging back from whence it had come.
Remo had directed the bullet back down the barrel of the umbrella gun. But at the last moment it seemed to get a mind of its own. A few yards before it reached the Source agent, the bullet banked upward, impacting hard into the front of Smedley's bowler. It hit with a loud ping.
The bullet didn't tear the fabric. It made a little dent, but failed to penetrate.
Smedley seemed stunned. The impact of the bullet knocked him back against the Bentley. Blinking back his surprise, he quickly got his bearings.
"Magnetized," he explained to Remo's puzzled look. "And bulletproof. Handy to have in our business. Just one tool in an arsenal, my good man."
The umbrella was aimed again. With a slight manipulation at the handle, he sent another missile flying from the tip. This one was round and hard and came in slower than the bullets. Remo was still a few dozen yards from Smedley. The pellet arced to the floor and struck at Remo's feet. When it hit, a cloud of gas exploded up around Remo.
Across the garage Smedley yanked the brim of his bowler. A plastic gas shield came down, covering his face. He offered a sympathetic smile.
"Gas mask," the Source agent said. "Pity I only have the one. And I'm not keen to share. You'll find the gas is quite lethal. I shouldn't want to get much of it on my skin if I were you. Seeps in through the pores. Floods your lungs. The pain is excruciating, I've observed. You'll be dead in five or six seconds, if that's a comfort."
As he spoke, Smedley pulled on a pair of gloves that he had fished out of his pocket. As he awaited the American's inevitable death, he smiled behind his plastic shield.
The smile began to fade when the American didn't grab his throat and drop dead on the garage floor. In another second, as the American persisted in his stubborn refusal to die, Thomas Smedley's smile of success melted completely away.
For the first time in his professional career, he felt a fluttering hint of deep concern.
Across the room Remo stood in the smoke. Even though it kissed his bare arms and face, it seemed to have no ill effect. He shook his head in disgust.
"What is it with you people and gadgets?" he complained. "All the time gadgets, gadgets, gadgets."
Stooping, he picked up the smoke-spewing pellet. There was no risk of the poison seeping into skin. As soon as the danger was detected, his pores had shut down, closing out the harmful effects of the gas cloud.
Remo flicked the pellet off his thumb. It launched up into the ceiling vent, there to hiss and die harmlessly.
Near the rear wall, Smedley's jaw hung slack. He quickly recovered.
With the tip of his umbrella, Smedley poked a button on the wall near the elevator. Fans above their heads kicked on, sucking the gas from the parking garage.
"Hmm. I am loath to admit it, but I believe I might require a spot of assistance here, Mrs. Knight," the Source agent called over his shoulder.
The reply came from the open elevator doors. "I thought you'd never ask, Mr. Smedley." Remo had sensed another person lounging inside. From his angle he couldn't see inside. He was surprised when it was a woman's voice that spoke. Even more so when he saw who it was that stepped casually out to join Smedley.
Her long legs and thin arms were wrapped in tight black leather. Her neck was a porcelain pedestal for a perfect face. She was the same cat-suited pedestrian who had fallen to the ground in agony on the sidewalk near the Royal Mews.
As Smedley tucked up his bowler gas mask and pulled off his gloves, the woman stopped in a karate crouch beside him.
"You recognize our Mrs. Knight, I see," Smedley said. "Her performance on the sidewalk was just a cunning plan to lure you to your doom. The other pedestrians were frightened but unharmed by our little game. Well done, Mrs. Knight."
"Did you expect anything less, Mr. Smedley?" she asked.
Remo was nearly on the two Source agents. When he was close enough, Mrs. Knight made her move. Her attack was surprisingly quick. A graceful back flip and she was before Remo, her hands flashing like mallets in killing blows.
"You sure you're English?" Remo asked, tipping his head to examine her face even as he deflected her blows. "You're pretty okay looking. What passes for sexy in England is usually 'yikes' in the brush-and-floss parts of the world."
She tried launching a crushing knee into his sternum. Remo took the occasion to feel her up. "Nice," said Remo.
"Arrggghhh!" screamed Mrs. Knight.
Behind her, Thomas Smedley still had one trick left up his sleeve. As his partner fruitlessly fought Remo, the Source agent slipped the fabric off his umbrella, revealing a long stainless-steel sword. Its deadly sharp blade gleamed in the fluorescent light. He tested the weight of the blade over his head once before extending the sword before him.
"En garde!" Smedley challenged.
Mrs. Knight was still kicking and punching. By now she was sweating in her cat suit.
Remo looked at the sharpened tip of the umbrella sword. It was directed at his chest. He turned to Mrs. Knight.
"You work for him or is it the other way around?" he asked.
"I work for Britain." She tried to gouge his eyes out.
"Hey, here's a tip," Remo said. And, taking Smedley's wrist, he plunged the sword through Mrs. Knight's heart.
"Oh, dear," Smedley said as his dead partner slipped off the end of the sword. "Bad show."
"Worse movie," Remo said.
He flicked the sword from Smedley's hand. The Source agent seemed surprised to see it flying away. It buried two feet deep in the concrete wall. The sword wobbled in place.