"Damn," Remo muttered, standing up. "A freaking chauffeur."
That got him noticed by the police.
"Hey! Who the hell are you?" the plainclothes detective with the evidence bag demanded.
"FBI," Remo said, offering a card from his wallet.
"This card says you're an EPA investigator," the detective said belligerently, "and I say you're under arrest."
"You got me," Remo said, offering his thick wrists.
The detective reached into his coat for his handcuffs. Somehow he got tangled up and found himself on the sidewalk, his left wrist cuffed to his right ankle.
He called for help, but the crime-scene team were all busy chasing his thick-wristed attacker into the crowd.
Later, when they returned empty-handed, wearing hangdog expressions, they were in no mood to add the incident to their official reports.
Once the detective had been freed of his own handcuffs, they put it to a vote. The decision was unanimous.
They never saw any thick-wristed man. Ever.
Chapter 21
Sky Bluel heard the voices talking as if through a dreamy purple haze.
There were two voices. One-the tough one-was saying, "She's coming around now. You can tell by the quick intake of air."
"Looks kinda like a rodeo performer, don't she?" the other voice said. It was unctuous and familiar, although Sky couldn't quite place it.
Sky opened her eyes. At first she thought her vision was out of focus. The men were hovering directly over her, but their faces were twin pinkish blurs.
Then she realized both wore rayon stockings over their heads, which distorted their features into unrecognizability.
"Where am I?" Sky asked anxiously, pushing herself up from the cot, catching her falling granny glasses in one hand. "Is this a happening?"
"Little lady, don't you fret. You're in a safe place." The unctuous one had said that. He was shorter and wider than the other, and wore white buck shoes. It was definitely not a happening.
"If this is a safe place, why are you two dressed like Brinks bandits?" Sky demanded.
"Don't sweat it. Once you build me a neutron bomb or two, we'll set you free to do whatever you wanna. "
"Another bomb!" Sky shouted. "I just built one for Don Cooder!"
"What's she babbling about?" the unctuous voice asked the hard voice.
"That musta been what the other guy took."
"What other guy?"
"When I snatched the girl, someone else snatched this big silver thing," the hard-voiced man explained.
"Silver thing? Like a big golf ball wired up to a board?"
"It was more the size of a medicine ball."
The shorter man smacked a fist into a meaty palm, saying, "Damn! Why didn't you heist it too?"
"You said you wanted the girl."
"To build me a bomb, gumshoe! You heard her. She already had another bomb. Hell, you could've snatched the bomb and whacked her, for all I care."
"How was I to know?" the other man said in surly tones. "I never saw a neutron bomb before in my entire life."
"Can I go now?" Sky ventured.
"No!" both voices said in unison.
"What's this other guy look like?" Unctuous asked Hard Voice.
"He was filthy. Like he stepped out from a swamp." "A Dirt Firster!"
"He might have been a street person. We were just across the street from Penn Station."
"Never mind that. We gotta get that bomb. It'll save me a whole pile of time."
"I don't like where this conversation is going," Sky Bluel said uneasily. "I'm getting this really freaked out feeling."
Dr. Harold W. Smith had exhausted the resources of the CURE computers. So he had fallen back on the telephone. Under the guise of being a bank-loan investigator, he had learned a great deal about Connors Swindell.
The chief source of information was Constance Payne, Swindell's secretary.
"He's a genius," she was saying. "Ouch!"
"What is the matter?" Smith asked.
"I stabbed by thumb again. They must be making these condom things thinner or something."
Smith cleared his throat, wondering if he had called at a bad time. "If we could get back to Mr. Swindell's references."
"Well, you know all about the Condome. The Western Arid Bank has the note on that. Let's see . . ."
"Does Mr. Swindell have another long-term employee I could speak to?"
"Well, there was Horace."
"Was?"
"Horace Feely. He was Con's-I mean Mr. Swindell's-chauffeur, but he quit suddenly, while they were in Missouri."
"Did you say chauffeur?" Smith asked suddenly.
"Yeah. He and Con go back years, which was why I thought it was so strange for him to quit like that."
"Do you know his current whereabouts?"
"If you mean Con, he just left for San Francisco."
"I meant Horace," said Smith.
"Search me, honey. He hasn't called for his check."
"Thank you."
Smith hung up and initiated a global computer search for Horace Feely. He was rewarded with a digitized photo and a rap sheet that showed Horace Feely had been a habitual criminal up until 1977, when was released from Folsum State Prison on a breaking-and-entering charge to enter the employ of a sponsor, one Connors Swindell.
It was not the record that interested Harold Smith. It was the photo. It showed a younger version of the dead body Remo had found in Missouri. The same man pictured in FBI wanted posters for having acquired the Lewisite gas that later wiped out the population of La Plomo, Missouri.
And suddenly the numbers began to tally up.
Smith picked up the phone and, calling himself Colonel Smith, got a patch-through to a military-airlift-command line.
"Remo. Smith here."
"So who's right? Chiun or me?" Remo asked. In the background, Smith heard the thundering drone of aircraft engines. After they had reported to him their failure in Manhattan, he had ordered them into the air while he confirmed his growing suspicions.
"It may be more complicated than that," Smith told him. "The Missouri body was a chauffeur, after all. He was Connors Swindell's personal chauffeur. He was not military, not Dirt First!!"
"Does that mean Dirt First!! had no part in any of this?"
"Not exactly. From eyewitness descriptions I've gleaned, it is obvious that a Dirt First!! operative took possession of the Bluel girl's latest device."
"I'm not sure I'm following this," Remo muttered.
"I did say it was complicated," Smith said.
"Uncomplicate it for me."
"Remo," Smith said urgently, "I think we have been wrong in many of our deductions. I have been looking deeper into Connors Swindell's recent activities. There are many puzzling factors. For one thing, he is being bombarded with paternity suits."
"That wouldn't surprise me if he uses his own givaways," Remo muttered, recalling the pierced condom he had examined in La Plomo.
"These suits are all instigated by men," Smith said.
"You get what you pay for," Remo said dryly. "What else?"
"Swindell has been approaching the surviving relatives about buying up distressed La Plomo property."
"So? He's a real-estate speculator. That's his business."
"But he has already signed purchase agreements on twenty-six lots and is in active negotiation over dozens more. Remo, he is on his way to buying up the entire town, lock, stock, and barrel. And he is getting excellent bargains."
Remo frowned. "You don't mean Swindell was behind La Plomo?"
"I'm not prepared to conclude that. But it's the only scenario in which Swindell's dead chauffeur fits."
"So do we go to Palm Springs and grab Swindell," Remo asked, "or San Francisco and grab the neutron bomb from what's left of Dirt First?"
Smith was silent. The picture was still very confused. He would have to make an imperfect decision, and they were always dangerous.