"Hello," she said.
"Hello," came a dry crisp voice. There were a lot of ways to say hello. Some people were questioning; some were unsure of themselves; some were brisk and abrupt, trying to cover indecisiveness with the all-business mask. But the greeting she had just heard was the hello of a man totally rational and in control of himself and everything that he dealt with.
"You don't know me," the voice went on, "but I have some information about the death of your father."
"Yes?"
"I noticed in the press that an attempt was made to make your father's death seem natural. But, of course, it wasn't. The death of your father was the work of Blake Corbish."
Holly Broon laughed. "I'm sorry, but that's ridiculous." She knew whom she was talking to now. "Corbish wouldn't have the nerve. It would take seven months of committee meetings for him to make such a decision."
"I don't mean, Miss Broon, that he performed the… er, matter himself. I mean he ordered it done."
"How do you know that?"
"Miss Broon, I know a number of things about Mr. Corbish. Is it not so that he is now in line to succeed your father as president of IDC? Wouldn't you think that was motive enough?"
Holly thought about that for a moment. "Yes, I guess it might. But if Corbish didn't do it himself, who did?"
The voice hesitated only momentarily. "No doubt he hired someone to do it. Please, Miss Broon, I am giving you this information so that you can act on it, and also so that you can protect yourself."
"I appreciate it," Holly Broon said, adding playfully, "You sure you won't tell me who you are?"
"It's not important. Do you know what Corbish is up to?"
"Yes, I think I do."
"It is very dangerous; he must be stopped."
"Do you really think so, Dr. Smith?"
Speaking his name brought a click to the other end of the connection. Holly Broon laughed.
It had probably been dumb, but she had not been able to resist. Yet the laughter stopped as abruptly as it started.
There was little doubt in her mind that Smith had told her the truth. She had begun to suspect it herself after that first day of watching Corbish in operation. He had ordered the killing of her father, presuming that he would immediately become the president of IDC. And she had played right into his hands.
Now she had a decision to make. Should she stop Corbish? Or should she go along and let him become president of IDC and then extract her revenge later? She thought about it for a moment, but her mind focused on a chilling question: could she stop Corbish? Did he have resources that she knew nothing about that might guarantee him the IDC presidency with or without her?
Even while wrestling with the question in her mind, Holly Broon knew the answer. She knew what she would do.
Blake Corbish would be stopped. Anyway she had to.
Outside a rural phone booth in Pennsylvania, Dr. Harold Smith felt vaguely dissatisfied.
He had broken the news to the Broon girl about Corbish's implication in her father's death. And she had guessed who he was. That meant she had at least an inkling of what Corbish was up to. She might even have been in on it from the start.
He doubted it.
It would be strange to find a woman who would cheerfully go along with the planning of her father's murder. She had probably wised up after the fact.
He hoped that she would put a little heat on Corbish. That would help.
But there was something else that was disquieting to Smith.
Holly Broon might not know much about what Corbish was doing, but she knew something.
And something was too much. She would have to die also.
It was a shame, he decided. She sounded like a bright woman.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"He's nuts, Chiun. Absolutely stark raving nuts."
Remo stood in their White Plains hotel room, the telephone in his hand, staring at the instrument as if he would find an answer there to the eternal riddle of man's inhumanity to man.
"You refer to your Mr, Garbage?"
"Yeah," said Remo, deciding that correcting Chiun's pronunciation was no longer worthwhile. "I just called him. You know what I got?"
"A headache," Chiun suggested. "Another reason for your interminable kvetching?" Without waiting for an answer, he looked down again at the parchment on which he had been writing.
Remo decided to be magnanimous and ignore that. "I got a switchboard, for God's sake. Can you picture that? A switchboard. The dopey bastard wants me to talk to him over an open line."
Remo was outraged. Chiun was mildly amused when he looked up. "It is a difficult thing, is it not, this serving of a new and strange Emperor. When you grow up, you may learn that."
"Anyway, he's going to call me back here on a private line."
"I am happy for you, Remo." Chiun did not seem happy.
Remo put the telephone down. "Why do you say that?"
"I mean, it is best for you to take your little victories as they come. Having Mr. Garbage call you back. That is wonderful. Not having to wear your silly little plastic badge when you go to see him. That is wonderful. At least you should think those things are wonderful, because Mr. Garbage is going to make sure that nothing else in your life is wonderful."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that you are an assassin who has been given the secrets of Sinanju. But Mr. Garbage does not recognize that this makes you something special, or would if you were a more worthy student. No. To him you are just another person with a pencil and one of those funny yellow writing tablets with blue lines. He sends you out to go looking for people, when looking for people is not what you should do. He will someday, if he sees you are not busy, start asking you to empty wastepaper baskets. He is a fool. And you are a bigger fool for serving him. Thank heaven that I have almost completed my history of Dr. Smith and his insanity. At least, in history, the House of Sinanju will not be regarded as a part of this foolishness."
The telephone rang and Remo yanked it to his ear.
"I want you to come and see me. In my office," came Corbish's voice. "And who authorized you to move out of the sanitarium?"
"I did," Remo said. "I decided it was stupid for me to hang around there. I was too visible."
"Before you do anything like that again," Corbish said, "you'd better check it with me."
"Whatever you want."
"Be here in half an hour," Corbish said.
Remo snarled and hung up the telephone.
"Don't forget to wear your little plastic badge," Chiun said.
When he reached Folcroft, Remo went over the stone wall, up the wall of the building and through a window into Corbish's office.
Corbish was not alone. Sitting across from him was the bosomy brown-haired girl Remo had seen that night in Broon's house. She was wearing what Remo regarded as a ridiculously wasteful black dress which almost but not quite hid her body, but should nevertheless have been blamed for even trying.
Remo was through the window, heading for the floor when he saw Corbish's guest. He curled his legs up before he hit, twisted his body, and landed softly, using the long curve of his right leg as a rocker. He rolled quietly to his feet.
Corbish saw the movement and looked up. The girl saw nothing, heard nothing, but spotted the surprise on Corbish's face and followed his gaze. Remo stood there in front of the open window, looking at both of them, feeling stupid.
"Hi, folks," he said. "Can I get you something from the bar? Scotch? Vodka? A Spritzer made with Snow White?"
"Who is this lunatic?" asked Holly Broon, turning back to Corbish.
"It's all right, Holly. He works for us." He stood and walked toward Remo. "Really, fella," he said. "The office door would have been perfectly adequate."
"I keep forgetting," Remo said.
"Holly, this is Remo. Remo, this is Miss Broon. You read about her father's recent death, I take it?"