‘Deputy sheriffs. Bade County.’
‘Let me see your identification.’
‘Let us see yours.’
In the confusion and fumbling of wallets, Remo’s snake quick hands darted through the steering wheel to the car keys, plucking them out too fast to jingle.
‘Hey, what’re you doing with the keys?’
‘Nothing,’ said Remo as his thumb pressured the grooves and teeth of the ignition key out of line. ‘Just want to make sure you don’t run anywhere until I see that identification.’
The detective at the wheel snatched back the keys. ‘You just watch your step there, fella. We’re officers.’
‘All right. I’ll let it go this time,’ said Remo in his best, decade-old patrolman’s voice.
The two deputy sheriffs looked at each other in confusion. They were even more confused when Farger and the reporter who talked like a cop drove away, and their ignition key wouldn’t work.
‘The son of a bitch switched keys.’ But upon examination, that proved not to be the case. They tried the key again and it did not work again. Finally one of the deputies held the key to his right eye and sighted along the grooves. He noticed they were bent out of shape. As he tried to hammer the key back into shape with the butt of his revolver, Farger’s car vanished over a hill.
Miles ahead, Remo noticed a lovely dirt road cutting into swamplands. Farger pulled in.
‘You see what happened to the deputies?’
Remo shrugged. He pointed to a tree.
‘Pretty wet over there,’ Farger said. ‘Do you think that’s good?’
‘Try it,’ said Remo,
So Willard Farger in his best Douglas MacArthur wading-ashore stride went to the tree and Remo drove the car right up to it into the wet mush.
‘What’re you doing? You crazy? That’s my car,’ yelled Farger. He dove for the driver’s seat. Remo snatched the ignition keys, slid out the passenger’s door, and jammed it shut so it would not open. He pranced over the car top and down to the other side where he performed the same jamming operation on Farger’s door.
‘What’re you doing, you crazy bastard?’ screamed Farger.
‘An interview.’
‘Open the damned door.’ Farger struggled with the handle, but it snapped off. The car sank into the dark ooze up to the midpoint of the hubcaps. Remo hopped to the dry spot of moss near the palm tree. He took a notebook out of his pocket and waited.
‘Get me out of here,’ yelled Farger.
‘In a minute, sir. First, I want your opinion on ecology, the urban crisis, the farm crisis, the energy crisis, the Indochina situation and the price of meat.’
With a sudden belching sound, the front end of the car sank almost to the windshield. Farger climbed over the seat to the back. He hurriedly opened the window and tried to climb out headfirst. Remo left the dry spot to push Farger back inside.
‘Let me out of here,’ yelled Farger. ‘I’ll tell you anything.’
‘Where are the Bullingsworth papers?’
‘I don’t know. I never saw them.’
‘Who told you what to say, when you started shooting off your mouth about Folcroft?’
‘Moskowitz. The city manager. He said Mayor Cartwright wanted me to do it.’
‘Did Moskowitz kill Bullingsworth?’
‘No. Not that I know of. The Folcroft people did. Are you from Folcroft?’
‘Don’t be absurd,’ Remo said. ‘That organization doesn’t exist.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ cried Farger. ‘You gotta let me out of here.’ Muck oozed up into the car window and Farger raised the window just ahead of the slime.
‘What was the point of you guys blabbing about the Folcroft thing?’
‘It was Mayor Cartwright’s idea. He said if we exposed it, they wouldn’t be able to slap any of his men or him with phony, trumped-up indictments.’
‘I see. Thank you for the wonderful interview.’
‘You going to let me out of here?’
‘As a newsman, I have a responsibility to report the facts, not interfere with them. Representing the Fourth Estate…’ Remo had no chance to finish the sentence because with a lurching slurp, Farger’s car dropped and now only the roof of the sedan showed. Muffled moans came through it. Remo leaped to the roof. The car sank deeper from his weight and the swamp began to crowd his little platform.
As Chiun had taught him so long ago, Remo focused the power on his right hand and welding the fingers and palm into an almost straight line, slashed down into the thin metal roofing, creating a three-foot long scar. He ripped the thin topping off and Farger scrambled through the hole, his face red with sweat and tears.
‘I just want you to know I’m not fooling around,’ Remo said. ‘Now take me to see Moskowitz.’
‘Sure, sure,’ Farger said. ‘I always considered the press my friend. You know, you conduct one hell of an interview.’
When Remo and Farger hitched a ride into the city, Remo said he would reimburse Farger for the car.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Farger said. ‘Insurance will cover it. You certainly do conduct one whale of an interview.’
In the city Farger phoned Moskowitz. The city manager had just arrived home.
‘One whale of a newsman wants to see you, Clyde,’ said Farger.
But the interview never took place. When Remo got to City Manager Clyde Moskowitz’s house, the door was opened, the lights were on and Moskowitz was staring at a television set with a half-smile on his lips. His eyes were clouded. The lacquered wooden handle of an ice pick stuck out of his right ear. Remo stood near Moskowitz, looking at the ice pick, sensing the strange floral smell that it seemed to give off.
And then he felt very helpless. For the first time, Remo feared that the art of the assassin might not be enough.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Marshal Dworshansky, your lilac cologne, sir.’ The valet offered the thin, silver bottle on the silver tray as the yacht lurched in the growing hurricane winds.
Marshal Dworshansky shook seven drops of the greenish cologne on his hand, and rubbed it between his open palms. Then he gently slapped his face and neck.
‘Shall I have the cook select the meat, Marshal?’
Dworshansky shook his head. ‘No, Sasha, the important things a man must do himself. To my sadness, I have found out that to entrust others with a major task is to put your life in their hands.’
‘Very good, Marshal. The captain wishes to know when to return to port.’
‘Tell him to stay out here. Let us ride out the storm, Sasha, like seamen of old. How is my daughter taking the sea?’
‘Like a true sailor, Marshal.’
Dworshansky chuckled. ‘Ah. If she were a man, Sasha. If she were a man, she would show them a thing or two, eh, Sasha?’
‘Yes, Marshal Dworshansky.’
With two quick passes of a brush, Dworshansky formed his graying hair into a neat, presentable style—not quite a crew cut, but not flowing either. He dressed in white silk shirt and white cotton pants and white deck shoes. Neat, presentable and functional. He looked at himself in the mirror and slapped his hard stomach. He was in his sixties, yet still well-muscled and fat free.
When the captain signed on new, young, crew members, Dworshansky would offer them $100 if they could throw him in a wrestling match. When none achieved this, he would offer $200 if two men could do it as a team. That failing, he offered $300 for three and $400 for four. He would stop at four, never winded or even flushed with effort.
‘Five of you might make me work up a sweat,’ he would say.
Now Dworshansky entered the ship’s galley like a general on inspection. ‘The meat, Dmitri,’ he ordered. ‘It must be special tonight. Very special.’
‘Your daughter, Marshal?’
‘Yes. And her daughter, my granddaughter.’
‘It is good to serve your entire family again, Marshal.’