"I'll call the building inspector in the morning," Remo said. "What are the poppies for?"
"Ah, yes. I forget that you are unfamiliar with our operation here. We have so few visitors, I'm afraid."
"A waste of fine hospitality."
Arnold laughed. "I know. We're really shockingly rude, my stepmother and I. I do apologize."
"I'll remember how sorry you are the next time you try to kill me. Now, about the poppies."
Arnold led him into a partitioned area at the rear of the greenhouse. The ghostly ultraviolet light was replaced by large banks of bright fluorescents strung above a series of metal-topped laboratory tables. On the tables were a number of objects, including several plants, some bearing beans, others with bright flowers. They were all slightly different from one another. Arnold picked up one of the blossoms.
"Papaver somniferum," he said. "The opium poppy." He set down the plant and picked up a tube of some sticky black-brown material. It was about the thickness of a stick of pepperoni. "Opium is made from the juice of the immature seed capsules belonging to this plant." When Arnold moved the tube, the sickly sweet odor became stronger.
"Opium, in turn, is refined into morphine, a drug that for years was considered the strongest narcotic available to medicine." He picked up a plastic bag filled with white powder, set it down, and lifted another bag of even more brilliant white.
"But then along came heroin, and even further refinement of the commonplace opium poppy plant. Those who enjoy its soothing effects—"
"Yeah, yeah," Remo said.
"Forgive me if I am oversimplifying, but you have come for information, haven't you?"
"About the coffee. You can dump the lecture on junkies. Thanks to you, there are millions of them in the United States right now."
"And elsewhere soon, I hope," Arnold said laconically. He looked up at Remo. "Surely you didn't think we were going to stop with the North American continent? That was just the test area. The idea is far too brilliant to contain in one country. No, it belongs to the ages, my coffee. Would you like to know how it's made?"
Remo nodded.
Smiling vaguely, Arnold pulled one of the coffee plants under the light on the lab table. Beside it he placed a large square cardboard box, which had rested on a low shelf. He opened the box. Inside was a single dazzling purple blossom. Its fragrance was overpowering, with ten times the intensity of the other flowers in the room.
"Another strain of poppy," Remo said.
"Quite. Papaver somniferum Esmeralda. I've named it for my stepmother. They tend to have the same effect on men."
He lifted the plant from the box. Its gorgeous petals shrank from the light. "Night blooming. Very rare," Arnold whispered.
"You've crossed coffee plants with these poppies," Remo said.
"To put it gracelessly, yes. Naturally, the hybrid only works with a certain strain of Colombian coffee and this particular species of opium poppy, but the cross is possible. See for yourself." He took one of the beans from the coffee plant and crushed it with a mallet. The fragments emitted a bittersweet fragrance.
Remo tasted one of the pieces. "But this is heroin, not opium."
"It is opium," Arnold said. "But of such an intensity that further refinement is unnecessary. Do you now see why the use of this drug will not be limited to your country?"
"It's your country, too," Remo said.
Arnold laughed. "How very provincial of you." He placed the flowering plant back inside its box, then took off the rubber gloves and the lab coat he was wearing. "Would you care to see the plants where they grow? They're exceedingly beautiful."
"Not really. I've seen enough."
"I'm afraid I must insist we go upstairs, all the same." Arnold tapped the crystal on his watch. "You see, it's eight minutes to twelve. It will soon be Esmeralda's birthday. I wish to help her celebrate it."
They walked through the greenhouse and down the corridor, picking their way over the fallen rock and detritus left by the collapse of Arnold's oubliette. At the far end, Arnold pressed a small button, and the tile wall slid away to reveal an open elevator.
"Clever," Remo said. "This connects to the closet upstairs?"
"Very good," Arnold answered with an approving nod. "My stepmother will be so glad to see you again. I'm pleased that you managed to be friends with her. She gets so lonely."
"Wonderful friend," Remo observed. "I suppose she had something to do with my falling into that hole of yours."
"What do you think?"
"I think you're two peas in a pod. Nothing like murder to bring a family together."
The elevator door opened immediately behind the hanging skeleton. "You really do overemphasize that aspect of things. Murder is not our objective in this enterprise. Profit is. If I may say so, I think you have a tendency toward the morbid." He pushed the skeleton aside. "Ah, there's my charming Mater now."
They walked into the living room. Esmeralda was standing in a corner, looking like a trapped animal. Whether she was afraid of Arnold or of himself, Remo didn't know, but it was clear she was afraid.
"Come here, Mater dearest," Arnold said. "Our visitor won't harm you. I was just going to show him the poppy fields."
"You— you told him about the beans?" she asked.
"Why, of course. You did, didn't you?"
"Arnold—"
"It's all right." His voice was soft. "Our secrets are safe with our friend, aren't they?"
Esmeralda looked at him for a long moment, her eyes wide. Then she lowered them and nodded slowly.
She was on the kid's side, all right, Remo thought. All the talk about being terrified of Arnold was just a sham. Good old Esmeralda, the best actress in Colombia.
Arnold broke the silence. "If you'll just follow me, please."
A flight of stairs led them to the roof. It was flat and bare except for the huge opaque dome that Remo had seen from the air.
"What's that?" he asked.
Arnold shook at finger at him. "Now, if I told you everything, we wouldn't have any conversation left for later."
"Oh, yes, we would. We could discuss who your father is, for instance."
Arnold chuckled and put his arm around Esmeralda, who was shivering. "My, my, we have been talkative, haven't we, Mater?"
She didn't answer.
"But to the business at hand," Arnold went on. He flipped a switch on the side of the outer wooden wall of the mansion, and a thousand powerful spotlights blinked on to reveal acres of shimmering, violet-colored flowers in the fields far below the house.
"Magnificent, aren't they? The only ones in existence. Their seeds are filled with the purest natural variety of opium known to man. When these blossoms are crossed with Peruvinian coffee beans, the result is even purer than refined heroin." He inhaled deeply. "And you can drink it for breakfast, too."
Remo waited. The young madman had already told him and shown him far too much to let him live.
"Now that I've seen your flowers, I guess the two of you are going to push me off the roof."
Arnold shook his head. "Certainly not. After all, if you escaped from my oubliette with nothing but the strength in your limbs, you would most decidedly win in any physical struggle with me or my stepmother." He consulted his watch again. "It's nearly midnight. Come back downstairs. We must usher in Esmeralda's birthday with a toast."
With a backward glance at the strange opaque dome on the roof, Remo followed the two of them back into the living room. Arnold passed glasses of brandy around.
"You, Mater, must sit in the place of honor while we toast you." He led her to a small settee facing the curved glass wall overlooking the cliff, and raised his glass.
Esmeralda cast a glance at Remo. "I did not wish to kill you," she said.
Remo shrugged. "Forget it. Happy birthday."
"My sentiments exactly," Arnold said, moving behind her. He raised his glass. "A very happy birthday to you, Mater. A short life and a merry one."