"Why'd Clogg want to know?"
"He's got an oil deal with Baraka. Your formula might threaten it. He wants to know who else knows about it."
"You have anything to do with those dead oil scientists in the United States?"
"No, no," the man protested, and Remo knew he was telling the truth.
"All right, pal."
"What are you going to do to me?" the man asked, frightened to the edge of panic.
"Kill you," said Remo.
"You can't do that."
"There's an interesting difference there in schools of thought," said Remo. "You say I can't, but I say I can. Who's right? In the morning when they find your body,
we'll see I am."
And then he slapped the blackjack down into the redheaded man's mouth, shoving it into his throat, canceling out any chance the man had to scream, but stopping just short of the point where the sap would have cut off the redheaded man's breathing.
Now the redhead recognized where he was and why it was soft. He was lying on an ironing table, the professional kind that dry cleaners used to steam creases into clothes.
Remo smiled at him in the darkness, then lowered the top half of the table down onto him.
The redhead felt the heat begin to sandwich his body. Remo grabbed a coathanger and twisted it through the handles of the top and bottom parts of the ironing table, fastening it together.
He went to the bottom of the table and turned the heat up to full burn, and then pressed the button activating the steamer.
The redhead heard the hiss first, then felt the hot steam begin to blast out of both halves of the board; through his thin summery clothing he felt burning pain as it hit his body.
"You should be well creased by morning," said Remo.
The redheaded man started to talk, tried to say something but couldn't with the blackjack in his mouth.
His frightened eyes searched for Remo.
"Oh, you want something?" said Remo. "Oh, I see. More starch in the collar. Okay." He took a can of spray starch and sprayed it over the redheaded man's face.
"And listen, we give a one-cent rebate for every hanger you bring back. Don't forget now."
The man tried to cried out, but no sound came, and then there was only the sound of the door closing softly.
The man, terrified now, lay hoping for unconsciousness and praying that he would die quickly. Or be saved.
His wish was to be granted.
There was another sound and the door opened. Pressed down, sandwiched in the ironing board, he tried to turn his head toward the door but he could not see.
And then an oily Oriental voice spoke to him.
"Silence," the voice said.
He heard the sound of the wire coat hanger being released, and then blessed relief as the heated top of the ironing table was lifted. And then the blackjack was removed from his mouth.
And then the Oriental voice was asking him questions, about what he had done and why, and what Clogg and Baraka were up to. He answered them all honestly, and finally the voice said, "That is enough."
The redhaired man started to straighten up, mumbling through his broken mouth, "What is your name? Mr. Clogg will want to reward you."
"My name is Nuihc," came the voice. "But no reward is necessary." And then there was pressure that stopped the red-haired man from getting up, and then he felt the blackjack come down again on his face, hard this time, and then everything went black, all black, and he saw, heard, felt nothing anymore because he was dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Clayton Clogg had the entire fourth floor of the Lobynian Arms, but he was nowhere on the floor. However, large portions of his retinue who were there were only too glad to tell Remo where Clogg had gone, if he would only stop.
He stopped long enough for one man to gasp that Clogg had gone with two cars full of Oxonoco "special personnel" to a point on the Lobynian coastline facing one of the small offshore islands. There had been a small Oxonoco camp there, before all the gas supplies had been nationalized.
Remo then stopped with another man long enough for that man to procure a map and to show Remo where the Oxonoco camp was, two driving hours out of Dapoli. The map was easy to read. Out of Dapoli led three roads. One went to the coast to the Oxonoco camp, another went inland to the main oil depot, and the third went deep through the desert to the Mountains of Hercules. Maps in America showed golf courses; this map showed oases. There was only one near the Oxonoco camp.
It was after midnight when Remo left. Clogg had a forty-five minute head start. The desert had not yet surrendered its day-baked heat, and the narrow road seemed to steam as Remo drove along it in the Ford which yet another of Clogg's retinue had graciously offered to lend him-if he would only stop.
Remo had wondered enough whether Clogg or Baraka had been Nuihc's henchman. He would take care of Clogg and Chiun would take care of Baraka. The scientists' killings would end; with Adras back on the throne, the flow of oil to America would resume. And then there would only be Nuihc left. But he was in the future. Clogg was now.
Remo began to feel a slight breeze blowing up and he realized he was nearing the coastline. He turned off his lights and continued to drive in the darkness. Up ahead he saw the bulky shapes of two limousines. He turned off his motor, pressed in the clutch, and let his car roll to a stop behind the limousines.
Remo got out of the car and stopped at each of the two black Cadillacs, reaching in under their dashboards and pulling out handfuls of wire. The cars would be of no use unless Clogg had brought electrical engineers with him as well as oil people. And what the hell were "special personnel" for Oxonoco? he wondered.
Noiselessly, Remo moved toward the breeze and heard the sound of the Mediterranean lapping softly on sand. Ahead he saw shapes. He insinuated himself into the darkness and moved into the group. One moment he was not there, the next moment he was and had always been there.
Clogg was talking, pointing out to the sea.
"How far is the island?"
"Only three hundred yards," came a voice near Remo's right.
"We could put that pipeline in, under water, in not more than a week," Clogg said. "But we have to wait for that greasy mule-skinner to make up his mind. Be ready to move as soon as you hear from me."
"Suppose he says no?" asked a voice across from Remo.
"He won't. Did you ever see one of these animals who could resist cash?" There were chuckles all around. "And if he gets sticky," Clogg added, "well, you men have had some experience in that area. It might just be time for Lobynia to have a new lord high commandant," he said contemptuously.
Clogg turned and looked back toward the road. "I wonder where Red is. He should have been here by now."
The man at Remo's right laughed. "He's got this thing about black twiff. He may be taking his time."
"Killing her with kindness," said another.
Then they all laughed and began to walk back toward the two limousines, Remo melting along with them, first seeming to be in one small group, then in another. When they reached the cars, a man called: "Hey, there's another car there. Whose is that?"
Remo backed off a step from the group. "That's mine," he said coldly.
"And who are you?" The voice was Clogg's.
"A man with a star," Remo said. "You can trust that car belongs to the man who wears a star."
The crowd of men moved closer to Remo. One got too close. He oomphed and fell, almost as if for no reason at all. So fast had Remo's hand moved that no one else had seen it.
"I can be very friendly," said Remo.
Clogg recognized the voice. "What is it you want, Mr. Goldberg?"
"Nothing much," said Remo. "Just you."
"Men, start the cars," said Clogg. He backed off toward one of the limousines. The man Remo had put to the ground did not stir, not even when Remo reached in under his light jacket and withdrew his revolver.