Created, the Destroyer

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The receptionist at East Hudson Hospital unconsciously straightened, pushing forward her chest, when she saw that beautiful specimen come toward her desk.

He walked like no man she had ever seen, with the grace of a dancer yet the sure, strong movements of an athlete. Every motion seemed to flourish in a calm masculine discipline she just knew could create miracles on a mattress.

He wore a well-cut gray, three-button suit, with a white shirt and a brown tie that matched the deep fascination of his eyes. She didn't know if she was smiling too widely as he allowed his strong hands to settle on her desk.

«Hello. I'm Donald McCann,» he said.

«Is there anything I can do for you?» she asked. His tailor was magnificent.

«Yes, there is. I'm an insurance adjuster and frankly I'm in a bind.»

He seemed to know she would do anything for him; those beautiful eyes just knew it.

«Oh,» she said. The supervisor wouldn't be around until 6:30 a.m. She had a half-hour. What was happening to her? What did this man have?

«Yes,» he said leaning forward. «I'm responsible for the insurance on a building. And I hear someone fell from it.»

She nodded. «Oh yes, Jackson. He's in Room 411, emergency.»

«Could I get to see him?»

«I'm afraid not. You'll have to wait until visiting hours and then get permission from the guard. He tried to commit suicide. They don't want him to do it.»

The man seemed disappointed. «Well, I guess I'll just have to wait until visiting hours.» He waited as though expecting something. Maybe he would leave. She didn't want him to leave.

«Is it very important?» she asked.

He was a kiss away from her lips now. «Yes.»

«Maybe I can get the guard down here and you could go in for a minute.» To hell with the supervisor.

He was smiling so beautifully. «Would that be all right?» she asked.

«Beautiful,» he said.

«I'll phone him. You get in one of those elevators and hold the door open so he'll have to use the other one to come down. The night nurse takes her break now. I'll keep the guard here until I go off… about twenty minutes. Then I'll phone to the floor and you hold an elevator there. When the other one comes up, come back down here to me. I'm getting off then. But don't tell a soul. Promise?»

«I promise.» He had such beautiful eyes. It wasn't until he had disappeared into the elevator that the receptionist realized her husband would still be in bed when she got home. She'd work out something later.

Remo pressed the fourth floor button and watched the elevator doors close. So Chiun had been right. Some women could sense a man's control of his body. They could be attracted by what he called the hia chu charm, knowing within that the man had such perfect timing and rhythm and highly developed senses that he could arouse them every time.

«Man can love. Women live. They are like cattle that feed the body. Their main concern is their safety, nourishment, and happiness. The devotedness that passes for love in the man's mind is really the woman's instinct for protection. She wins that protection by simulating love. She, not the man, is responsible for the life of the human race. A most wise choice.»

But how had Chiun been so certain? He had never called for women himself at Folcroft. But he had said: «In your mind, she will respond.»

Remo had not intended to use Chiun's method. But then, nothing had turned out the way he expected since the meeting with Smith, that tea-drinking filing cabinet back at Folcroft.

How could CURE with all that superior personnel be so stupid about the special unit's methods. Of course, they were not supposed to know much, but the ignorance he had faced in just getting out was beyond reason.

First they had wanted to load him up with a bulky revolver. Then the armament man displayed a raft of pipe pistols, pen darts, poison dropping rings, all stuff from Charlie Chan movies.

He had been taught how these devices worked in order to know what he might have to face. But carrying around an arsenal was like wearing an advertisement. He had said no and the armament clerk shrugged. If he were to enlist an unwitting ally, then he would call for a drop of one of these instruments. But for himself, Remo knew, his hands could do all the work necessary without having complications from the local bulls.

He had kept the Remo Cabell identification and asked for an increase of only one thing: money. His allotment had been $3,000. He asked for $7,500 and got it. One thousand in small bills and the rest in hundreds.

This was wrong, too much for an assignment, he had been told. It would just draw attention to himself. But then they believed he'd be operating with CURE for the rest of his life.

«Take just what you need.» Well, if he were that obsessed with remaining unnoticed, he never would have used the receptionist. He would have come in through the hospital's emergency room and looked as if he belonged there. That was another thing Folcroft had taught him. Remo smiled as he thought of the course in just looking as though you belong, the way to ask questions, the manner, the gait of the walk. Yet, they had kept saying, «Master this and you can forget most of the rest we teach.»

Well, he could forget most of what they taught. He wasn't going to find himself in a death cell again for doing his job, or waiting like MacCleary for one of his own to dispatch, him. Remo had had it. The world had taught him and he had almost gotten killed before he learned. Not again… not ever again.

He would call for a drop of cash in two days, saying he was on Maxwell's tail, then hit a drop with a note that he couldn't even get close, and then for the rest of his life follow the last order from the organization: «Disappear.»

But first MacCleary. With MacCleary out of the way, no one would bother him again. The elevator door opened slowly, almost silently.

The hall was quiet in the pre-dawn darkness. A table lamp burned at the vacant desk of the night nurse. Remo walked down the hall. He glided silently on crepe soles… 407, 409, 411… no guard. Without breaking stride, he entered the room. He had already made an eyecheck of the hall. But if someone should have been in a shadow, his even stride and quick entry might have confused them as to the room he entered.

He pressed the door closed behind him. He had decided MacCleary would probably have a broken rib from the fall. All he had to do was press one into the heart and no one would think of murder. The room was dark but for a pin light above MacCleary's head. The light reflected off a metal object on the bed. It was the hook. The room smelled of ether. As he moved closer he saw tubes stretching down to the dark form like lines of thick spaghetti.

One leg was in traction. He moved a hand along the warm wettish cast until he felt the plaster around the rib cage. He didn't want to crack it. That would leave signs. He'd have to adjust it, carefully, carefully, the rib cage pivots and…

«Hey, buddy,» came the faint voice. It was MacCleary. «That's a hell of a way to make an identification. You didn't even check the face.»

«Shut up,» Remo said.

«I've got a lead on Maxwell.»

«Yeah, sure. Sure. Just a minute.»

«Okay. You want to finish me without getting the lead, it's your business. But I think you're going to crack the plaster. Bad evidence.»

Why didn't he shut up? Why didn't he shut up? How could he kill him while he was talking and knew what was going on? Remo's hands carefully left the plaster intact. He had to put them back. He had to do it.

«I've got a better way,» MacCleary said.

«Shut up,» Remo said.

«C'mere,» MacCleary said.

Remo glanced at the hook arm. It was free. The other was in a cast. So MacCleary was going to bring the hook from behind when Remo leaned forward. Good. Let him. Then he'd just smash him in the throat, rip out a couple of tubes and to hell with the whole mess. He'd be free.

«Okay,» Remo said. He leaned forward, balancing to catch the hook from behind with the sweep of his right hand.

MacCleary's face was fully bandaged, too. Only his lips showed.

«I couldn't penetrate,» MacCleary said. «But I did get to a man named Norman Felton. He owns the apartment they pitched me out of yesterday. That's Felton with an F like Frank. He's Maxwell's middleman. The syndicate knows him but a lot of them think he's the eliminator. Only the real top guys must know about Maxwell. No wonder we've never been able to get a line on him.»

The hook remained still. Remo concentrated on it out of the corner of his eye.

«I saw Felton for just a minute. It was his penthouse I was thrown out of. This damned hook caught on a couch and he was on me with a couple of goons before I knew it. I got one of them, I think.»

Remo saw the hook rise. He was ready for it but it just fell back down.

«The goons came out of the walls. Watch the walls, they're inhabited. They all slide every which way. Before they came out, I had Felton backed to the garden windows that lead to his terrace. He was scared, but not enough to talk. Call for drugs at a drop, I don't think he'll break with pain».

«Felton's pretty classy. He's a millionaire by now and he uses that as a cover. I don't even think the local bulls know he's in the rackets. He's got only one interest. That's his daughter, Cynthia. She's at Briarcliff, this fancy college in Pennsylvania. Doubt that she knows what Daddy does for a living. I don't know how you could use her but that's a weakness of his. Maybe you could use her to break him.»

The hook moved slightly, but only slightly. Then it was still.

«I guess I screwed up pretty badly. I knew we never should have gone after Maxwell. Not enough facts. That's fatal in our business. But we were stuck with the job. Now you've got to end him. I don't know how, but try something I haven't. I tried to go directly toward him and I'm just another victim».

«Good luck, Remo. Have somebody say a mass for me.»

Remo turned and started to walk away.

«Where are you going?» MacCleary hissed. «You've got to finish something.»

«No,» Remo said.

«For God's sake, Remo, you've got to. I can't move. I'm drugged. They took my pills. I can't do it myself. Remo. You had the right idea. Just pressure the rib cage. Remo. Remo!»

But the door slowly closed on Room 411 in East Hudson Hospital and it was quiet except for the scratching of a hook on a cast.