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  "I'm thinking of you, dear," said Gloria Lippincott.

  "And me of you," said Lippincott. "How do you

  feel?"

  "Fine," his wife said. She giggled slightly.

  "What's so funny?" Lippincott asked.

  "Dr. Beers. He's giving me an examination."

  "Is everything all right?"

  "Oh, it's fine. Just fine," Gloria said.

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  "Swell," said Lippincott. "You be sure to do just what the doctor tells you."

  "You can count on that," said Gloria. "Anything he says, I'll do."

  "Good, and I'll see you in a little while for lunch."

  "Bye, bye," Gloria said as she hung up.

  Lippincott returned the phone to the desk.

  "That Dr. Beers is a good fella," he told Elena Gladstone. "Always on the job."

  "That's what we're paid for," Elena said, looking away from the old man with a smile. She finished buttoning her blouse.

  There were guards at the beginning of the long private drive that led to Lippincott's sprawling West-chester estate and there were more guards at the big iron gates set into the twelve-foot high stone walls that bordered the grounds.

  When they got close to the house, there were more guards prowling the perimeter of the main building, and inside the front door, there were two more guards.

  One called by telephone to Elmer Lippincott's office and was told that Remo and Chiun were allowed to pass. The guard escorted them down the hallway, lined with original Picassos, Miros, and Seurats, with an occasional Cremonesi miniature gouache inserted for balance.

  "These are ugly pictures," Chiun said.

  "They're priceless works of art," the guard said.

  Chiun tossed Remo a glance that said clearly that, at best, the guard was a person of no taste and discernment, and, at worst, might even be insane and therefore should be watched out for.

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  "They're fine," Remo said. "Especially if you like people with three noses."

  "In my village, we had a painter," Chiun said. "Oh, could he paint. When he painted a picture of a wave, it looked just like a wave. And when he painted a picture of a tree, it looked just like the tree. That is art. He got much better when I convinced him to stop wasting his time painting pictures of waves and trees and to do important subjects."

  "How many paintings did he do of you, Chiun?"

  Remo asked.

  "Ninety-seven," said Chiun. "But who counts?

  Would you like one?"

  "No," said Remo.

  "Perhaps this Mr. Lippincott will want to buy them. What did he pay for this junk?" He looked to

  the guard.

  "That Picasso there cost four hundred fifty thousand dollars," the guard said.

  "I do not appreciate your humor," Chiun said.

  "Four hundred and fifty thou," the guard said. "That's what it cost."

  "Is this true, Remo?"

  "Probably."

  "For a picture of someone with a head like a pyramid?" said Chiun.

  Remo shrugged.

  "What should I offer my paintings to this Mr. Lippincott for, Remo?" asked Chiun. "He whispered. "Because to tell the truth, I am running out of space for them."

  "Try to get a hundred dollars for the lot," Remo

  said.

  "That is insane," said Chiun.

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  "Sure it is, but you know how these rich folks throw their money around," said Remo.

  Elmer Lippincott was escorting Dr. Elena Gladstone to his office door, when the doorbell rang. "This'11 be the two security men from the government. I'll handle it." He leaned close to her ear, "And remember, you be careful." "I understand," she said. "Fine." He opened the door for her. Elena Gladstone stepped out into the hall. Her eyes met Remo's. His eyes were as dark as midnight caves and, involuntarily, she sipped in a puff of breath through open lips. She brushed up against him as she walked by and the smell of her hyacinth perfume filled his senses. She looked away and walked down the hall.

  "Come on in," Lippincott told his visitors. Remo was looking down the hallway after Elena Gladstone. As she turned toward the front door, she glanced back at him and when she saw him watching her, she seemed embarrassed and turned her head resolutely away before walking off.

  Remo followed Chiun into the office. The smell of the hyacinth perfume was still in his nostrils. "Nice looking lady," he told Lippincott. "She smells like a brewery," Chiun said. "My personal physician," Lippincott said. He nodded to the guard to return to his station and closed the office door.

  "You haven't been sick, have you?" asked Remo. "No," Lippincott said with a small chuckle. "Just my regular checkup. Sit down. What can I do for you?"

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  "There are ninety-seven paintings for sale," Chiun said. "All beautiful representations of the visage of the kindest, gentlest, most noble . . ."

  "Chiun," interrupted Remo sharply. He lounged in the blue suede sofa, facing Lippincott's desk. The sofa seemed permeated with the scent of the perfume. Chiun stood by one of the windows of the room, looking at Lippincott, who sat smoothly behind his desk. Remo asked:

  "You know who we are?"

  "I know that you've been sent here by people in very high places to see to our security. I don't know why. I don't know anything about it. I've bean asked to cooperate with you, even though we've been doing a pretty good job of protecting ourselves for as long as I've been alive."

  "And your son who practiced swan diving into the street? Could he protect himself, too?" asked Remo.

  Lippmcott's face reddened and his big hands clenched into tight fists.

  "Lern was sick," he said. "He just cracked under the strain."

  "Some people in Washington think maybe he was helped to crack," Remo said.

  "Not a chance," said Lippincott.

  "Enough trivia," said Chiun. "About those paintings . . ."

  "Please, Chiun," said Remo. "Not now."

  Chiun folded his arms and his hands disappeared into the open flowing sleeves of his blue kimono. He gazed impassively at the ceiling. ¦

  "Who's taking over the Japanese deal?" Remo asked.

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  "My son, Randall. The deal's just got to be tied up."

  "Then he's the one we've got to watch," Remo said. "Where do we find him?"

  "He lives in New York City," Lippincott said. He mentioned an address in the east sixties. "I'll tell him you're coming."

  "Please do that," Remo said. He stood up. "Are you ready, Little Father?" "Am I allowed not to talk about these priceless artworks that have been in my family for ten or eleven years?" asked Chiun.

  "What art works?" Lippincott said. "Paintings of the most noble, most gentle, most . . ."

  "Never mind," Remo told Lippincott. "You wouldn't like them."

  He nodded to Chiun to follow him and walked to the door. He stopped and looked back at Lippincott.

  "Your son, Lem," Remo said. "Yes?"

  "Did he have any pets?"

  "Pets?" Lippincott thought a moment. "No. Why?" "No contact with animals?" asked Remo. Lippincott shrugged. "Not that I know of. Why?" "I don't know," Remo said. "Something about animals maybe involved in his death."

  "That might make sense to you," said Lippincott, "but it doesn't make any to me."

  "Me neither," Remo agreed. "We'll see you." He preceded Chiun into the hallway and walked toward the front door. At the top of the broad night

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  of steps leading toward the second floor, they saw a tall blonde woman wearing a white satin dressing gown, her stomach swelled with the child she was bearing. She smiled down at them, before walking

  away.

  "There is something I do not understand," Chiun

  said.

  "What's that?" asked Remo.

  "I do not understand how there come to be so many Americans."

  "What?" asked Remo.

  "That is the first women with child I have seen in this country in more than
a year."

  Remo wasn't listening. At the front door, he asked the guard:

  "Who's the blonde?"

  "Mrs. Lippincott."

  "What Mrs. Lippincott?"

  "Mrs. Elmer Lippincott Sr."

  Remo winked to the guard. "No wonder the old man keeps looking so fit."

  The guard nodded. "You better believe it."

  Behind his locked office door, Elmer Lippincott was directing the mobile operator to contact the car of Elena Gladstone.

  When she came on the air, he said "Those two men. They wanted to know something about animals."

  "I see," said Elena Gladstone after a pause.

  "Perhaps things should cool down for a while."

  "Leave it with me," she said. She replaced the receiver in the console of her silver Jaguar XJ-12. In

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  her mind's eye, she saw the two men outside Lippin-cott's office. The old Oriental and the young American with the piercing eyes and the smooth movements of an athlete. No, it wasn't an athlete. The movements didn't look so much like power as they did like grace. Perhaps, like a ballet dancer. She hoped she saw them again. Especially the-young one. She parked her car in the public garage next to the Lifeline Laboratory, walked into her building and went straight to her private office. She made two telephone calls. On the first, she quickly recounted that two government agents were interested. "I think the old man's getting cold feet," she said. "About Randall." She got a two-word reply. "Kill him."

  "But the old man?" she said. "I'll take care of him." She nodded as the phone clicked in her ear. Her next telephone call was to the headquarters of the Lippincott National Bank, into the private office of Randall Lippincott.

  "Randall," she said, "this is Dr. Gladstone." "Hello, Elena. What can I do for you? You need a couple of mill?"

  "Thanks but no thanks. It's time for your checkup. I've managed to squirrel an hour away right after lunch."

  "Sorry. I can't make it. My schedule's full up." "Mr. Lippincott told me to call you," she said. "You know how he is."

  Randall Lippincott sighed. "He makes me crazy with all this nonsense," he said. "Checkups, vitamin

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  shots, tests. Why can't I be a normal walking wreck just like everybody else?"

  "I'm sorry, dear," said Dr. Gladstone. "You'll have to take that up with him. One o'clock?"

  "I'll be there."

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  CHAPTER SIX

  Ruby Gonzalez choked back her disgust as she looked down filth-littered East Seventh Street. Zack Meadows's last address was in a fourth-floor walkup, a half-block east of the Bowery, a street so sodden and degenerate that it had lent its once-proud Dutch name to a way of life, as in "Bowery bum."

  She walked down the block toward Meadows's building, which was jammed neatly in between a store that sold handmade leather purses and belts and had gone out of business, apparently failing to realize that the belts that were important in the Bowery weren't made of leather, and a cheese store, which did better than the belt shop because it also sold wine.

  The litter in front of Meadows's building was so thick and resolute, it looked as if it had been brewed and boiled to a uniform consistency and then spray-painted on the sidewalk.

  In this section of town, the news from uptown about people being required to clean up after their dogs hadn't yet arrived, because the sidewalk and the gutter and the street were festooned with dog reminders.

  Ruby picked her way neatly through the piles and

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  walked up the cracked concrete steps of the building. She had been in New York often enough to know that doorbells in places like this never worked, so she looked for the superintendent's apartment number, which was written on the wall with a magic marker, then slipped the inside lock with a credit card from a Wisconsin cheese-by-mail shop.

  The sign outside the apartment door said "Mr. Ar-maducci." Ruby rang the superintendent's bell. She had been prepared to charm the super when he appeared, but a look at the hulk wearing a strapped undershirt with hair on the tops of his shoulders was too much, even for Ruby's well-defined sense of duty.

  He growled at her, "Wotcha want?" and she fished in her pocketbook and came up with a laminated card that identified her as a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  He fingered the card with grease-stained fingers and she made a mental note to throw it away as soon as she got back outside.

  "I want to see the Meadows apartment," she said. "Yeah?" he said in the clever patois that all New Yorkers learn, as a consequence of their school system being the most expensive to operate in the United States.

  "Gee, you got it. First time too," Ruby said. "You got a warrant?" Mr. Armaducci said. That was the second thing New Yorkers learned to say. It gave them their world-wide reputation for sophistication.

  "Do I need one?" Ruby asked. "You got no warrant, you don't get to see nuthinV

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  "If I have to go get a warrant, I won't come back alone," Ruby said.

  "No?"

  "I'll bring back half the health department," she said.

  "Big deal. Wha they gonna do, fine the landlord? How the hell they fine him, I can't even find him."

  "Fine the landlord, hell," Ruby said. "They take one look at this dump and they'll drag you out into the street and shoot you. Bang, bang."

  "Very funny."

  "Keys to the Meadows apartment."

  "You wait here. I see I find dem."

  It took five minutes for Mr. Armaducci to find the keys. From the looks of them, it was apparent that he had been keeping them hidden in a pot of boiling chicken grease on his stove.

  "You see dat Meadows," the superintendent said, "you tell him I tron him out, he tree weeks behind da rent."

  "And places like this aren't easy to find, either," Ruby said.

  "Dat's right," the superintendent said. He scratched that sixty percent of his stomach that did not fit beneath his undershirt and he belched. Ruby walked away before he relieved himself in the hall which, judging from the smell, seemed to be the habit of the building's occupants.

  "Which is his?" she asked.

  "Tade flaw leff," the superintendent said.

  As she walked up the creaking steps, Ruby wondered if there were perhaps a special subspecies of human who became New York City apartment superintendents. Surely, the preponderance among

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  them of Mr. Artnaduccis could not be explained away by the laws of probability.

  Not the building or the hallway or the superintendent had prepared Ruby for the inside of Zack Meadows's apartment. It looked as if it had been used for the last ten years as a staging area for an army laundry. Clothes, all of them dirty, littered every corner of the two small rooms. The sink was filled with a lifetime supply of plastic plates and styro-foam cups. She sighed and thought to herself that white folks sure lived funny.

  But the apartment would be easy to search. She merely had to drag her feet to turn over all the junk that was on the floor and the only two places where anything of value might have been hidden were a green enamel bedroom dresser and in a drawer under the sink. Ruby did not exactly know what she was looking for but there was nothing in either place that told anything about Zack Meadows except that he was a slob who didn't own any clean clothes.

  Ruby spent an hour kicking about the apartment, but she found nothing. No phone numbers on the inside of the three-year-old telephone book, no addresses of friends or relatives. Just one old penny arcade photograph, presumably of Zack Meadows. She thought he looked stupid. She found a pile of old racing forms and skimmed them quickly. She noticed large x's drawn through the past performance charts of certain horses, as if they had automatically been eliminated from contention. All the horses so treated had jockeys with Italian-sounding names. Ruby was sure she had found her man. Finally, with a deep feeling of disgust, she turned

  76

  over the once-white plastic garbage pail. Stuffed into the bottom of it,
along with a few small paper bags, were a fistful of napkins printed in bleeding red ink "Manny's Sandwich Shop." It gave an address around the corner on the Bowery.

  Ruby locked the door behind her and stopped at Mr. Armaducci's apartment to return the keys.

  "Did Meadows ever have any visitors?" she asked.

  "Naaah, nobody come to see him."

  "Thanks." She gave him the keys, avoiding skin contact with his hand.

  "Hey," he called after her.

  Ruby turned.

  "You didden take nuttin' witcha, didja?"

  "God, I hope not," Ruby said.

  Manny's Sandwich Shop around the comer was just what the neighborhood deserved and Manny, the owner, seemed to have spent his life trying to live up to the quality of the restaurant.

  He knew Zack Meadows well.

  "Sure," Manny told Ruby. "He stops in here, two, three times a week. Likes my pastrami sandwiches."

  "I bet they're wonderful," Ruby said. "I'm looking for him. You seen him around recently?"

  Manny shrugged. "Let me think. No, maybe a couple weeks I ain't seen him."

  "You have any idea where he hangs out?" Ruby asked. "Who his friends might be?"

  Manny shook his head. "I never seen him with nobody. What you wanna know for?" he asked suspiciously.

  Ruby winked. "My boss sent me down. I've got some money for him."

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  "Money? For Meadows?" Manny wrinkled his nose in disbelief. "Yeah," Ruby said.

  "Who's your boss?"

  "You'd know him if I said it," Ruby said. "Meadows did some work on the big man's wife, if you know what I mean." She looked at him with a wise face that Manny searched for a few moments before nodding.

  "Sometimes he used to hang out at the Bowery Bar," Manny said. "Maybe they seen him. Ernie there used to take Meadows's action," which meant, Ruby knew, that Ernie was the detective's bookie.

  Ernie was sitting inside the door of the bar. He wore a blue pin-striped suit, had pink-tinted eyeglasses, and a pinkie ring with a tiger's eye stone that looked like a dinosaur egg with a crack in it. He kept looking over his shoulder at the street outside.

  He made a pass at Ruby, seemed relieved when she sloughed it off, and then seemed happy to talk about Zack Meadows.

  "A good dear friend," Ernie said. "You can tell him that and tell him to come and visit me. He ain't got nothing to be afraid of."