"The lower proletariat," Remo said.
"A lie," she insisted. "I do not believe the masses live in buildings like these with street lights on corners and shops nearby under that train in the air."
Remo parked the car in front of a brown brick building with a tudor entrance and two rows of green hedges cut very thin, bordering the steps that led to the entrance. "Wait here," he told Mei Soong and motioned Chiun to follow.
"I'm pretty sure I know how General Liu disappeared," Remo whispered to Chiun as they walked away from the car.
"Who do you think you are, Charley Chan?" asked Chiun. "You are not trained in this sort of thing."
"Quiet," Remo said. "I want you to observe."
"Right on, Sherlock, heh, heh."
"Where'd you pick that up?"
"I watch television at Folcroft."
"Oh, I didn't know they had TV there."
"Yes," said Chiun. "My favourite shows are Edge of Night and As the World Turns. They are so beautiful and lovely."
On Jerome Avenue, it became clear to Chiun also. As they strolled through the busy shopping district, they drew curious glances from passersby, the fruit peddler, students with DeWitt Clinton High School jackets, a policeman collecting his weekly tithe from a bookie.
They stopped in front of a lot clustered with unmarked gravestones, and an incredibly ornate white marble angel, undoubtedly ordered by a family that had come to its senses too late after the first shock of loss.
The fresh smell of grass from the municipal golf course came as a blessed gift, telling them that grass was alive and well and living in some sections of New York City.
The afternoon heat, surprising for September, bore down heavily on the now gummy asphalt.
A train clattered overhead spraying metal sparks where its wheels met the tracks.
"Chiun, General Liu never left Jerome Avenue at this point. There were no reports on his being seen, but in this neighbourhood there's no way that a couple of men, one of them an Oriental in uniform, could just walk away. He must have been plopped into another car a couple of blocks from here and taken somewhere."
Remo scanned the street. "And you don't make any turnoff up there," he said, nodding north, "without meaning to. Not from a caravan of cars. His driver must have turned off, General Liu realized it and shot him. And perhaps the other man too. But whoever they were working with got the general before the rest of the caravan could catch up."
"Maybe he forced his driver to turn off," Chiun said.
"No, he wouldn't have to. They were his own men. He's a general, you know."
"And you know as much about Chinese internal politics as a roach knows about nuclear engineering."
"I know a general's man is a general's man."
"Do you also know why a general in an armoured car can shoot two of his own men, and then not fire a shot at somebody who forces him from the car?"
"Maybe it all happened too fast. Anyway, Chiun. ..." Remo stopped. "I've got it. That train overhead, you know where it goes? To Chinatown! That's it. They herded him on a train to Chinatown."
"Did no one notice the gang of men boarding the train? Did no one think it was odd to see a Chinese general struggling on a subway?"
Remo shrugged. "Just details."
"Everything seems clear to you because you do not know what you are doing, my son," said Chiun. "Perhaps General Liu is already dead."
"I don't think so. Why the big effort then to kill us?"
"A diversion."
Remo smiled. "Then they better up the price."
"They will," Chiun said. "Particularly now when the world learns that you are also a famous all-knowing detective."
"No more of your snot," Remo said. "You're just jealous because I figured it out and you couldn't. We're going to Chinatown. And find General Liu."
Chiun bowed from the waist. "As you desire, most worthy number one son."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was trouble in China. More rumours of Mao's death. Newsmen pontificating on the inner struggles in Peking. All of them pontificating, and none of them knowing that a Chinese war faction was spreading the word that America intended to sabotage the peace talks by murdering emissaries. After all, if they could put men on the moon, could they not protect emissaries.?
So the reasoning went in China. So the whispers were whispered. And so, in a nation, where important decisions were discovered only after they had been implemented, people began to move before peace happened.
Remo commented on this, in a taxicab on his way to Chinatown. He had left his rented car at the midtown hotel they had checked into and had hailed a cab.
He was sure the answer was in Chinatown. He was sure General Liu's disappearance had something to do with the China turmoil. But he was no longer so confident of finding him. A needle in a haystack and only four days left before the Chinese cancelled the Premier's trip.
Remo was sure the Premier should, for safety sake, come to America now, without arrangements. A sudden trip announced only as he was in flight.
"Thank you, Mister Secretary of State," said Chiun.
"Do you think that the people of China will stand for one of their own beloved generals rotting in an American dungeon?" Mei Soong asked.
"The people in American prisons live better than you rice planters," commented Chiun to Mei Soong.
The cab driver knocked on the window. "This is it," he said.
Remo looked around. The streets were lit with merry lights and vendors sold pizza and hot sausages and little Italian pastries.
"This is Chinatown?" Remo asked.
"San Gennaro Festival. Little Italy spreads out during it."
Remo shrugged and paid the driver what seemed to be an excessive fare. He said nothing but he was disgusted. How was he going to find anyone-or be found-in this horde of Italians?
Now he pressed his way grimly down the middle of the street, squinting to close out the brightness of the overhead strings of lights. Mei Soong followed him, tossing insults back over her shoulder at Chiun, who shouted back at her. Their noise was deafening to Remo, not that anyone should have noticed. Hastily-erected plywood booths cluttering the already narrow streets drew crowds of Italians and the Oriental obscenities Chiun and Mei Soong shouted at each other sounded, in the din, only like warm greetings being exchanged by long-lost cousins from Castellamare.
None should have noticed the two shouting Orientals, but someone had. A young Chinese man, with long shiny hair, was ahead of them, leaning on the pole holding up the awning of an Italian zeppole booth, openly staring at them. He wore an olive drab Army-type jacket with a red star on each shoulder and a Mao-style fatigue hat, from under which hung a mass of long, sleek hair.
It was the third time they had passed him in the two-block festival stretch of Pell Street. He waited until all three had passed him and then Remo heard him shout. "Wah Ching."
"Wah Ching."
The cry echoed down the street, then was picked up by more voices, and shouted back. "Wah Ching. Wah Ching. Wah Ching."
Remo slowed his pace and Mei Soong stalked roughly ahead, as Chiun came up alongside him.
"What does that mean?" Remo asked.
"What?"
"Whatever they're yelling."
"They shout Wah Ching. It means China Youth," Chiun said.
They had walked through the festival area and the street ahead of them turned abruptly dark. And then Remo saw step out of an alley 40 yards ahead of them, four more young men. They wore the same costume as the man who had been trailing them, red-starred field jackets and fatigue caps.
They began to walk toward Remo, Chiun and Mei Soong, and Remo could sense the first youth drawing up on them from behind.
He took Mei Soong by the arm, and quickly but smoothly steered her around a corner into a narrow side-street. The street was brightly lighted but silent. Only the hum of air-conditioners on the buff-coloured three-story brick buildings that bordered the narrow street broke the si
lence, and the buildings served as a wall to seal out the shouting of the Italian hordes only a block away.
It had gone better than Remo had hoped. Perhaps they were going to find the fortune cookie among all that fettucini. But he had to keep the girl out of danger.
They stepped up onto the sidewalk and followed the twisting street, around the curve, when Remo drew up short. The street ended 100 feet ahead, passing through an unlit alley into the Bowery. Behind them, he heard footsteps approaching.
He pulled Mei Soong up short. "Come on," he said, "we're going to eat."
"Do you or the running dog have money? I have none."
"We'll bill it to the People's Republic."
The girl had still noticed nothing. She was used to being pulled around by Remo. Chiun, of course, would telegraph nothing, and Remo hoped that he had not, himself, given away their awareness that they were being followed.
As they walked casually, up the stairs to the Imperial Garden restaurant, Remo said to the girl: "When the revolution comes and your gang takes over, pass a law putting all your restaurants at street level. Around here, you're always walking up a flight or down a flight. It's like a city under a city."
"The exercise is good for the digestion," she said. Chiun snorted, but said nothing.
The restaurant was empty, and the waiter was sitting in the back at a booth in the back, going over the racing form. Without waiting, Remo walked to a booth midway down the row on the left side. He slid Mei Soong into a seat, then motioned Chiun in alongside her. He squeezed in on the opposite side of the gray formica table. By turning his body sideways, he could watch both the front door and the doors leading to the kitchen in the rear of the restaurant.
Chiun was smiling.
"What's so funny?"
"A rare treat. A Chinese restaurant. Have you ever been starved to death in seven courses? But of course a people with no honor have no real need of sustenance."
Mei Soong's answer was cut short by the appearance of the waiter, at their side.
"Good evening," he said in precise English. "We have no liquor."
"That's all right," Remo said. "We've come to eat." "Very good, sir," he said, nodding to Remo. He nodded also to Mei Soong, and turned his head slightly to acknowledge Chiun. Remo could see Chiun's eyes look up into the waiter's face, evaporating the smile that was there. The waiter turned back to Mei Soong and exploded in a babble of Chinese.
Mei Soong answered him softly. The waiter babbled something, but before Mei Soong could answer, Chiun interrupted their melodic dialogue. In a parody of their Chinese sing-song, he spoke to the waiter, whose face flushed, and he turned and walked rapidly to the kitchen in the rear.
Remo watched him push through the swinging doors, then turned to Chiun who was chuckling under his breath, wearing a smirk of self-satisfaction.
"What was that all about?" Remo asked.
Chiun said, "He asked this trollop what she was doing with a pig of a Korean."
"What did she say?"
"She said we were forcing her into a life of prostitution."
"What did he say?"
"He offered to call the police."
"What did you say?"
"Only the truth." -
"Which is?"
"That no Chinese woman has to be forced into a life of prostitution. It comes naturally to them. Like stealing toilet paper. I told him too we would eat only vegetables, and he could return the dead cats to the icebox and sell them for pork tomorrow night. That seemed to upset him and he left. Some people cannot face up to the truth."
"Well, I'm just glad you handled it so pleasantly."
Chiun nodded an acknowledgement and folded his hands in front of him in an attitude of prayer, serene in the knowledge that no untrue or unkind word had passed his lips.
Remo watched the front door over Mei Soong's shoulder as he spoke to her. "Now remember. Keep your eyes open for any signal, anything that looks suspicious. If we're right, the people who have the general are around here somewhere, and they might like to add you to their collection. It gives us a chance of finding him. Maybe just a small chance. But a chance."
"Chairman Mao. He who does not look will not find."
"I was brought up believing that," Remo said.
She smiled, a small warm smile. "You must be careful, capitalist. The seeds of revolution may lie in you ready to sprout forth."
She reached forward with her leg, and touched her knee to Remo's under the table. He could feel her trembling. Since the hotel room in Boston, she had studiedly spent her time, signalling Remo with touches and rubbing. But Remo had reacted coldly to them. She had to be kept close and obedient, and the best way was to keep her waiting.
By the flicker of distaste in Chiun's eyes, Remo could tell the waiter was returning. Remo watched him in a mirror over the entrance way, walking angrily back down the floor toward them, three dinner plates extended up his arm.
He stopped alongside the table, and placed one in front of Remo. "For you, sir."
He placed the second in front of Mei Soong. "And for the lovely lady."
He dropped the third one on the table in front of Chiun, and it splashed small drops on the table top.
"If we were to return in one year," Chiun said, "these drippings would still be here. Chinese, you know, never wash tables. They wait for earthquake or flood to jar dirt loose. It is the same with their bodies."
The waiter walked away, back toward the kitchen.
Mei Soong squeezed Remo's leg between both of hers under the table. As women always do in such situations to disclaim ownership of the brazen legs, she began to chatter incongruously.
"It looks good," she said. "I wonder if it is Cantonese or Mandarin."
Chiun sniffed the plate containing the usual jellied mass of colourless vegetables. "Mandarin," he said, "because it smells like dog. Cantonese smells like bird droppings."
"A people who would eat raw fish should not cavil at civilization," she said, spooning vegetables into her mouth.
"Is it civilized to eat birds' nests?"
They were on again. But Remo paid no attention to them. In the overhead mirror, he could see back through the round door windows into the kitchen where the waiter stood, talking to the young man who had spotted them on the street. The man was gesturing, and as Remo watched, he snapped his fatigue cap off his head and slapped it across the waiter's face.
The waiter nodded and almost ran back through the swinging doors. As he passed their table, he mumbled under his breath.
"What did he say?" Remo asked Chiun. Chiun was still playing with his spoon in the vegetables. "He called me pig."
As Remo watched, the waiter picked up the phone in front and dialled. Just three digits. A long one and two shorts. It was the emergency number of the New York City police.
But why the cops? Unless he had been told to try to separate the girl from Remo and Chiun? What better way than to have the police grab them and spirit the girl off in the shuffle? Remo couldn't hear the waiter's words whispered into the phone, but he leaned over and whispered to Chiun. "We're going to have to split up. You get the girl back to the hotel. Make sure you're not followed. Stay with her. No calls, no visitors and don't open the door for anyone but me." Chiun nodded.
"Come on, we're going," Remo said to the girl, disengaging his leg from between hers. "But I haven't finished."
"We'll get a dragon bag to take it home." The police might be helpful. It might set it up so that any contact with the girl would have to come through Remo.
They walked to the front counter, where the waiter was just hanging up the phone.
"But you haven't had your tea?" he said. "We're not thirsty."
"But your cookies?"
Remo leaned across the counter and grabbed his arm, above the elbow. "You want to hear your fortune? If you try to stop us from going out that door, you'll have a busted rib. Can your inscrutable mind fathom that?"
He reached into his pocket and tossed a ten
dollar bill onto the glass counter. "Keep the change."
Remo led the way down the flight of stone stairs into the street. At their appearance, the five men in the field jackets, who had been lounging against the building across the street, started to walk toward them.
At the bottom of the stairs, Remo told Chiun, "You can go through that alley at the end of the street and grab a cab. I'll catch up to you later."
Remo stepped off the curb into the street, as Chiun took Mei Soong roughly by the arm and started walking off to the right, toward the Bowery. Remo had only to cover him long enough for him to reach the alley. There was no way anyone could catch up to Chiun in darkness, even with the girl as excess baggage.
Just then, the waiter stepped onto the top step and shouted, "Stop, thief!" The five men looked up at him, momentarily. Remo looked over his shoulder to his right. Chiun and the girl were gone. Vanished. As if the earth had opened and swallowed them.
The five young Chinese also saw that their target had vanished. They looked up and down the street, then dumbly at each other, then as if to take out their rage on something, they charged Remo.
Remo was careful not to hurt them. When the police arrived, he did not want the street cluttered with bodies. Too many complications. So he just moved in among them, dodging their punches and kicks. The waiter was still screaming at the top of the stairs.
Just then, a prowl car turned onto the narrow street. Its whirling red lamp shot slices of light along the buildings on either side of the street. The young Chinese saw it, and they took to their heels, toward the end of the street and the narrow alley where a car could not follow them.
The police car pulled up alongside Remo and stopped with a squeal of tires on the cobblestone street.
As the two policemen jumped out onto the street, the waiter shouted to them: "That's him. Hold him. Don't let him get away."
The two policemen stood alongside Remo. "What's it all about, mac?" one of them said. Remo looked at him. He was young and blond and still a little frightened. Remo knew the feeling; he had experienced it in those early days on the force. Back when he was alive.
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