Midnight Man

CHAPTER EIGHT

“ANOTHER ONE?” REMO ASKED.

“Just like the others. Skull crushed,” Smith said. He gave Remo the Brooklyn address.

“Anything on that paint chip?” Remo asked.

“Not yet. It’s still in the laboratory. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

Remo hung up and looked out the window at Manhattan. He had moved into this midtown hotel to be close to Princess Sarra, and now he was off again to Brooklyn.

And he didn’t like Brooklyn. He had never liked Brooklyn. When he was a boy in the orphanage, the nuns had made them read a short story titled “Only the Dead Know Brooklyn.”

In a test, they had asked for the name of the story, and he had written, “Only the Dumb Like Brooklyn.” For that smart-ass answer, he had gotten himself rapped on the knuckles with a ruler. He had resented Brooklyn ever since.

When they arrived at the address, they saw a small, mild-looking man walking out of the house next door. He was carrying a cardboard carton to a rented Haul-It-Ur-Self which was parked in front of his house.

As the little man neared the van, he tripped and started to fall. Remo reached out for the carton and helped the man maintain his balance. When Remo helped him get the heavy carton into the van, the little man turned to him and thanked him effusively.

“Don’t mention it,” Remo said. “Moving out?”

“Yes, sir. The crime rate is becoming much too high in this area to go on living here. Especially after what happened next door.”

“Do you know those people well?” Remo asked.

Elmo Wimpler shook his head. “Not really. Just to say hello in the morning. You know, neighbor stuff.” He shook his head, as if still disbelieving the facts. “What a terrible thing to happen. A murder right next door to my house.”

“Murder?” Remo asked. “I thought the police still called it a questionable death.”

“I don’t know what they call it, but I know that Phyllis—that’s Curt’s wife—has been telling the whole neighborhood that he was murdered and she was… uh, sexually abused.”

The little man looked embarrassed even to say the words. Remo pitied him instantly. What kind of boring life must this little man live?

“Did you hear any noises last night?” Remo asked.

“I didn’t hear a thing, but I’m in bed early and I’m a very sound sleeper. Phyllis says she screamed, but I didn’t hear it. I’m really sorry about that.”

“Maybe you’re lucky,” Remo said, patting the man on the shoulder. “You might have been the next victim.”

The man visibly shuddered. “I want to finish my packing,” he said quickly.

“Go ahead. Thanks.”

The little man went back toward the house and Remo joined Chiun.

“That little man does not like his neighbors,” the old Korean said.

“Who does? Let’s visit Phyllis.”

Mourning for her dead husband had not made Phyllis any more sedate in her choice of clothing. She was wearing short shorts and a T-shirt top when she answered the door. The body wasn’t bad, Remo thought, and if only she had taken care of her face, she might even have been passable-looking.

“Whaddya want?” she demanded.

“We’re here about your husband,” Remo said.

In spite of her recent loss, Phyllis looked twice at Remo and liked what she saw. He wasn’t big, like Curt, but there was something masculine about him, something that made her tingle.

“You a cop?” she asked.

Remo smiled. “We’re concerned with who killed your husband.”

Like most people, she had asked a question and not listened to the answer. She assumed that Remo had said he was a cop. She looked at Chiun. “He a cop, too?” she asked Remo.

“Not exactly,” Remo said. “Much more than that.” He was rewarded by a faint smile from Chiun. “May we come in?”

She thought about it for a moment, then said, “I guess so,” and backed up. When Remo passed her, he deliberately brushed against her. Chiun followed and she closed the door behind them.

“Can I get you something?” she asked. “Coffee? A drink?”

“No thanks. We don’t want to take up too much of your time. Could you show us where it happened?”

“I… I don’t want to go down there. I’ll show you where it is. You can go down.”

As she led them to the cellar steps, Remo noticed that the back storm door was unlocked.

“That always unlocked?” he asked.

She stared at him wide-eyed, then reached past him and flipped on the lock.

“A bad habit,” she said. “One I guess I’ll have to break.”

Barn doors, thought Remo. She stayed in the kitchen as they went downstairs.

The police had made a half-hearted attempt to clean the blood and brains off the floor. There was a rumpled blanket in a corner and it was obvious from the stains on it what it had been used for.

Remo effortlessly moved the barbells aside and examined the stains on the floor. Chiun was hunched over the blanket in the corner.

After a thorough investigation, lasting at least four seconds, Remo stood up and said, “I don’t see anything.”

Without turning, Chiun said, “Come here, white thing.”

Remo went over and crouched next to him.

“Find something?”

“Look.” Chiun held out his hand. It was another paint chip.

“Ties it all together,” Remo said. “Same killer. And we still don’t know anything about him.”

“We will learn,” Chiun said. “Or at any rate, I will learn and I will tell you all about it.”

Remo put the paint chip in his shirt pocket and followed Chiun upstairs. Phyllis had fixed her face and hair while they were in the cellar. She didn’t look half bad now, Remo thought. Unless she was compared with Princess Sarra, in which case she was a distant also-ran.

“Did you hear anything before you heard your husband call you?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Were the lights on in the cellar?” Chiun asked.

“No. The light was out.”

“Thank you,” Remo said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“If you need anything else, you just call,” she told Remo, smiling and touching her teased hair. Then she seemed to remember she was a very recent widow and she touched her nose with her handkerchief. She walked them to the door and whispered to Remo, “Is he really a cop? You can tell me.”

“Actually,” Remo said, “He’s a CIA agent, but that’s very confidential.”

“Wow,” Phyllis said. As they opened the door to the steps, they saw the little man next door, finishing loading his van.

“Him,” she snapped.

“What about him?” Remo asked.

“If these criminals didn’t think that all the houses were owned by pissy-faced little wimps like him, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen. Curt would still be alive.”

Was she actually trying to blame that helpless, innocent little guy next door for her husband’s death, Remo wondered.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

“Least I could do,” she said. “Call me if you need me.” She put an extra emphasis on the word “need.”

“Sure will,” Remo said. As he and Chiun started down the walk, she stepped out and began yelling.

“Little nothing. Why couldn’t it have been you instead of Curt, you little nothing?”

Remo looked over at the little man who was just standing there, staring at the screaming woman.

Poor little guy.

After Remo and Chiun had driven off, Elmo Wimpler reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small, pink, flimsy piece.

He shook it out and held it up in plain sight. It was a pair of pink, woman’s panties.

After displaying it for a few seconds, he kissed it and threw it into one of the cartons in the back of the van.

Phyllis had caught the whole scene. She held her breath. Her panties had been ripped off her the night before by the phantom rapist-murderer.

But no, it couldn’t be. Not Wimpler.

She watched as he locked up his house and went back to the van. Before getting in, he turned her way and threw her a wave and a kiss.

No, she thought, hugging her arms. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.