"Dad! Now, about those chips . . . Yeah, sure, I'll buy them back. I promise. A little misunderstanding. I fired the jerk who handled that deal. Listen, I need a hand up here. Can you front me some start-up money. Huh? Oh, not much. Maybe three-four million."
The earpiece buzzed angrily. Rumpp's mouth squeezed into a moist, meaty pout.
"Yeah, Dad. I know you're not made out of money. But this is an emergency. I got a problem with the Tower. You know, I think I've outgrown it or something. I need to trade up. How about a little interest-free loan?"
Rumpp listened, wincing on and off.
"Tell you what," he said quickly. "I'll name the new building after you. How's that? Yeah, I'll call it 'the Rumpp Tower.' "
Rumpp listened eagerly. His face resumed wincing.
"Then I'll issue a press release explicitly stating that it's named after you," he said soothingly. "No, I don't want to call it 'the Ronald Rumpp Tower.' Why not? You know these jerks on the planning commission. They won't let me put up a sign that big. If I could do it, I would. Honest. You know me."
The line went silent.
"Hello? Hello? Dad? Damn!"
Rumpp closed the antenna with an angry bat of his hand.
"That old fart! The nerve of him! I offered him the best deal of his life, and he walked way from it. His blood must be running thin, or something."
Randal Rumpp felt the stiffness of his joints as he got out of his executive chair. He decided to commune with his trophies. In his favorite room in the whole world, maybe he'd find inspiration. He took with him his attache cellular.
"Hold my calls, Dorma," he said, as he marched out.
"Yes, Mr. Rumpp."
In the trophy room, Randal Rumpp pored over the takings of a lifetime of cutting corners, wheeling and dealing, and bait-and-switch at the executive level.
He paused to admire a rare Picasso hanging on a wall. He knew nothing about art, but someone had told him at a cocktail party that Picasso was the artist to invest in. He had bought it sight unseen. When it came in, he couldn't figure out which end was up and was afraid to hang it in a public place. Rumpp called the gallery to complain the paint had settled during shipping, and the work was ruined.
When the dealer refused to take it back, Rumpp had the signature painted over and "Property of R. Rumpp" inscribed in its place, figuring that would increase its resale value.
On his second circuit of the room, he noticed something missing. He ran to the door and stuck his head out into the corridor.
"Dorma!"
"Yes, Mr. Rumpp?"
"Did you take my monogrammed Colibri lighter?"
"Of course not."
"Well, somebody did. It's gone. And nobody's been in here except you and me and the-"
Rumpp's face acquired a sick look.
"Oh, God," he said thickly.
Randal Rumpp turned on his portable cellular phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear.
"Anybody in there?" he asked.
"Help me. I am lost in telephone," said a familiar voice.
"I know."
"You! You trick me!"
"There was a screw-up. But don't worry. I fired the jerk responsible. Listen, did you take my monogrammed cigarette lighter?"
"Are you calling me thief?" the voice demanded.
"It was either you or my secretary. And I saw you looking at it. You called it a funny name."
"I called it 'krahseevah.' In my language, it means 'beautiful.' I like beautiful things."
"Case closed. Good-bye."
"I admit it! I admit it!" the voice said hastily. "I have lighter. I will be happy to return it to you."
Randal Rumpp hesitated. "Can you do that without coming out of the phone yourself?"
"I can try."
"How?"
"You lift up receiver. I hand out lighter. It is very simple. Like opening refrigerator door for ice cream cone. "
Rumpp frowned. "I don't trust you."
"You trick me and talk about trust. You phony-baloney."
"Hell, you're the thief here!" Rumpp protested indignantly. "I'm a businessman. I don't steal. I just hoodwink people who don't do their homework. No law against that."
"You want pen, you must lift receiver. There is no other way."
"Forget it," said Randal Rumpp. "I'm not ready to cash in my chips just yet. I'll get back to you."
"Wait!"
Randal Rumpp hung up the telephone. Instantly, it began ringing.
From down the corridor Dorma Wormser shrieked as if in pain, and begged for mercy.
"Remind me to fire that weak-kneed bitch when this is over," Rumpp muttered, moving the bell lever to LOUDEST.
When his executive assistant's screams began to get on his nerves, Rumpp reluctantly suppressed the bell.
It was going to be a long, long day.
Chapter 26
The Master of Sinanju's green-and-gold steamer trunk arrived by express at nine o'clock.
"Your trunk's here," Remo called.
"Do not let the messenger escape."
"Escape?"
Chiun bounded out of his bedroom, wearing a blue-and-white ceremonial robe. Ignoring Remo and the surprised deliveryman, the Master of Sinanju fell upon the ornate trunk. He examined every inch of its lacquered surface for nicks or blemishes.
Finding none, he threw open the lid and did a complete inventory with suspicious eyes.
Only then did he straighten his cat-lean back and address the waiting messenger.
"You may live, careful one."
"You mean 'leave,' " said the deliveryman.
"That too," sniffed Chiun. After the man had closed the door behind him, Remo remarked, "He thinks you were kidding him."
The phone rang. Chiun ignored it. Remo scooped up the receiver and said, "Smitty?"
"Remo!" Harold Smith admonished. "You should never speak my name before I identify myself. Security. "
"Like there aren't twenty million Smiths in the world," Remo muttered. "Okay, what's your problem?"
"The Rumpp Regis is about to be seized for back taxes."
Remo raised an interested eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
"It just broke over the wire services," Smith added.
"So what do we do?"
"Sit tight. If Randal Rumpp has somehow turned the Krahseevah technology to his own use, it's possible he may move to despectralize it."
"That means we're at ground zero. With a capital Z."
"Await developments."
"What developments?" Remo asked.
"Any developments."
"Great," Remo said sourly, hanging up.
"What did Emperor Smith say?" Chiun asked absently. He was going through the contents of his trunk. Remo noticed he was holding some sort of feather-decorated wind instrument, whose flaring mouth promised an ear-splitting cacophony.
Remo decided the less the Master of Sinanju knew, the quieter the lull before the storm would be.
"He said we're to hang loose until something happens," Remo replied, trying to keep his voice toneless.
Chiun looked up from his trunk. "He said to do nothing?"
"That's about the size of it."
Chiun returned to his rummaging. "Then we do nothing. "
"Not me. I'm going downstairs to get a newspaper."
"For an illiterate like you, that is nothing," Chiun sniffed.
Remo took the elevator to the lobby and bought a paper at the newsstand. He bought a Post, because the Times didn't have a comics section.
The lobby was busy with grim-faced official types who were showing badges. IRS. They were giving the desk clerk a hard time.
"Are we being audited again?" the clerk asked.
"No, sir," said the IRS man said. "We're not auditors. We're revenue collectors."
"If you want to take money from the hotel safe, you'll have to speak with the manager," the clerk sniffed.
"No need. We're seizing the entire hotel."
The clerk paled and looked on the verge of fainting. "Does this mean I'm unemployed?"